My brow creases. “Why not give it back to the original owners, then?”
He leans back and rubs his chin. “That’s the horrible part. During the war, title deeds were often lost, or destroyed, and billions of dollars’ worth of priceless art was stolen from their rightful owners. Some of the surviving families have tried to get their property back, but without the deeds, there’s no way to prove it.”
“That’s so sad,” I say, feeling a pang. “Those families lost so much. The least they can do is have their art returned.”
“I absolutely agree.” St. Clair nods. “How about you, Grace? How is your art coming along?”
I start a little, and he looks confused. “You did study to be a painter, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I was never good enough to really go anywhere with it.” I wave my hands in dismissal. “And I haven’t painted in forever.”
“Why not?”
I wince, thinking of the ache that builds in my heart every time I pick up a brush. “Since my mom died, I just haven’t felt that spark. It’s too hard.”
“Have you tried?” he pushes lightly.
I shrug. “I still sketch, but every time I’m faced with a blank canvas, the brushes that belonged to my mom…I just freeze.” I busy my hands with clearing up the remnants of my sandwich, self-conscious about admitting something so personal.
He reaches out and takes my hands. “You’ll paint again, Grace. True passion like your mother’s, like yours, never disappears completely.”
I look at him. “Are you sure?” I whisper, desperate for his words to be true.
He rubs his thumb across my palm. “Give it time. When you’re ready, the muse will return. Trust me.”
I swallow back the tears of emotion suddenly welling in my throat. “Thanks.”
His phone buzzes, ruining the moment. He checks the screen. “I’ll be right back,” he says, stepping out into the hallway.
I clean up our lunch scraps and put them in the trash near the guard, who barely looks at me. I guess St. Clair really does do this all the time. I wander the hall studying the art, the color and shadow. I study the rabbit’s nose up close—it really is incredible—and realize how much I want to get back into my own art. I’ve missed it. I need it, I think.
Artistic expression is a part of who I am, and I’m glad St. Clair is reminding me of that.
The next morning I’m on the phone waiting to speak to the manager of a reclusive artist for an appointment that I’ve been trying to get for days and Maisie is chattering nonstop about some robbery.
“They don’t know who did it, or how. It’s all very mysterious,” Maisie says, dropping a pile of papers on my desk. I nod absently, thinking about how much I want an exclusive deal with this artist. “It’s all over the papers, especially after the Carringer’s fiasco.”
“There does seem to be a spree, doesn’t there?” I say, wondering why there’s this sudden interest in art from the criminal community.
“It’s like Ocean’s Eleven!” Maisie giggles just as the manager comes back on the line. “Miss Bennett?”
“Yes, I’m here,” I say. Maisie gives me a thumbs-up and leaves.
A few minutes later I’m knocking on St. Clair’s office door, excited to tell him about the appointment I just made with the reclusive artist that is going to knock his socks off. “We’ll get to visit his studio next week,” I tell him happily. “He hardly ever allows collectors to see his work in progress, I think this could be a great relationship for you.”
St. Clair seems distracted, putting papers into his briefcase. “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. I’m leaving for London tomorrow and I’ll be gone for a month.”
A month?
“Oh.” I can’t imagine a month without seeing him, but I try to act like it’s no big deal. “Okay, well, can I get you to sign those release forms for the new purchase and approve the—”
“I don’t know if that will work either.” There’s a strange smile playing on his lips.
“Okay…” Confusion freezes me where I stand. What’s going on? “Why not?”
For a terrible moment, I wonder if he’s decided to fire me, after all. Then St. Clair’s grin widens. “Because you’ll be coming with me.”
CHAPTER 5
After a whirlwind week packing and making arrangements, I still can’t believe it when we touchdown and I step off the plane in London. I’m in Europe!
I’m so excited I’m almost bouncing on my toes as we maneuver through the crowds at Heathrow and get swooped up by St. Clair’s car and driver. Charles sits calmly in the seat next to me, checking his phone as I rubberneck at all the tourist attractions I’ve only read about.
“Look, there’s Big Ben!” I say as we drive by the famous tower. “And Westminster Abbey!”
St. Clair smiles, amused. “Be glad Londoners can’t see or hear you right now. You’d be ribbed mercilessly for being so American.”
I laugh. “Sorry. I tried to play it cool all the way here, couldn’t you tell? It’s not every day I fly first class.”
Try, never.
“Real cool,” he grins, teasing. “The whole plane heard you squeal when they brought out afternoon tea.”
“But it was scones and clotted cream, on real china!” I protest. “I know, I’m not sophisticated, I’ve just never traveled abroad before. I’ve wanted to for so long.” I gaze out the windows at all the old brick, the stone fountains full of sculptures, the actual cobblestone roads, the river Thames and its ancient waters. “There’s so much history here.”
“It’s a great city,” he agrees. “And you’ll have plenty of time to explore it.”
“I don’t know. My boss is pretty strict.”
“Don’t worry.” He grins. “I’ll make sure that jerk doesn’t work you too hard.”
We stop at a signal in front of Buckingham Palace, its grand façade stretching for blocks. “Wow, the palace guards really do stand still as statues. Is it true that if you go bother them, they still can’t move or talk?”
St. Clair laughs.
“What?” I say, stiffening.
He says, “It’s been so long since I came here with a fresh pair of eyes like yours.”
We enter Notting Hill—which I recognize from the Julia Roberts movie—and I’m oohing and ahhing over the cute colorful buildings when we stop in front of one. I can’t wipe the huge smile off my face, but I try not to be presumptuous. “Do we have business here, Mr. St. Clair?”
He gets out of the car and I do the same, stepping out into the street. There’s a cute café with outdoor tables, artists riding by on bicycles, little boutiques, and a great buzz, just like in the movie.
“This is your home away from home.” He gestures to the bright blue stucco buildings in front of us, with flower boxes in the windows, and a cat peering at us from the front steps.
I gasp. “Really?”
St. Clair grins, his dimples throwing me off balance. God, he is gorgeous. “Number 3 on the left.” He hands me a brass key. “It’s a friend of a friend’s who’s out of town. I thought the apartment and the neighborhood would suit you. This way, you have your own space, to really get to know the city.”
“Thank you,” I gush. I hug him, I can’t help it, and he hesitates and then embraces me fully, our bodies pressing together. I inhale his aftershave, slide my hands along his muscular shoulders, feel the heat rise in my chest and begin to sink lower, so I let him go.
“How are you holding up?” he asks. “You should take it easy for a while, get some rest before the jet-lag hits you.”
“I’m fine.” I look at the cute front stoops, the cherry trees, and the colorful café awnings. “I’m more than fine. I’m in London!” I spread my arms wide. “Let’s get started.”
“Okay, okay, Energizer Bunny.” St. Clair laughs. “I’m texting you an address where you can meet me in a few hours.” He gestures to the driver, who lifts my suitcase from the trunk and carries it up the stairs to the fro
nt door. “Go inside and get settled, and I’ll see you later.”
He turns to get back in the car. “Charles?” I say, my voice stopping him. “Really, thank you,” I tell him again. “This is incredible.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, getting into the back seat. “We are still here for business.” He winks and shuts the door.
Inside, the apartment is an artist’s dream. It’s light and airy, open and full of homey touches like soft blankets on the comfy couch, a tea selection fanned out on a pretty plate, and a wall lined with lighted cabinets housing little statues and decorative vases.
The bedroom has a queen bed with a fluffy comforter, and a small desk in the corner with an ink jar and quill pen. I quickly unpack my things in the small closet and go through to the bathroom. There’s an actual claw-foot white porcelain tub and a jar of lavender bath salts, and I can’t wait to draw a bath and have long relaxing soak.
Even though St. Clair warned me about jet-lag, I don’t want to waste another moment indoors. I decide to go out and experience the culture. I stroll down the tree-lined streets, past vintage clothing stores with beautiful displays of dresses and shoes, and quaint cafes with metal folding chairs out front. It feels like a fairy tale. I actually live here! Even if it’s only temporary, it’s a dream I never imagined coming true. Mom, I hope you can see this.
A few hours later, freshened up and clothes changed, half a baguette and an apple in my stomach, I’m standing inside London College of Art waiting for St. Clair to come out of a meeting with the professors of the college. A display of student art installations sits in the center of the room, and it’s fun to look at what creativity the students are allowed to develop. I remember how much easier it was to take risks when there were safety nets and no real-world repercussions, and I miss the feeling of flying, of being so inspired you just jump and trust that where you land is where you’re supposed to be.
“Grace?” St. Clair is at my elbow. “Sorry that took so long. We’re finalizing the details of the show and as you know, artists can be…particular.”
I laugh. “That’s very diplomatic of you. Now, what show would that be?” I pull out my notebook and pen like a reporter, a trick I learned from Paige, who is always saying her notes are her lifesavers.
“Right,” St. Clair says, shaking his head like he can’t believe himself. “Sorry again. I haven’t even told you what you’ll be doing here, have I?”
“Not in so many words,” I admit.
“My company is sponsoring a graduation show for the college. It’s a whole event, with a huge opening the press will attend and all the big names in the industry. It’s a big honor for the students who are chosen to exhibit their final pieces.”
I nod. “I’m sure it can jumpstart careers. Change lives.”
He agrees, “It does, which is why the professors always bring in an impartial outside judge.”
“That’s a big task,” I say, figuring he must have to look at hundreds of portfolios. “Do you want me to vet the first round?”
He grins. “I want you to select the honorees.”
I catch my tongue before blurting out Me? like a moron. “Are you sure? It wasn’t so long ago I was a student myself.”
He leads me down a hallway. “I want to show you something.” We stop in front of a studio space, and I peer through the big glass window at five easels set up, with painters focused and working behind each. A professor wanders the room, critiquing, wiggling her fingers at some folks and gesturing wildly in sweeping motion with her arms at others.
The smell of paint and just-stretched canvas is thick in the air. I take a deep breath, letting memories of classes and afternoons spent with my brush guiding my hand wash over me. “This takes me back.”
“Exactly,” St. Clair says. He points to the students, who don’t pay any attention to us. In the zone. “You know how much this will mean to those students, and you have no ulterior motives or political agenda, so you are the perfect person to choose the winners.”
“But who’s to say what the best really is?” I ask, nervous.
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, you, for one, being my art consultant. That’s part of your job.”
I frown. “You know what I mean, right? Art is so subjective—why should my opinion matter more than someone else’s?”
“Because it does.” St. Clair looks at me. “You have a gift at seeing the deeper emotion of a piece. It’s why I hired you. Your opinion matters more than anyone’s.”
I have to look away.
I watch the students working, their faces concentrated, their brushes dipping and lifting from canvas to palette. I think about what possibilities may have been out there for me if I’d been able to finish my scholarship at the prestigious east coast college where I met Paige. What an award like this would have meant for me.
“Someone’s life is going to change dramatically after this,” I tell him. Not unlike mine did recently. The universe is funny like that, giving us the thing we want only after we’ve given up hope. Maybe because it’s then that we are finally willing to take a risk.
“Just follow your instincts,” he reassures me.
We walk back to the main entrance, but fatigue hits me like a bullet train and I’m suddenly too tired to stand. I wobble a little and St. Clair steadies me. “You okay?”
“I think I may need to lie down.”
He chuckles softly. “I told you, jet-lag is no joke.” He slips an arm around me. “Now, the TSA, that’s a joke.”
“Haha,” I say, but I’m practically letting him carry me as we begin walking back to the front of the building. “Sorry to be such a pain.”
“Not at all,” he says, always a gentleman. “Let’s get you back to the apartment so you can sleep. We have plenty of time for this, so take tomorrow to rest and settle in.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. A whole day to explore! My tired brain is already racing with the possibilities, so I know I’d better take advantage of this opportunity to rest while I can.
CHAPTER 6
I sleep like the dead for fifteen hours straight. St. Clair was right about jet-lag being no joke, but I wake feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, and ready to take on the world. How could I not be? I’m in London: international center of art and culture— and sexy accents. Though St. Clair’s is still my favorite.
I text Paige. I’m here, lover! Want to have lunch today?
I make a pot of tea and sip as I watch the light play off the orange and pink houses on this block, the white trim like reflectors in the morning sun. Paige writes back, OMG, yes!! Meet me at the Covent Garden market. 2 hours?
I write, Tips for getting there?
Tube it up! She replies. There’s a Covent Garden stop. Excited to see you!
My chest constricts. It’s been so long. ME TOO.
I shower and slip into a casual dress—London is generally dressier than San Francisco, but it’s still a weekday afternoon—and head out into the street feeling like I always imagined it would feel to live abroad: glamorous, thrilling, a little bit scary. Things are new, but that makes them exciting, and I feel like a whole new version of myself, too.
I head down the steps to the Tube station under the big red and white circle icon, figure out how to buy a subway pass, and step through the turnstile. I take a picture of the Mind the Gap sign, for Fred back home, who wants that painted on his kitchen wall someday. The London Underground train seems much cleaner than BART, and it moves fast, though there’s not much to see since it is, after all, underground.
I exit at Covent Garden and find myself in a narrow maze of old cobbled streets. Here, the stores are crammed in older buildings, and there are a ton of tourists watching street performers by the side of the road. I get my bearings, and head down the hill to where a covered market is filled with food and craft stalls, vendors and shoppers milling about like a school of fish. I see Paige sitting at a café right on the edge of the crowd. I quicken my pace, and she jumps up from the tab
le when she sees me. “Gracie!”
“Paigie!”
We squeal and hug, take a step back to look at each other and then hug again. “It’s been so long,” I say, and I start to tear up, feeling silly.
“I know!” she says. “I missed you too much!”
“Me too.” We hug again, until I glance at the other café patrons and notice a few frowns. “Okay, okay, people are starting to stare,” I say, releasing my grip on my best friend.
“Screw ‘em,” she says, but she sits down without a fight. “The Brits are a little weird about PDA,” she admits.
I sit in the chair opposite her. “You look amazing!”
“It’s the working so much you don’t have time to eat diet,” she jokes. “So do you!”
“Thanks,” I say, relaxing. “Although I’m definitely not on a diet. I’m starving. What shall we get?”
Paige holds up a silver pot. “English breakfast tea? If you’re going to live here, you better tea like a Londoner.”
“Sure.” I’m usually a fan of herbal teas, but when in Rome, or, er, England, right?
“You’ll want to add cream and sugar.” She pours dark brown liquid into our shiny white mugs. “I also ordered you an Eggs Benedict. Still your favorite?”
“You are the best.”
“I know.” Paige grins, her full pouty lips upturning into the gorgeous smile that broke so many boys’ hearts in college. “Unfortunately, even I don’t seem to be able to crack the code of this bastard art thief.”
“Still no leads on the Reubens painting?” I dump a packet of sugar into my cup and a splash of cream. “It’s been almost a month now.”
“That Interpol guy Lennox thinks it’s related to that new museum theft in San Fran, but it feels like a cold trail to me.” She shakes her head.
“Oh, I heard about that.” That was the museum St. Clair took me to for our brown bag picnic. We even walked past the painting that was taken. “I wonder who would want to steal these pieces—what for? There haven’t been any black market sales reported, but there’ve also been no ransom calls or letters, which would make the most sense if the thieves aren’t selling off the paintings…so why would someone be hoarding all this art?”
The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) Page 4
