CHAPTER 2
A few days later, I press the intercom button on my phone. “Maisie, can you email me the proofs of the title cards for each of the Nob Hill Hospital paintings? I want to finalize those and get them to the printer.”
The title cards are the last step. The artwork I selected has already been transported and hung with the other donations, and so far, I feel like I’m on top of things. My mom would be so proud. I think she’d like the paintings I chose, too. I hope St. Clair likes them – it’ll be a surprise for him to see what I’ve picked. After our steamy storage room kiss, he had to fly up to Seattle for business, and won’t be back until the opening gala tonight. Despite his absence, I’ve been grateful coming into work every day. This job is my dream, and I can hardly believe I’m here.
“I’m still waiting on them,” Maisie replies. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Thanks.”
I sip my coffee and glance over the schedule of upcoming exhibits and auctions, marking the ones I think we should attend. I hear a chime from my computer and look up to see the Skype icon on my screen bouncing. It’s my best friend, Paige.
“Hey, you,” I say as her face appears on screen. She’s in sweatpants and a ponytail with a Chinese take-out carton in one hand and chopsticks in the other, rapidly chewing a mouth full of noodles. It must be dinner time over there – Paige is eight hours ahead, in London.
I raise an eyebrow. “Dinner of champions?”
She swallows. “Dinner of a single woman working overtime.”
Paige works for an insurance company, investigating stolen art claims around the world. “Still looking for the stolen Reubens?” I ask. Last week, a highly prized painting was taken from Carringer’s, right after St. Clair won it at auction for six million dollars. It’s a huge scandal – and a big mystery too, to have a painting like that disappear into thin air.
“Yeah, that Interpol guy, Nick Lennox, thinks that theft is linked to others around Europe, but he doesn’t have any real evidence or suspects.” Paige shrugs. “I’ve done everything I could think of to find a possible lead, but I’ve got nothing.”
“I hope they find they guy. What kind of asshole steals priceless masterpieces just to hide them in a vault somewhere?” I ask, getting riled up. “St. Clair and other collectors keep things stored temporarily, between exhibitions, but these thieves want to lock the painting away so nobody else can ever enjoy it. Bastards.”
Paige grins at me. “Easy there, tiger.”
“Shut up.” I stick out my tongue.
She twirls her chopsticks. “How’s the new dream job going?”
“Great!” I perk up in my seat. “I keep expecting to get used to it, but every day, it hits me all over again, this really is my life!” I know I’m beaming, but I can’t help it. “I got to choose the paintings St. Clair is donating for the new wing of a hospital. I wish you could come to the opening.”
“Me too,” Paige grins. “Someday, though.
“I hope they like my choices,” I add, nervous. “It’s my first big job, and I want it to be a good reflection of St. Clair.”
Paige grins. “Oh, I’m sure it will be. But how ever will he show his appreciation to his new employee, hmm?” she teases. “I may have a few ideas…”
Before I can protest, my phone pings. It’s a text from St. Clair.
Join me at the gala tonight?
My face heats up.
“A-ha!” Paige misses nothing. “That was him, wasn’t it?”
“He wants to take me to the gala.”
“Like a date?”
My pulse races a bit with hope, but I’m not sure. “Maybe? Or maybe it’s just professional. I mean, I did curate the pieces.” But there was also that kiss… “What do I say?”
Paige rolls her eyes. “Say yes!”
I text Sure and he replies almost instantly. Great! Can I pick you up for dinner beforehand? 7?
Paige sings, “Grace and Charles sittin’ in a tree…”
My face flushes. “Stop!”
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love—”
“Seriously, Paige. He’s my boss now. It’s not so simple anymore.”
“Simple is what you make of it,” Paige shrugs. “Wouldn’t you rather have hot, complicated sex than simple platonic nights alone?”
“Well, when you put it like that…”
I smile. This is why everyone needs a friend like Paige. I text St Clair: Can’t wait. Then I think about what I’ve just accepted: an invitation to a fancy black-tie gala, surrounded by San Francisco’s high society. My smile slips.
Paige says, “What’s wrong?”
“I have nothing to wear.”
“Grace, please. This is the part where you go shopping. Splurge on something sexy.”
“I can’t afford that,” I say automatically.
Paige snorts. “You told me what your new salary is, and trust me, you can swing a fancy new outfit. Besides, you’re an art consultant to a billionaire now. You better look the part. You know my motto: fake it ‘til you make it.”
I scoff. “You’ve never faked anything in your life. You’re too confident.”
Paige lifts her eyebrows. “Oh, I have faked plenty. That’s why I don’t do one night stands anymore.”
I laugh. “I miss you,” I say, feeling a pang. “I need more sass in my life.”
“I know,” she says. “We need a night out. Like the old days.”
I sigh, nostalgic for the times when I came home to Paige watching MTV on the couch with a bag of peanut butter pretzels and a bottle of wine, waiting to hear about my day and tell me about hers. “Rain check?”
She nods. “Rain check.”
I decide to take Paige’s advice and spend the afternoon shopping at stores whose price tags usually make me hyperventilate. I have to talk myself down from fleeing right back to H&M - if I’m going to be taken seriously as someone who belongs in this world, then I need to look the part. So I grit my teeth, steel myself (and my credit card), and do what needs to be done.
Three hours and a few hundred dollars later, I’m standing in front of my mirror, staring at the reflection of someone who doesn’t look like me. Or is this some alternate version of me: cultured, sophisticated. Dare I say glamorous? It may be the new heels. These strappy things cost enough to buy my groceries for a month, but they’re hot. And high. And I kind of love them.
My new black strapless gown is silky and sexy, and makes me feel like a movie star getting ready for the red carpet. The cost made me wince, but to my relief, it won’t bankrupt me – not anymore. St. Clair paid me a generous retainer, an advance on my first paycheck, I guess, and it’s more than I ever imagined earning all those nights I served spaghetti and meatballs downstairs. More than enough for a new dress and shoes, a cute clutch purse, and a fancy hairstyle from the blow-dry bar down the block.
Now that I look the part, I have to make sure I act it, too. I don’t want to let St. Clair down-or myself. I have the chance of a lifetime here, and I want to savor every moment of it.
I hear raised voices from the restaurant downstairs, the di Fiores in full form. Then I catch a British accent and realize St. Clair must be here. My heart flips. I give myself one last look in the mirror, remind myself again that I can do this, and then head down Giovanni’s.
I follow the commotion and find him literally surrounded by di Fiores—the owners Nona and Giovanni as well as their daughter Carmella and her husband Fred, plus Cousin Eddie, all talking to him at once at a decibel level normal ears would find nearly deafening.
“Guys,” I say, but no one hears me over Fred asking St. Clair for investment advice and Eddie showing off his biceps. “Come on, man, how much can you bench?”
“Hello!” I yell at full volume.
They all turn.
Eddie whistles, Nona claps her hands together in delight, but St. Clair’s is the only reaction I care about. His eyes widen a little, and then they take on a new smoky intensity.
/> I feel like the only woman in the world.
St. Clair’s still gaze gets the chatty Italian family that has welcomed me into their lives to slowly quiet down and all turn to me.
“Hi,” I say nervously.
Nona beams. “Our little Gracie, all grown up.”
I walk toward them, a little uneasy in these new heels that are higher than I’m used to. St. Clair takes my arm, steadying me with his firm but warm grip. “It was wonderful to meet you all, but we have dinner reservations.”
Giovanni steps in our way. “Dinner where? Nowhere in the city has better food than here. You stay, eat.” He claps twice and a waiter appears to set the prize table at the front of the house, Nona and Giovanni’s throne.
St. Clair looks at me, questioning. I want him all to myself, but I don’t want to be rude to the di Fiores either. And I’m curious to see how Charles will stand up to their strong personalities (and what I know is hands down the best marinara sauce this side of the city).
“Let’s stay,” I decide. “If that’s okay?”
“Of course.” St. Clair smiles at me. “I’d love to get to know everyone.”
He puts his hand on the small of my back as he follows me to the table and a little shiver runs up my spine. I hope I can keep my blushing under control - something tells me that Nona will notice everything.
We take our seats, with Giovanni and Nona joining us at the table. Carmella and Fred head back to work, and Cousin Eddie lingers nearby, glaring at St. Clair.
Giovanni passes a basket of fresh-baked ciabatta rolls around the table. St. Clair takes a bite and his expression freezes. “Oh my God, this is the best bread I’ve ever had.”
Giovanni laughs, “Everyone says that.” He beams proudly.
Nona says, “It’s the biga-a secret starter yeast recipe I brought from my grandmother’s kitchen in Naples, over fifty years ago. That’s the secret of good bread, it’s all in the right ingredients. Like a marriage,” she adds, giving me a look.
St. Clair chews a big mouthful. “It’s delicious,” he says and I smile. He’s figured out the way to their hearts, food of course, and won them over. “So tell me about how you started the restaurant?” St. Clair asks. “This place is an institution, I hear.”
Giovanni launches into the history I’ve heard a hundred times, so I sit back, and try to relax. Still, it’s strange to have everyone around the same table. The di Fiores know me as their waitress and surrogate daughter, but St. Clair’s only seen the face I present to the world: polished and confident— or at least trying to be. I wonder briefly what he makes of them. The restaurant is a far cry from the five-star restaurants he’s used to, with its homey feel and rustic food. But soon Charles is talking enthusiastically about the unusual foods he tried in Italy, and Giovanni and Nona are laughing along.
He fits. Somehow, St. Clair has the ability to walk into any room and put people at ease. It’s not just shallow charm, it’s how he’s genuinely interested in everyone and wants to hear their stories.
Dinner flies by, and once the plates have been cleared, Giovanni raises his glass. “A toast to our Gracie and Charles, and their big night out.”
A chorus of “hear hear”s go around.
St. Clair smiles. “And to the bread!”
I glance down at my watch, mindful that St. Clair is a guest of honor at the benefit tonight. “We’d better get going,” I say, apologetic.
“Thank you so much for a lovely meal,” St. Clair says to the di Fiores, shaking Giovanni’s hand. He kisses Nona on the cheek and gives Eddie a friendly shoulder-grab that I’m pleased to see Eddie return in kind. “I hope to see you all again soon.”
“I’ll just get my wrap,” I tell him, and go to the cloakroom at the back of the restaurant. Nona follows me.
She looks up at me, the wrinkles in her face creased with concern. “You seem very…taken with this young man.”
I blush. “I really like him,” I confess.
“I can see that. But don’t let your heart get so swept up that you cannot see the ground anymore, okay?”
I’m surprised. Where is this coming from? “Nona, I’m fine.” I kiss the top of her head. “Thank you for looking out for me.”
“Just be sure that you don’t let the stars get in your eyes, Gracie, dear.” She squeezes my hand. “All that glitters…”
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will,” she smiles gently.
I go to meet St. Clair by the doors, but I can’t help wondering if what Nona said is true. Is all this glitz going to blindside me into making bad decisions? Or even more troubling: has it already?
CHAPTER 3
When we arrive at the gala, I can’t believe the scene: it’s being hosted in the lobby of the new modern wing at the hospital, with a real-life red carpet and photographers lined up outside to snap the society arrivals. Camera lights flash and reporters toss out questions to the guests and I feel like a celebrity, walking up on St. Clair’s arm.
“Mr. St. Clair, over here!”
“Charles, a word!”
“St. Clair!”
He guides me smoothly past, pausing to talk about the great work the fundraisers did, and how many people the new wing will help.
“You’re so natural out there in front of all the press,” I say once we’re past the paparazzi.
His smile slips. “It’s part of the job,” he shrugs. “But to tell you the truth, it’s not my favorite. All the attention comes with the territory, but it’s a performance too.”
I’m taken aback, but he seems genuine. “So who is the real you?” I tease.
“Just me,” St. Clair gives me a quiet smile and takes my hand. “The guy who cooked you dinner in Napa, who just spent a lovely evening with your family.”
I smile. “That guy’s great,” I say, but I wonder why this sudden burst of authenticity.
He smiles back. “Don’t forget that,” he says.
Inside, the grand lobby has been turned into a reception area, with a bar at one end of the marble floor and the donated art pieces hung throughout the room. St. Clair is surrounded immediately. He introduces me to all kinds of amazing people, saying, “This is my art consultant, Grace Bennett,” and I feel like Cinderella at the ball. It’s magical.
Finally, St. Clair says, “Let’s take a tour, go say goodbye to my donations.”
I laugh, then realize he’s serious. “But they were just sitting in your vault.”
St. Clair grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and hands me one. “Which is why I’m giving them away to live a better life. But I still want a last look.”
We make it around the room to where St. Clair’s donation is displayed. A small crowd has gathered in front of the three pieces I agonized over but finally chose: a wild and crazy splattering of a Pollock, an abstract Picasso, and an up-and-coming artist named O’Brien who uses neon colors and big sweeping shapes.
People are whispering and there’s an energy surrounding the art that makes me nervous. The paintings I picked don’t fit in with the rest of the art here. All the other pieces are tame and traditional: watercolors, landscapes, lots of florals and delicate brushwork. The typical thing you find in doctors’ waiting rooms – and exactly why I went in a different direction. Now, I’m having second thoughts. If these pieces aren’t appropriate, then it makes St. Clair look bad.
“Do you think there’s a problem?” I ask nervously, my body tensing as we get closer. Before St. Clair can answer, someone sees him and starts clapping. More of the crowd joins in until dozens of people are applauding and clearing a path for us.
“Guess not,” he whispers to me.
A reporter from the Chronicle stands ready with a dictaphone. “Everyone is very impressed by your donations, Mr. St. Clair.”
Agreements and things like, “Wonderful choices, St. Clair!” and “So lively!” float from the several dozen people standing around gazing at the artwork I selected. I love the
paintings, so it shouldn’t be surprising that others love them, too. And yet, I’m relieved and grateful.
“Speech!” someone shouts and the crowd quiets down.
“Yes, please,” says the man from the Chronicle. “Can you tell us a little about your donation? It’s by far the most impressive collection to hang in a public building like this. Aren’t you worried about security?”
St. Clair clears his throat and addresses the room. “Actually, my art consultant, Grace Bennett, was the brilliant mind who selected the art here tonight. Please, Grace.” He gestures for me to speak.
What? My mind goes blank. I look at the sea of expectant faces and don’t know what to say. “Um,” I say, beginning to sweat. St. Clair gives me a little nod of encouragement. “Well, my mom was sick a few years ago,” I start slowly, speaking from the heart. “So I spent a lot of time in hospitals—waiting rooms and hallway seats, patient rooms—and the art was always so lifeless. It was supposed to be soothing, I know, but instead, it felt like defeat. I always thought there should be more vibrant colors, more movement in the art to lift people’s spirits,” I go on, and suddenly I can’t stop the words flowing out of me. “To remind them about the beauty in the world when they’re facing their most difficult challenges. I know I would have liked pieces like this hanging on the hospital walls I had to be in. I hope others feel the same.”
There’s applause, a few nods of understanding, and St. Clair rests a hand on my shoulder. “Great job,” he murmurs. And I can tell from the look in his eye that he means it. “This is why I hired you, you know,” he says as the crowd disperses. “You see art as something that can enrich the everyday, not just something to stay on the wall and be admired from a distance. I’m proud of you.”
His words spark a warm glow. If my feet didn’t hurt so much in these heels I would feel like I’m floating on air. I didn’t let him down at my first task – and I might make a difference to the people who will be using this hospital wing. It feels great, and I know my mom would be proud of me, too.
The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) Page 2
