The Art of Stealing Forever

by Stella London

  The Art of Stealing Forever

  (Stealing Hearts Book Three)

  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

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER 1

  I blink back tears. Alarms are echoing off the stone walls of the alleyway, piercing the London night. In front of me stands Charles St. Clair: billionaire art collector, my new boss – and the man I’ve fallen in love with.

  “Please, Grace,” he urges me, tugging at my hand. “We have to get out of here.”

  My eyes go to the narrow tube under his arm, the kind used to transport paintings.

  Stolen paintings.

  The sirens screaming from the art gallery down the street are too loud for me to think, but one thing I do know: St. Clair has been lying to me all along.

  “Lennox was right, wasn’t he?” I demand, my heart breaking. “You’re behind all the heists – in America, and here too. You’re the thief.”

  St. Clair looks up, stricken, as lights appear in apartment windows above the alley, casting out squares of ugly yellow light. “Grace, there’s no time. We have to go.”

  I shake my head. “Tell me you didn’t set off these alarms, that there’s nothing in that tube you’re carrying!” I feel like my ear drums will burst from the shrill cry of the sirens, but I need him to make sense of all of this. “Please,” I beg him. “Tell me it’s not you.” I stare into those blue eyes that I adore, waiting for the magic words that will explain all my suspicions away.

  But none come.

  St. Clair shakes his head sadly. He can’t deny it because it’s true.

  “No,” I whisper, feeling like someone just punched me in the gut.

  He takes my hand again. “Just trust me to get us out of here, okay? You can hate me all you want once we’re safe.” I can hear the pleading in his voice, the worry, though I’m sure it’s more for his own ass than mine.

  Reality hits me hard. The alarms mean security will be on their way: police, and Lord knows what else. And I’m standing right here with the culprit. An accessory to his crimes.

  I finally stop resisting and let St. Clair pull me down the alley, away from the gallery. He shoves the brown painting tube into his coat, hiding it from view as he walks briskly. “Where are we going?” I ask, trying to make my mind work faster, come up with my own plan so I don’t have to rely on him.

  “Just stay calm.” He squeezes my clammy hand and I want to kick him for thinking that’s going to comfort me right now.

  “’Stay calm?’” I hiss under my breath. “We are running away from a robbery in the middle of the night with the stolen artwork!”

  He continues to drag me down a maze of streets and alleys, turning every block until I’m disoriented and totally lost. It’s hard to watch my feet on the uneven cobblestones at this pace in the dark, and I have to jog to keep up with his long legs.

  “Don’t run,” he warns me, looking around. “It looks suspicious.”

  “Then slow down!” I say, flustered and irritated.

  St. Clair takes a breath. “Sorry,” he says softly, slowing his pace.

  We’re further from the gallery now, almost out of earshot of the alarms. I start to relax, then suddenly three cop cars fly by, red lights flashing, tires squealing around corners.

  I panic all over again. St. Clair ducks us into the shadow of a building and moves his face in close to mine so we’re invisible to the road. Without warning he kisses me, his warm lips a shock after the cool night air. More police sirens scream at us as they pass and St. Clair presses his mouth into mine, parts his lips enough to let his teeth bite at my lower lip. My knees go weak and despite my brain’s protests, my body responds, melting against him.

  When the sirens have passed, St. Clair steps away. “I don’t think they saw us,” he says, watching the street. I realize with a start that the kiss was just a cover.

  Was I ever anything more than that to him?

  “We should move.” He puts a casual arm around my shoulders as we step back out onto the street. “Thank you,” he says as we stroll along nonchalantly like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. Except so many things are wrong right now I can’t even count them. “For trusting me.”

  “I haven’t decided anything yet,” I say and I mean it. I haven’t had time to process any of this, my heart is still racing with panic and terror. All I want is to get safely home, away from the sirens and police. Then, maybe I can figure out what the hell I’m doing next.

  St. Clair guides us along the dark London streets. We walk at a normal pace, though there are only a few people out at this hour. The gallery sirens seem to have stopped, or at least we can’t hear them from here. I know we have to go slow, but my muscles are itching to run full out, to somehow escape all the way home to my apartment in San Francisco where things were normal, legal.

  Oh my God, but what if they weren’t?

  My mind races with fresh anxiety. St. Clair had to have been planning the Carringer’s theft before I even met him, so that means he’s been lying to me the whole time!

  Even worse than lying, what if Lennox was right? What if he was using me from the start?

  A chill runs through my body. I have to stop to catch my breath.

  “Are you okay?” St. Clair asks, but the concern in his face just makes me angrier.

  “What do you think?”

  St. Clair looks chastened. “Not far to go,” he says. “We’ll be safe soon.”

  And yet I wonder if I’ll ever be.

  We walk another ten minutes or so to his townhouse. As soon as he’s latched the door behind us, I turn on St. Clair. “What the hell just happened?”

  “Shh,” he warns me, and leads me upstairs. I follow, my heart racing. All this time, he’s been lying to me, fooling everyone. I thought he cared about me.

  I thought he loved me.

  St. Clair enters the bedroom and makes straight for a bookcase on the far wall. He pulls on a book and a compartment on the other side pops open, near the floor, revealing a safe.

  My jaw drops. “Who are you, James Bond?”

  He kneels down to punch in a few numbers on the keypad, and the door to the safe unlocks. He stashes the brown painting tube inside and shuts the door, hiding the whole contraption from view again. Only then does he seem to relax, bowing his head for a moment and exhaling a long breath before standing up. He has the nerve to smile at me, his dimples flashing like we just got away with breaking the rules.

  But I’m not relieved or relaxed. Not at all.

  I fold my arms and stare at him. “I want answers. Now. And no more lies.”

  “Grace, I never wanted to lie—” He takes a step toward me but I hold up my hand.

  “I don’t want your charm, Charles. And I don’t want you to say what you think I want to hear. I need an explanation that makes sense before
I—”

  The doorbell rings.

  We both freeze.

  “I thought you said we’d be safe here!” I whisper. “What if it’s the police? What if someone saw you – saw us!”

  St. Clair moves swiftly to the window and looks down. “It’s Lennox,” he reports. “And it appears he’s brought the whole bloody police force with him.”

  My heart actually stops for a second before it starts pounding, pumping blood with Niagara-falls force through my veins. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

  St. Clair moves over to me and takes my hands. “Grace? Grace, look at me.” All I can think is that I’m going to jail. I’m going to die in prison because I was bamboozled by a beautiful face and a hot ass.

  “How could you do this to me?” I say.

  “I’ll explain everything later,” he says calmly. “But for now, I need you to cover for me with Lennox. Can you do that, Grace?”

  I’m having trouble breathing and my heart is roaring in my ears. The doorbell rings again and someone pounds loudly on the door. I jump.

  “Grace?” St. Clair says again. There’s no time to think, no time to weigh the consequences. “Please, trust me,” he whispers. “I promise it will all be okay.”

  I nod. Even after everything, I want to believe him.

  CHAPTER 2

  The doorbell doesn’t let up. St. Clair strips off his coat and the clothing underneath, until he’s just wearing boxer briefs. He pulls on a bathrobe.

  “Get undressed,” he tells me, and tosses over another robe. “We’ve been here all night, in bed, together, okay?”

  I stand, frozen, still in a panic.

  “Grace?” St. Clair comes closer. He cups my cheek with his hand, so gentle, and looks into my eyes. “This is important. I know you’re scared, but we have to be clear on our alibi. We’ve been together all night. Right here, at home. Can you do this?”

  From the hammering on the door and the flashing police lights outside, it’s obvious I don’t have a choice.

  “Yes,” I answer, my voice coming out stronger than I feel.

  “That’s my girl.” St. Clair kisses my forehead, then hurries out, down the stairs.

  I hear him open the door. “What’s going on?” St. Clair’s voice echoes up. “Agent Lennox, how can I help you?”

  I’m impressed, even in my panic. St. Clair sounds sleepy and confused, like he was fast asleep when the commotion started, and not fresh from a major heist.

  “I need to ask you some questions,” Lennox demands, his voice gruff.

  “Of course,” St. Clair agrees. “But can’t it wait until morning?”

  Lennox snorts. “It is morning.”

  “I meant, when the sun is up. A more civilized hour?”

  “We can do this now, or you can come with me to the station.” Lennox sounds unmoved.

  My heart stops. If Lennox is threatening to take him in, he must have something. Evidence. Oh God.

  “Of course, come in.” St. Clair finally says. I cringe.

  I slip out of the bedroom and creep to the top of the stairs so I can hear better over my pounding heart. I peek over the landing and see Lennox step inside. He gestures for the other police officers to follow, but St. Clair casually blocks their path.

  “Just you,” St. Clair says calmly. “That is, unless you have a search warrant?”

  There’s a pause, and then I see Lennox scowl. “Wait outside, lads,” he says.

  St. Clair closes the door behind them, and asks more casually than I could have managed, “Can I get you a tea? Coffee?” St Clair yawns, tightening the belt on his robe. “Sorry, I’m still half-asleep.”

  The alibi. Right. I quickly duck back to the bedroom and strip off my black jeans and sweatshirt. I remember to kick them under the bed before pulling on a fancy negligee nightgown. I picked it out for St. Clair, and it makes me feel ill to think of using it now as part of this big performance. But I don’t have any other choice.

  St. Clair said to trust him. Am I foolish to give him one last chance?

  Not foolish, I correct myself. This is self-preservation. If Lennox busts St. Clair tonight, then I’m caught in the crosshairs too. And Lennox has made it clear, he’ll be happy to take me down too if it even looks like I’ve played any part in St. Clair’s illegal dealings.

  For my own sake, I have to make sure this alibi sticks.

  By the time I get back to the top of the stairs, the men are further down the hallway, out of earshot. I slowly creep down the steps until I hear Lennox’s voice again. They’re in the kitchen.

  “So, how about you tell me where you’ve been tonight?” Lennox says.

  “Any reason in particular, or do you just love keeping tabs on me?” St. Clair is smooth, but I’m beginning to shake. Lennox’s visit can’t be a coincidence, not when it’s coming so soon after the gallery theft.

  What if there’s security camera footage showing St. Clair at the scene – or both of us? No alibi in the world would get us out of that one.

  “Call me curious.” Lennox smiles without pleasure. “You lead such a jet-setting life, it’s hard to keep track.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but there’s been no jet-setting tonight,” St. Clair says as he casually pours water from the kettle into two mugs. “I attended an art gala at the London College of Art earlier, and then returned home.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  St. Clair smiles. “Oh, about two hundred guests, and the college trustees. A handful of journalists, too. I think there might even be footage on YouTube of my speech. Not one of my best,” he adds, “But it seemed to do the trick.”

  Lennox scowls. “I meant verification that you were here at home the rest of the night.”

  “My mistake.” St. Clair gives him another charming smile. “Yes, my girlfriend will attest to my location, won’t you, Grace?”

  He glances past Lennox, meeting my eyes in the hallway.

  I jump, then swallow the strangled sound I want to make and instead force my voice to come out as steadily as possible. “What’s going on, Charles? It’s so early.”

  I wrap my robe tighter and attempt a fake yawn like St. Clair did. I look at Lennox and try to act surprised. “Agent Lennox, is everything alright?”

  “That depends.” Lennox’s stare seems to look right through me. “Where have you been tonight?”

  “Where? Here, of course.” Easy. Done. Except my whole body is sweating under my robe. Thank God he can’t see. What is the penalty for lying to the police?

  “You didn’t attend an art party?”

  Crap! “Oh. I did. I meant, after that.”

  “Tea, sweetheart?” St. Clair interrupts, holding out a mug. Lennox scowls, so I take it, then immediately regret the move. My hands are shaking so much, I have to grip the mug tightly to hide my nerves. “It’s chamomile,” St. Clair adds, “To help relax you after this rude interruption.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper, taking a hot sip.

  Lennox clears his throat, impatient. “You were here all night?”

  “Yes.” My voice is steadier now. “What’s all this about?”

  Lennox doesn’t answer. “And Mr. St. Clair was with you all night?”

  “Of course. We were in bed.”

  “How can you be sure of where he was while you were asleep?” he shoots back.

  “I, uh…” My mind goes blank, but St. Clair doesn’t miss a beat. He chuckles, and slips his arm around me.

  “Now, now, Agent Lennox. Since when did I say we were sleeping?”

  My cheeks flush, but at least it makes Lennox look uncomfortable for a beat. “Charles!” I whisper, not even pretending to be embarrassed.

  “Oh, don’t be shy.” He kisses my cheek. “Agent Lennox here is a stickler for the details. So, I can assure him, we didn’t leave each other’s sight. All night. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

  This, at least, isn’t a lie. Technically, St. Clair didn’t leave my sight – I
followed him from the house. “That’s right,” I tell Lennox firmly. “I’ve been with him since the party. Well, except for like two minutes when I went to the bathroom.”

  Lennox eyes me for an uncomfortably long time and I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my back. “You’re sure?”

  “I think I would have noticed if he’d vanished,” I manage a weak joke.

  As if on cue, St. Clair adds, “We’ve been pretty involved in each other’s company. You know how it is in the honeymoon phase. We just can’t keep our hands off each other.”

  I blush, something I can’t fake, and hope that covers the guilt I am also not faking.

  Lennox looks annoyed now. “I’d like to take a look around, if that’s alright with you.”

  The way he says it makes it clear it’s not really a question, but St. Clair is unfazed. “Of course,” he says, stepping forward to better fill the space between Lennox and the house, “if you’ll just show me that search warrant.”

  Lennox’s poker face fades for a second into surprise and then he regains his cool. “An innocent man would have nothing to hide.”

  St. Clair rallies back, “Weren’t you the one who told me no one is innocent?”

  “Not all of us are guilty of breaking the law,” Lennox scoffs.

  “Which is why I know you would rather wait until a search warrant makes looking around my home a little more legal.” St. Clair yawns. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we really should get some sleep.”

  Lennox hooks his thumbs through his belt loops and rocks back on his boot heels while he considers. He eyes St. Clair with his scrutinizing stare and gives me a once-over, too. I try to smile for effect, but I know I’m still too nervous for it to look completely normal.

  St. Clair sighs, impatient. “Is there anything else?”

  Lennox gazes around the room like he might be able to pick up some invisible clue, and then slowly shakes his head. “Not tonight.” He opens the door and stands in the doorway, his tall dark frame backlit by street lamps outside. “Thank you for your time.”