Текст книги "The Art of Stealing Kisses"
Автор книги: Stella London
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 8 страниц)
I smile. “He does work a lot. But I think he enjoys it.”
She nods. “Still, it is nice to see him finally settling down,” she says, looking at me approvingly.
I stop. Wait, does she mean me? “Oh, um, we just started seeing each other.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“It’s still really new.” I blush.
“Well, it must be serious for him. Charles has never brought a girl home before.”
I’m surprised. “Really?”
She grins, and I see St. Clair’s playfulness, a softer version of his dimples in her cheeks.
“Really, dear.” She reaches out and pats my hand and I feel how cold her fingers are despite the sun. “You be careful with him. He seems like a statue but he cracks more easily than it appears.”
We sit a while longer outside, and I tell her about my own childhood – Mom, and meeting St. Clair at Carringer’s. Then she says she better see to dinner, so I head inside to find my weekend bag, and maybe take a shower. I’m walking back through the mansion and notice the chinks in the estate’s armor: some crumbling stones in the walls, creaking stairs, chandeliers and sconces missing their crystals, dead flowers wilting in tarnished silver vases. It’s a strange place, more like a mausoleum than a home, and I can see why St. Clair wanted to run far away to start his own life.
I hear St. Clair’s voice as I pass the library, and I’m about to go in and tell him how much I like his mother when I realize he’s dropped his voice to a whisper.
I lean in closer to listen at the open door.
“…can it be moved without a frame?” St. Clair asks. “What are its dimensions?”
I pause. Any art purchase he’s making should be going through me, if he trusts me with his collection as much as he says he does. And paintings aren’t usually sold without frames – not legitimate ones, anyway. What gives? I creep closer, looking through the gap.
“No.” St. Clair is saying, pacing back and forth. “No. That won’t work, not after the last job. There’s too much heat in the States, I’ll be looking in Europe next. Uh huh. Well then you let me know. We’ll have to figure out how to keep it under the radar.”
My foot creaks on a floorboard, and St. Clair whirls around.
“Hi!” I exclaim loudly, leaning into the room with a bright smile instead of running away like I want to. “I was just looking for my bag? This place is so big, I got turned around.”
“I put it in your guest room,” St. Clair says, but his expression is odd. Almost…guilty? “Right upstairs, second door on the left.”
“Thanks.”
I bolt from the room, going upstairs. But my mind is whirling. What was that conversation about? What ‘heat’ is he running from back home, and why does it need to stay under the radar?
Could Lennox be right? Is St. Clair hiding something from me?
CHAPTER 10
The formal dining room at the St. Clair estate is very Downton Abbey—brass-framed portraits of ancestors and British historical figures coating the walls, heavy cream curtains framing two windows that look out onto the pasture, and a long dark wood table with twelve chairs.
St. Clair, his parents, and I sit together at one end, and after our initial hellos, the silence has gone as thick as this cold potato leek soup we’ve been served. I’m trying not to gag through the smile I’ve tried to keep plastered on my face. St Clair and his father glare at each other across the table and his mom slurps her soup and pretends not to notice.
It’s so tense, I feel like I need a hammer to break the ice. “So, those are beautiful horses out back. Do any of you ride?” God, it’s so lame, but I have to say something!
“Why else would we have horses?” Richard sneers.
“You may not have them for much longer, if some things don’t change,” St. Clair says coolly. “Horses don’t pay for themselves.”
Alice lifts her head. “Is that true?”
Richard waves his hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry, darling. Your son has no idea what he is talking about since he spends all his time with paintings rather than money.”
St. Clair’s jaw tightens. “Some of us have the resources to enjoy our interests.”
I try to lighten to mood. “Before we left San Francisco, Charles graciously donated several valuable paintings to a hospital wing.”
“That’s lovely!” Alice exclaims.
Richard looks down his nose. “Yes, he is very good at getting rid of things. Leaving things behind.”
“Where do you think I learned that, father?”
The cook replaces our soup with plates of meat and potatoes, thank God. That soup looked like it belonged in a swamp, not in a bowl. “This smells delicious!” I chirp.
The men ignore me. “My father built that business from the ground up,” Richard snipes, “and I never once considered leaving or going against his wishes. You are the one who chose to desert your family.”
“Because you were smothering me, criticizing every move I made.” St. Clair shoots back. “How was I supposed to learn for myself?”
Richard takes a long swig of his whiskey. “That’s the problem. You never did learn.”
“Richard, honey,” Alice tries to smooth things over, but he ignores her.
“I learned a lot, dad. Like how to hold my liquor. But that’s a lesson you never quite got the hang of, is it?” St. Clair glares back. My mouth is actually hanging open, I realize, so I force myself to close it. I don’t even know what to say.
“That’s enough!” Richard suddenly explodes. “Remember your manners, boy. You’re under my roof, and you’ll treat me with some damn respect!”
“You mean, the respect you show your family?” St. Clair spits. He shoves back his chair. “I’ve lost my appetite.” He throws down his napkin and storms out.
I nervously get up. “I’m sorry, I should go see—”
“Of course,” Alice says, and gives me a weak smile. “You go ahead, dear.”
I follow St. Clair’s route upstairs and look for him. But he’s nowhere to be found. “St. Clair?” I call, confused. “Charles?”
“Up here.” His voice comes from down the hall. I enter the room at the end to find furniture covered with drop cloths, and boxes of old toys. There’s a ladder pulled down from a hatch in the ceiling, and when I climb up, I find St. Clair sitting in the open window of the attic.
“Hey,” I say, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“You mean after that disaster downstairs?” He sighs. “And there I was thinking my dad could manage to be civil.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.” St. Clair gives me a sad smile. I look past him, out of the window. The dark hills are serene now, resting under a blanket of stars.
“It’s beautiful up here.”
“This is where I used to come as a child. To escape. I would look up at the stars and pretend I was a million miles away.”
He takes my hand, and helps me out through the window. There’s a flat section of roof, and he has a blanket spread out there. I sit next to him, tilt my head back and gaze up at the Milky Way, the millions of white spots scattered like paint drops across the sky. “Beautiful.”
“No one can see us up here.” St. Clair slips an arm around me and holds me closer. “It’s like we don’t have to exist if we don’t want to. For just a brief while.”
I imagine him out here as a boy, butting heads with his dad for being adventurous, rebellious, too smart for his own good. “Was your dad always like that? Even when you were little?”
“Always. He never understood me, never even tried. I wasn’t like him, so I was a huge disappointment.”
“That must have been hard.” I can’t imagine how much it would hurt to have parents who didn’t support me. It was just Mom and me, but she loved me enough to make up for my absent dad.
“He’s such a hypocrite, too,” St. Clair sighs. “Giving me lectures when I take business risks while he’s out drinking and gambling away our family fortune. Those are the real risks.”
I shake my head. “That’s awful.”
“Do you know that I pay all their bills now? All this—” he flings his arms wide, “paid for by me, the loser son. And has Dad once said thank you? Or even acknowledged my contribution?”
I shake my head.
“Bingo—not once.”
“I’m sorry it’s gotten so bad.”
“And it just keeps getting worse. The better the business does, the more success I have, the angrier he gets.”
“Shouldn’t that make him happy?”
St. Clair exhales slowly and stares out into the darkness. “I think he wanted me to follow the family line—be the same as him and his father. It’s like he thinks that I rejected him because I didn’t want to be exactly like him and so he hates me for it. And then I ignored his advice, did things my own way, and my methods worked.” He runs his hands through his hair. “I just couldn’t do it, Grace. I tried, but I couldn’t be a carbon copy kid. I wanted more than that.”
I take his hand. “You deserve more than that. You deserve to be who you want to be, who you really are. You can’t feel guilty for that.”
“Thanks.” He exhales slowly and looks at me, his eyes sad but less angry, and for a moment I’m lost in their color, layered with shades of blue, a gradient of ocean pigments. “How did you get so wise?”
I shrug, not wanting to admit all the time I spent on grief websites and message boards while my mom was sick. “A magician never reveals her secrets.”
He smiles, a glimmer of the St. Clair charm returning. “Oh, so now you’re magic?” He brushes a piece of hair behind my ear. He leans in to whisper, his hot breath on my neck sending shivers down my spine and lower. “What else can you do?”
“Well.” I kiss his cheek. “I’m not sure what you have in mind.” I kiss his neck, just where his collarbone comes together, that spot I spend so much time staring at when he wears his shirts unbuttoned at the collar. He makes a low growling noise in his throat and I shiver with desire. I move my face up to his, our breath mingling with the night air, our bodies close. “What was I saying?” I whisper.
He kisses me then, his tongue demanding my lips let him in. He tastes like brandy, sweet, and I can’t get enough of his lips, his mouth. But it’s not enough. I want more, to feel his skin against mine.
I pull at his shirt and we take it off. His sculpted chest glows in the moonlight and I run my fingertips down his abs. I’m just slipping my hand under his waistband, already imagining the feel of him in my mouth, when he pulls my hand away with a grin.
“You’ve done so much for me tonight, Grace.” He runs his fingertips up my thighs and I feel his touch like a trail of heat. “Let me make this trip worth your while.”
He continues to slide his hands up, up, getting excruciatingly closer inch by inch as I lay back, wanting, needing to be touched. He dips his head and flicks his tongue along my clit through my panties, teasing, and I moan. Then he tracks a finger along the lace waistband and lifts, running his finger along the edge, down, down, and down, to just glide over the tip of my clit. I let my eyes close, but instead of giving me more he reaches up to wrap both hands around my hips and then rips my panties off in one fell swoop that makes me gasp.
St. Clair moves his tongue to my belly and kisses his way down across my hips, along the dip in my pelvis that leads lower. My body aches for more. He extends his hand to caress my breast, kneading my nipple in his fingers. I want him so much my cells feel like they will burst.
He exhales a warm breath onto me and skims just the wet tip of his tongue across my throbbing clit, so slowly I think I might scream.
“Jesus…” I pant.
He brushes his tongue against me again, with more pressure, and then again, harder, the pleasure crashing over me in waves until I’m arching my hips to meet him. He growls, holding me down as I writhe against him. I look at the stars as his hot tongue glides up and down, thicker and faster, faster, faster, deeper.
“Charles,” I whisper. He groans against me, his tongue relentless, pushing me to the edge.
I don’t cry out, but I want to as I climax, as currents of pure explosive bliss rip through me until my thighs are quivering and I’m spent.
Afterward, St. Clair invites me to stay in his room, which is twice as big as my whole apartment. “Mind if I jump in the shower?” he asks, while I take in the palatial spread. “You’re welcome to join me…” he adds, pulling me close and dropping a kiss on my shoulder.
“I’ll be right in,” I tell him, melting into his embrace. “I just want to check my messages, in case Maisie sent some files.”
“So diligent,” he grins, then heads for the en-suite bathroom – but not before landing a light slap on my ass.
I laugh. I hear the water start up from the shower, and I find my phone. There are some work emails, but nothing pressing, so I look around the room instead. There are pictures of him and his parents from Paris, Rome, New York, his mom always smiling, his dad always straight faced. There are equestrian trophies on one shelf—it looks like St. Clair was particularly good at jumping—and a baseball signed by Mark McGuire.
I wonder what it would be like to have grown up with this type of money, and if it would be worth trading the love and support of a parent. I don’t think so, and I feel for St. Clair again, for his cold upbringing.
I’m passing his desk when I see blueprints half-covered by other papers. Is he designing something? I push aside some bills for the family estate and pull out the full blueprint. It looks like a museum.
I glance toward the bathroom to make sure St. Clair is still sudsing up and look closer.
It is a museum—the museum in San Francisco that was robbed. It shows exits, security cameras, everything you’d need to pull off a major heist.
My heart stops.
If St. Clair is the man I told Lennox he was, the man I believe him to be, why the hell does he have these blueprints?
CHAPTER 11
“Grace? Hello? Earth to Gracie…” Paige waves her hands in front of my face.
“Hmm, what?” I look up.
Paige rolls her eyes. “Snap out of it already. What is wrong with you today?” she asks. “Still swooning over Mr. Perfect?”
We’re lunching at a small café not far from my place in Notting Hill, sitting at a small and slightly uncomfortable but cute metal table and chairs and sipping coffee that will knock your socks off any time of day, but it still can’t shake my worries loose.
“I was just thinking about work,” I lie. The truth is, I can’t get those blueprints or St. Clair’s phone conversation off my mind. It’s been days since we got back from Sussex, and all I’ve done is go over everything a million times, trying to come up with an innocent explanation that doesn’t involve grand theft and illegal dealings.
Paige studies me carefully. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You can talk to me, you know. Whatever it is.”
“I know.”
But I feel guilty, because I can’t talk to her, not about this. Paige is the one who’s been investigating the theft from Carringer’s, which means if Lennox is right, St. Clair’s been fooling us all. I wish I had more information. What if it’s nothing? Or worse: what if it’s not?
“I’m just feeling the pressure about making this big decision for the art exhibit.” I hate lying to her, but I don’t see another option.
“You’ll do great,” Paige grins. “But I can talk about art all day back at the office. I want to hear about your sexy weekend away.”
I laugh. “Sure, because nightmare family tension really sets the mood.”
“It must have worked, because you look all… glowy.” Paige narrows her eyes. “Please tell me you decided to give this ‘strictly work’ thing up and make hay while the sun shines.”
“Maybe…” I feel the tingle of desire pulling at me, remembering his hands, his tongue… I sigh. “I tried to keep things professional, I really did.”
“Oh, I’m not blaming you. In fact, I’d be mad if you weren’t hittin’ that.” Paige stirs her coffee. “Tell me everything.”
“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” I grin.
“Traitor.” Paige sticks her tongue out at me. “I need to live vicariously through you. All I do is work these days.” She lets out a weary sigh.
“It’s still that busy at the insurance company?” I ask. “Any new leads?”
“Not a one. Usually this is where we’d cut the check and move on, but the authorities won’t let it go. That Lennox guy is persistent. And intense. And kind of hot…” Paige bites her lip. “What do you think?”
“He’s… cute, I guess.” I feel guilty again hiding so much from her, but I need to learn exactly what Lennox is telling people about St. Clair. “Has he given you any suspects?” I ask carefully.
“Not really. Just that he thinks it’s someone who’s in it for the thrill, not someone who needs the cash.” Paige smooths her hair down. “Is St. Clair still upset about his missing masterpiece? He didn’t lose any money, right?”
“No, Carringer’s lost the money,” I say absently. St. Clair would never do this for the money, Lennox is right about that. He has more than enough. But it still doesn’t make sense: I can’t see St. Clair risking everything just for a passing thrill.
Or maybe I’m wrong, and I don’t really know him at all.
“Grace?”
I snap back. Paige is rolling her eyes. “I did it again, didn’t I? I’m sorry for spacing.”
“It’s a good thing I love you so much.” She winks.
“Love you too.” My guilt grows. I hate keeping secrets, especially from my best friend. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”
After lunch I head back to St. Clair’s office—my office—and try to focus on work. I flip through the final art pieces I’ve chosen for the London College of Art show —a mix of classically talented artists and daring original works—and feel good about my picks. I think the show will be a success. I’m trying to have confidence in my gut and follow the path my instincts want to travel, even if it means a rocky road. I know a few older members of the board may be surprised by some of my choices, but I also know these are the students who deserve to be shown.
With my choices finally made, I turn my attention back to my main job, and the incredible European pieces I can see in person now to add to St. Clair’s collection. I call Maisie, back in San Francisco, and ask for his schedule so we can set up some viewing appointments. My spirits lift just thinking about it.
“You’re all set,” she says down the line. “I’ve given you permissions on his calendar, everything should be in there.”
“Thank you – and good morning,” I add, remembering the time difference.
I click open his calendar on my computer and pull up my spreadsheet of the upcoming art openings and gallery galas, when artists are booked in town or rumored to be giving private showings in a remote location. It’s been fun researching, making calls and being on the cutting edge of the international art scene.
I click through, trying to figure out his complicated calendar. There are different color codes for travel, business meetings, personal appointments – and it goes back for years, too.
I pause. All his past travel and appointments are right here in the schedule. If Lennox is right, then those dates would match the other heists. I could check right now, but somehow that feels like a betrayal. Like I’m saying the accusations could be true.
I sit there, torn. The information I need is right at my fingertips, yet I just can’t bring myself to check. What if Lennox is right?
But what if he’s wrong – and you can prove it, a voice argues. If St. Clair’s schedule doesn’t fit with the heists, then that’s all the evidence I need to put Lennox’s crazy theories aside and move on.
I can’t go on like this, suspecting but not sure. I need an answer.
My heart racing, I click through to last year. Lennox mentioned a heist in Belgium, and a quick Google search brings up the details of the crime. May 18th, Brussels. Gold bars stolen from a vault, no suspects, no witnesses.
I turn back to St. Clair’s schedule, my fingers dancing over the keys, but I waver. Is this crossing the line? What about trust, giving him the benefit of the doubt?
That’s exactly why I need to do this—to give him the benefit of the doubt and prove once and for all that he couldn’t possibly have done what Lennox thinks.
My pulse races. I check St. Clair’s calendar.
May 10th to 20th – Belgium. New investor meetings, touring a tech facility, meeting local business leaders.
Brussels.
My heart sinks, but I try to ignore it. This could be a coincidence.
I check the other dates. A diamond theft in Monaco. Rare art stolen in Rio. And every time, St. Clair’s travel plans match the heists. He was right there in the country when they all went down, with the perfect cover every time.
I stare at the screen in disbelief. My heart is still telling me this is wrong, some mistake, but the evidence doesn’t lie.
It all matches up. St. Clair, and the heists. They’re connected.
I feel a pain shoot through my chest.
How could I have been so naïve? To think that I believed in St. Clair, and the whole time he was lying to my face.
It’s all lies.
I don’t know what to do. I reach into my purse and find Nick Lennox’s card.
My hands are shaking as I dial his number. He answers on the first ring. “Grace, I was hoping you would call. What can I do for you?”
I swallow back my tears. “I think we need to talk.”
