The Art of Stealing Kisses
(Stealing Hearts Book Two)
By Stella London
Copyright © 2015 Stella London
Cover art/design by: Perfect Pear Creative
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
CHAPTER 1
If life were a musical, I’d be singing a song about my happiness.
I practically skip out of my apartment into a rare day of San Francisco sunshine: nothing but beautiful Van Gogh-blue skies above and ahead. Since this is the real world though, I’m keeping myself from dancing in the street, instead expressing my joy in a slightly more normal way.
“How are you this morning?” I say brightly to a woman walking an adorable black Labrador. “What a cute dog!”
She eyes me cautiously and pulls her dog back. “Are you high?”
Maybe not so normal. “Just in a good mood,” I reply.
“Well. Isn’t that nice for you?” she snaps and moves on.
I can’t really blame her. Just a few days ago, if I’d seen me on the street, whistling as I walk with so much spring in my step I might bounce right over the Golden Gate Bridge, I’d have rolled my eyes, too. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and today, nothing is going to tarnish my rose-colored glasses.
“Taxi!” I wave at the passing traffic, smiling when a yellow cab pulls to the curb.
“Where to?” the driver asks when I get in.
“Financial district. I’m starting a new job.” A job I’ve been dreaming about for years. For my whole life, really.
“Congratulations,” he says, sounding as bored as possible.
I lean back in the cab seat, not even caring that it smells like feet, and gaze outside at the tall, gorgeous buildings lining the streets. A week ago, I had to force myself to see anything pretty in this same city as I headed into work at Carringer’s Auction House – to mop floors and get yelled at by the snootiest boss of all time. But thanks to what I like to believe is fate, a bit of luck, and a handsome stranger’s faith in my abilities, I’m on my way to an incredible opportunity as the new art consultant to one of the richest—and hottest—men on the planet. Not too shabby for someone who could barely get an interview last year.
“How’s your day going?” I ask the cabbie.
He frowns. “A dog peed on my shoes,” he says. “And now my fare won’t stop talking to me.”
“I promise not to pee on you at least,” I say. He finally cracks a smile, and I feel like I’ve done a good deed for the day.
My mom tried to teach me that what you send out into the world, the beauty you create or the negativity you unleash, will all come back to you. Karma, I guess, but to her it was always more like balance. A reminder that there’s someone on the end of every cruel word or bright smile. And today, I feel like all my own smiles and hard work over the years are finally coming back to me – the cab driver even wishes me ‘good luck’ as he drops me off in front of my new office: a steel and glass skyscraper that looks like it might touch the clouds. I’m beginning to understand what my Mom meant, and now I want my joy to ripple out to others. Maybe some of it will even reach her, wherever she is.
My heels click on the sidewalk as I bustle through the other professionals on their way to work. Just a few weeks ago, I was one of them: rushing so fast, I bumped into a stranger and spilled coffee all over his tie. But of course, he wasn’t a stranger for long. The handsome businessman turned out to be Charles St. Clair, the man who swept me off my feet and just hired me as his personal art consultant.
The elevator is sleek and shiny when I step into it, and I quickly check myself out in the silver elevator door, feeling my first shiver of nerves as I fix my bangs and smile to make sure there’s no lipstick on my teeth. I haven’t seen St. Clair since the night on my roof when he offered me the job, the heat between us sizzling on my skin. I don’t know what will happen or even what I want to happen, but I do know I want to look my best.
The elevator doors ding open, and before I can step out onto the polished wooden floors, a petite, curvy woman with cute glasses greets me. “Good morning, Miss Bennett!” She gestures for me to follow her. “I’m Maisie, Mr. St. Clair’s secretary, and I’m here to help with whatever you need. Welcome.”
“Nice to meet you, and it’s Grace, please.”
I follow her into the lobby, and though I was expecting luxury, holy cow is this gorgeous. Two leather couches face each other across a wide glass coffee table topped by a silver vase full of elegant white flowers. A shiny wood bar off to the side holds bottles of water and sodas, glasses, and a bucket of ice. Floor to ceiling windows frame the city below, the white Ferry Building with its peaked clock tower and the sparkling blue waters of the bay beyond.
“Wow.” I stand fixed for a moment, just absorbing the subtle elegance of this place and the dramatic view.
Maisie clears her throat. “Coffee?” She hands me a china cup. “One sugar, two creams, right?”
“Yes, how did you…?” I inhale the rich scent of French roast. My favorite.
“Mr. St. Clair passed along instructions,” Maisie smiles. I smile back—damn, but he’s good. She goes on, “He also said to tell you he’s on a call but he will see you shortly.” She beckons again and we’re off down a hallway, the walls lined with exquisite paintings and sketches, various styles and genres, all fantastic. “I’m to show you to your office.”
“I have my own office?” My heart does a little skip and I refrain from actually skipping down the hall. This day just keeps getting better. At Carringer’s I spent eight hours in windowless rooms, and waitressing at Giovanni’s restaurant, the closest I get to an office is an overturned empty wine crate out back to sit on during my breaks.
“Of course,” Maisie says, glancing back at me with a smile. “St. Clair has been looking for an art consultant for some time. We’re very excited to have you. Here we are.”
She opens a door into a corner office suite bigger than my studio apartment. The same million-dollar view from the lobby shines outside my window, the palm trees, the little white capped wave trails from boats skimming the waters surrounding Alcatraz in the distance. Even the gray Carquinez Bridge looks silver bathed in the golden morning light.
“Wow,” I whisper, my jaw nearly dropping. “Are you sure this is my office? There hasn’t been some mistake?” It’s happened before.
Maisie looks amused. “Mr. St. Clair said you were funny. Let’s get started, shall we?” Maisie walks over to the mahogany desk in the corner of the room and wakes up the computer. My computer. My office!
“St. Clair said to get you anything you need. If you want the name of art dealer he met at a party in Paris three years ago, or a turkey on rye no mayo, just ask and I’ll figure out how to get it. I love my job and my job is making things run smoothly, so whatever it is, I can handle it. Got it?”
She’s good. I
nod, a little dazed, still absorbing the room, the fact that I work here. “Now, I want to show you how—”
My eyes halt in their scan of the soft cream walls. “I’m sorry, is that an original Frida Kahlo sketch?”
Maisie stops and smiles instead of looking irritated. “It is,” she says. “St. Clair said you had a good eye.”
“Sorry to interrupt. I just can’t believe I have a famous artist’s work in my office,” I say sheepishly. “It’s so incredible to be this close to talent like that.”
Maisie laughs and I immediately feel like I’ve screwed up, made myself look too eager and inexperienced, and I can’t shake the lingering feeling that I don’t really belong here.
“Did I say something wrong?” I ask, my cheeks warming.
“Oh, no!” she exclaims. “You and St Clair. are just going to get along so well!” Maisie moves the mouse and clicks. “Now, all our files are accessible through the network so if there’s anything you’re looking for you can start here…”
But my eyes have found a new home: the Dali painting from his house in Napa, a surrealist depiction of an elephant crossing a desert. I loved it. And now it’s here.
He remembered.
I think back to where it hung in his kitchen, the kitchen where St. Clair started kissing the back of my neck as he unzipped my dress and didn’t stop kissing me until he’d spread me out on his table and…
“Grace?”
“Oh, sorry,” I croak, my throat dry. I can feel a flush rushing up my cheeks like a giant banner for inappropriate thoughts. “Is it warm in here?” I shake the sensations of St. Clair’s soft hands and expert tongue out of my mind and try to focus on what Maisie was saying about international databases. “So…files.”
“Artists.” She laughs again. “This is why you have me. Basically, whatever will help you work—travel arrangements, lunch reservations, contact information, you name it and I’m on it.” She grins. “I’m very good at my job.” Maisie picks up a small gold box from the desk and hands it to me. “These are your business cards.”
I open the box and find thick glossy white cardstock with embossed black and gold lettering. Grace Bennett, Consultant – St. Clair International. It’s on paper; it must be official.
No going back.
Maisie bustles away, letting me know she’ll be just down the hall before leaving me alone to absorb my new office – and my new life.
I set my coffee on the desk—on a fancy agate coaster—and sink into my chair, the plush leather supporting me like a pillow.
It’s quiet. I rotate slowly so I can see the art again, the view. I can feel the warmth of the sun through the glass and decide to just sit here for a second, marveling at how fast life can change, how risk really can lead to reward.
“Ahem.” St. Clair stands in my doorway and I jump out of my moment of reflection, and almost out of my skin. “Sorry,” he says, his beautifully sculpted features furrowing into concern. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine.” I stand up, nervous, unsure what to say. In a carefully-fitted suit, he’s just as gorgeous as ever: dark hair over handsome features, and that sexy English accent that makes my stomach turn in knots. “Thank you so much for—” I start.
“How are you—”
We both stop and laugh, easing some of the tension I felt. “You first,” I say.
“I was going to ask how you were settling in.”
“Great! Really great. Thank you again for this opportunity,” I say, trying not to sound too ass-kissing. “I promise I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t,” he says, his eyebrow raised suggestively. “I have a good eye for talent. It’s going to be fun having you around.”
Fun.
I pause, struck by sudden doubt. We only spent one night together—an amazing night, yes—but is that why he hired me? To be waiting in his office in my negligée after I’ve increased the value of his art collection?
“So, uh, what talents of mine do you hope to be using?” I ask hesitantly, trying to sound casual but hating how unsure of myself I suddenly am.
It’s like he reads my mind, though, because he’s immediately reassuring. “Grace, it’s not like that. I promise, you’re the person I want for this job because you’re going to be great at it.”
A rush of relief runs through my body. “Thank you.”
If my friends and family can believe in me, why not St. Clair? Believe in yourself, my mom would say. And the rest will follow.
“No need for thanks,” he says, showing off his dimples in a smile. “It’s the truth.”
Our eyes meet and there’s a moment where I look at the perfect shape of his lips, a beat where he takes a breath like he’s going to say something else, and I feel all the reasons why staying professional is going to be a big challenge. I take a breath, down girl. “How about we start by talking about the position. I mean, the job,” I add, ignoring my blush. “Being a consultant is a pretty wide-ranging description, and I know lots of people approach it in different ways.”
“Of course.” St. Clair comes closer, then takes a seat in the chair opposite. “What I’m thinking is that you’ll be my main advisor on everything related to art. You’ll help me build my collection, source new artists and acquire pieces, manage the public face of my art. My budget is pretty much unlimited,” he adds with a sheepish grin, “So you’ll have free rein to steer me in whatever direction you think is best. Maybe I should be building a classic collection, maybe you want me investing in newer works. It’s all up to you.”
My pulse speeds up with excitement—this is the real deal!
“This all sounds…perfect,” I manage to get out.
“Charity is important to me,” he adds, “So your first task is to select several pieces from my collection to donate to the new wing of the Nob Hill Hospital, which will be unveiled at the opening gala later this week.”
“Any guidelines?” I ask, eagerly jotting down notes.
He smiles. “Follow your instincts. I trust you.”
My mind is already spinning with ideas as the driver pulls up to the storage vaults where St. Clair’s overflow art is stored. He has so many pieces, he can’t display it all in his many houses and offices around the globe, so the rest gets stored here in this special climate-controlled vault. I can’t even imagine having enough works of priceless art that you keep most of them hidden out of sight, but I guess I’m in a whole new world now: where I have a private driver and town car transporting me around instead of the bus, and sole discretion about which magnificent paintings are going to be displayed in a major new hospital wing.
Inside, I find it’s kind of like a regular storage unit: if storage units came with plush carpets, chandeliers, and armed guards. The vaults are various sizes, smaller rooms for fine wines and jewelry, bigger rooms for furniture or artwork. A concierge whisks me down a long corridor to St. Clair’s rooms, and enters a complex security code before the doors click open. There’s a hissing noise.
“Air pressure is strictly regulated,” he explains. “All the art is sealed in climate-controlled plexiglass storage shells, so you can browse without compromising the canvas.”
He stands aside, and I step into the suite. This place is like a museum! Racks of paintings are stored all across the room, and I can summon any item by pressing a button and bringing it gliding along the automatic tracks. I glimpse them as I scan the racks: a Klimt in all its golden-toned glory, a Picasso full of bright colors and shapes, a Rothko with its bold strips of color…I want to spend all day here, to study each brushstroke up close, to smell the canvases.
I’m in heaven.
“Will there be anything else?” the concierge asks. “Tea, coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“When you’ve made your selections, simply note down the item numbers, and our transport team will arrange for the paintings to be sent over.” He ducks out of the room.
I feel like a kid in the cand
y store. It’s like a supermarket dash – but with priceless art, and I can choose whatever I want. My mom would have loved this, too, a secret gallery just for us. We spent our weekends during my childhood taking BART into the city to see the museums and galleries – but not just the big ones, she loved tiny pop-up shows, and hidden spots; graffiti on the walls, and the guys painting portraits for tourists down by the bay. “Good art isn’t always obvious, Gracie,” she said. “The real work takes risks, touches you, opens your heart.”
I don’t even know where to begin with so much to look at, so I start at the beginning: going through each piece in turn and taking notes, so I get an idea of his whole collection. I may be looking for something specific now, but I’ll need to know everything for other exhibitions down the line, and I want to do a great job. I’m lost in the frenetic splatters of a Jackson Pollock when I hear a noise behind me. “It’s one of my favorites, too,” a voice says.
I startle: it’s St. Clair, leaning against the wall, watching me with a smile.
“How long have you been there?” I exclaim.
“Long enough,” he grins. “You look so excited. I’ve never seen someone so happy to be locked down here in this box.”
“It’s not the room, it’s everything inside it! Stalker,” I add, playfully sticking my tongue out.
“Beauty makes me stop and stare every time,” he says and my heart flutters. He steps closer to me, his eyes intent on mine. “I mean the paintings, of course.”
“Of course,” I echo, feeling a pull like a magnet, a need to feel his skin against mine.
He answers me with a kiss. Soft, and light, barely brushing my lips. I melt against him, resting my weight against his muscled chest, savoring his strong hands on my waist and his soft lips exploring mine. His mouth grows more insistent, the kiss deepens, and I hear myself moan as my head tilts back.
I forget that I’m supposed to be working, that St. Clair is my boss, and let myself get consumed by the heat of his kiss.
The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) Page 1
