“You’re probably right,” I agree. He hasn’t— because he’s owned it all along.
“I’m not saying it’s a victimless crime,” she adds, “but high-end art thefts aren’t exactly leaving people ruined. Most of the time, they just shrug it off and cash the insurance check. And it’s not like my company can’t afford to be writing those checks – they have billions in assets.”
“Now where are those drinks?” Paige looks around. “And in the meantime, I guess I’ll just have to get my romance from TV like everyone else.”
“I might be joining you on the couch soon,” I tell her, frowning. She pats my hand and gives me a supportive look, and I’m so thankful to have her back in my life in person again. “I missed your face,” I tell her earnestly.
“Yours too.” She scans the room again for our waiter. “Drinks! Drinks, good sir!” she yells, and we giggle like old times.
I think about Paige’s words all the way home from the Tube station. Couples stroll arm-in-arm down these quaint streets and I wish I could have that again. It was just a week ago that St. Clair kissed me in the fountain, like it didn’t matter who was watching. He brings out a side of me I haven’t felt since my mom died, a playfulness and energy that has reminded me that life can be fun and exciting and passionate; that I need to live in order to make art, that I owe it to myself to express that creativity on and off the canvas. He’s opened me up so much that my black and white way of thinking seems to have blurred into a murky shade of gray.
I always thought there was right and wrong, but I’m beginning to at least see where St. Clair is coming from. Paige didn’t think his crimes were serious, and she doesn’t even know the reasons behind them.
Is it really so bad if nobody gets hurt?
I pass the last of the cafés with their tables pulled in for the night and walk by the flower boxes full of trailing purple blooms in front of the buildings on my street. I head up my steps and find St. Clair sitting on my stoop. I feel a rush, just to see him. He stands at the sight of me, smiling with hope and a hint of sadness. “Grace, good evening.”
He’s holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper. Yellow roses. My favorite. How does he know these things?
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to put an edge on it, but the truth is, I don’t feel angry anymore. “I told you, I’m not ready to make a decision yet.”
“I know. But I miss you.” He smooths a hand over his stubbly chin—unusual for him. “I couldn’t stay away any longer.”
He sounds sincere but I remind myself that I know better now. He’s a practiced liar. “Or are you really just worried that I’ll rat you out to Lennox now that I know the truth?”
St. Clair winces but takes a step toward me. “Everything I said about my feelings for you was real. I never lied about that.” He takes another step and my breath catches at his nearness. “I love you, Grace. And if you let me, I can show you what this all really means.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“Will you take a trip with me so you can see why I do this?” He hands me the roses and I inhale their sweet perfume. Roses have thorns but that doesn’t make them evil. St. Clair looks at me, his blue eyes yearning, “I want you to know me, to understand. Please?”
I pause, but my resolve is weakening. He’s not hiding anymore: he’s finally opening up.
“I’ll give you one more chance. One chance to explain everything. But that’s all, Charles. It has to be.”
CHAPTER 4
The first thing the next morning, St. Clair arrives in his sports car outside my flat.
He opens the door for me. “After you, m’lady,” he says in an attempt to lighten the mood, but I can barely crack a smile there’s so much weighing on my mind.
We drive through London, going north, I think, although the streets are still all a foreign blur to me. I’ve barely been in the country for two weeks, and it feels like no time at all.
I look over at St. Clair behind the wheel. He seems nervous, and for some reason, that thought makes me feel better. This matters to him, so maybe I matter, too.
After the city landscapes have shifted into more residential streets with tree branches stretching across the narrower roads, St. Clair turns onto a cul-de-sac lined with shady oaks and lots of rose bushes.
“Here we are.” He pulls into the driveway of a cute stone cottage nearly hidden behind a blooming garden full of bushy plants and wild mint and towering wildflowers. I see the curtains in the front window move.
“Where are we?” I ask, getting out of the car.
“Hampstead.”
I give him a look. “You know what I mean.”
He gives me a hesitant smile. “You want to know more about…what I do. So, I thought I’d show you.”
I glance at the cottage, then back at St. Clair. That doesn’t explain anything.
We walk up the winding stone path, stepping on dozens of fallen petals like colorful natural confetti, and I wonder who lives here: who could possibly make me change my mind about him.
St. Clair knocks, and immediately the wooden door opens to reveal an older woman. She’s in her eighties, maybe, with a shock of grey hair and a thick knitted cardigan.
“Charlie,” she beams, speaking with a thick European accent. “You’re right on time.”
“I never keep a lady waiting.” St. Clair lifts her hand to his lips in a polite greeting.
“Greta, this is my friend, Grace. The one I told you about.”
“Ah, yes.” Greta looks me over, her sharp stare missing nothing, despite her age. She finally gives a small nod of what I hope is approval, and stands aside. “Please. Come in.”
Greta leads us into her sitting room, a small but warm space stuffed to the brim with antique couches, threadbare rugs and old clocks. And there, on her wooden mantel, along with lots of framed family photos, sits a very familiar painting.
I stop, shocked. It’s the painting St. Clair stole from the museum in San Francisco.
Greta chuckles at my expression. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she says. “Sit, sit. I’ll get the tea.” She walks away slowly, leaving us alone.
I move closer to the mantle, drawn to examine it more closely. It can’t be. But I quickly realize it’s not a reproduction, it’s the real deal, just as I thought – a few thousand miles from where it was last seen.
“You took it,” I say softly. If I had any remaining doubts about St. Clair’s thieving, they’re gone now. He’s made a whole life out of doing this. It’s who he is. And it will never stop.
St. Clair nods.
“Why this one?”
“I’ll let Greta tell you all about it.” He gives me a smile, but he’s tapping his fingers restlessly on the table, still anxious and jittery.
I realize what a risk he’s taking here: I could already be working with Lennox, and he’s led me straight to evidence of his crimes. But his trust in me is heartening; it makes me believe that he really is telling the truth now.
Greta returns with a tray of tea things, and St. Clair immediately leaps to take it from her and set it on the coffee table. Greta slowly lowers herself into an old armchair, and then bats away St. Clair’s hands to pour.
When we’re all seated with mismatched china cups of tea, St. Clair nods to Greta. “I told Grace you would explain to her about the painting, and how I came to retrieve it for you.”
“Are you sure?” she checks, but St. Clair nods.
“Please. I’d like her to know.”
Greta takes a deep breath. “It’s not an uncommon story, I’m afraid. I grew up in Germany, with my family, and then, well, the war came. When I was still in grade school, I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle here in England, but the rest of my family weren’t so lucky. They were taken, sent to the camps, and eventually killed.” Her voice is steady, despite the horror she’s describing. “All our possessions, every single thing we owned, was looted. The Nazis took anything of value t
hemselves, to furnish their war-rooms and the houses of the top generals. They wouldn’t allow any of the artwork to be hung in public, but it was more than good enough for their own collections.” She snorts with disdain, and I see her gnarled hand curl into a fist in her lap. I feel anger at her loss, at the losses that so many suffered, and I have to hold back from reaching for Greta’s hand.
“When the writing was on the wall, and they knew they were losing the war, the Nazis sent the most valuable items out of the country – to the Swiss vaults, or South America. Millions in stolen art and heirlooms just disappeared into the ether, to be profited on by future generations. Title deeds were forged or mislaid. What was left of my family tried to make claims, for compensation, but without documentation there was nothing to be done. And then, last year, I got word that this painting had surfaced in America. Can you imagine?” she asks. “The prized painting that had sat on the mantel in my family home when I was a girl—one of the few things of any value that we owned, passed down through generations—now hanging in a gallery in San Francisco.”
I’m enraptured by her story. “Did you try to get it back?” I ask. “Did you tell them it was yours, that it had been taken without permission?”
She shakes her head. “I did, dear. I went through all the legal channels. But without title deeds or pictures, or really any proof other than my memory and my word, the owners refused.” She sighs. “I was heartbroken.’
I look to St. Clair. “How did you meet?”
“Through mutual friends,” Greta says. “They suggested he could help me with my legal troubles. We discussed the options in the courts, but it seemed like hope was lost. I resigned myself to never possessing that painting again, but he told me to have faith.” She gives St. Clair a fond look. “And then, a few weeks ago, I got a delivery.” She has tears in her eyes, of joy and gratitude. “It was like getting a small piece of my family back.”
I’m tearing up, too, and Greta hands me a handkerchief. I take it, wipe my eyes. “I’m so sorry for all you went through,” I say.
She nods. “This young man proved to me that no matter what happens, there is still beauty in this world. Because true beauty endures,” Greta adds, her face full of the wisdom of many years, a lifetime of experiences, good and bad. “Just like love.”
We leave Greta’s after tea, and drive back into the city. I’m lost in thought, there’s so much to process. Seeing Greta, hearing her story, I can understand for the first time why St. Clair strayed outside the boundaries of the law. He did something good for that woman and the memory of her family, even if Lennox and the authorities would disagree.
But if he’s not just a simple criminal, what does that mean for me?
For us?
Finally we arrive in front of my flat in Notting Hill, the cute little blue building I was so thrilled to enter for the first time. It felt like an adventure. For a sheltered girl who had never even left the country before, living abroad was a big deal. If only I could go back and tell that Grace, “Just you wait.”
Instead of parking, St. Clair idles the engine. “I hope today helped you understand,” he says. “I want you to see, Grace, I’m not doing this to hurt anyone. The legal channels available to people…they rarely work the way we want them to. I try to do the right thing.”
I take a deep breath. It’s the middle of the day, and there are people all around us on the street. I’m not ready to end this conversation just yet. “Come up?” I ask. “We can talk some more. Just talk,” I add.
St. Clair nods. “Anything you want.”
Inside my homey flat, I brew us another pot of tea—I’m becoming so British—and start a fire in the fireplace. Upstairs, I sit across from him on the sofa, still not trusting my body to be too close to his.
His perfectly sculpted features look tired, making him look more vulnerable, younger. I want to swoop him up in my arms and snuggle him, forget all of this. But we have to have this talk. I need to know where we stand.
St. Clair watches me, careful. “So do you understand now? Why I do it?”
“I think I do,” I say slowly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re stealing from people, and breaking the law. Sooner or later, that’s going to catch up with you. What happens to us then?” I ask, my voice twisting. “You’ll go to jail, and maybe I will too.”
“That won’t happen.” St. Clair takes my hand, reassuring.
I pull it away. “You can’t promise that. Lennox is on your trail now, and getting closer. And I’ll never know where you are, what you’re doing, and if—when—you get caught—”
“Grace—”
“I just can’t think about building a life with someone on those terms—always waiting for the axe to fall, for you to be taken away from me.” My voice cracks and I can feel the lump rising in my throat. “I’ve lost too many people already; I can’t lose you too.”
St. Clair’s face splits in a huge smile.
“Do you think this is funny?” I can feel anger rising up alongside the hurt. “I’m being serious.”
His grin doesn’t falter. I’m talking about life or death hypotheticals and he looks like he just won the lottery. “You think about building a future with me?” he says. “Really?”
I relax a little. “Of course,” I admit. “I love you, you know.”
He looks down, reaches his hand out again and sets it halfway between us. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind,” he admits.
“I wanted to. God, I wish I could have just marched out of here and gone straight to the police, but it’s not that easy.” Now I’m the one to take his hand, and twine our fingers together. I place the knot against my chest, against my heart. “I guess I’m learning the world isn’t just black and white anymore. I can love you, and be mad as hell at you for taking these risks, too. That’s why I’m so worried about you.” Tears well up in my eyes, but I try to blink them back. “I can’t even stand the idea of something happening to you. I already lost my mom, and I know I didn’t know my dad, but he left me, too, and if you got arrested and ended up in some foreign prison being tortured or got shot by police running from a heist…” My voice breaks and a hot tear spills down my cheek.
“Sweetheart, it’s okay.” He closes the distance between us in a heartbeat and wraps his arms around me. I let myself be held, sink into the strength of his embrace.
I whisper into his chest, “It’s just too much, Charles. I can’t do it, not like this. I’m sorry.”
I feel him take a deep breath. I brace myself, ready for the beginning of the end. God, this is going to hurt like hell.
Then St. Clair’s voice comes, strong and certain. “So I’ll stop.”
I sit up straight as an arrow. “What?”
St. Clair looks back at me, his gaze steady and warm. “You’re right—this life I lead doesn’t have a future. And I want one. With you.”
Wait. I can’t believe it. Is this for real?
I’m getting another flash of the ‘this-is-too-good-to-be-true-so-he-must-be-lying’ fear. I stare at him, try to see behind his charm. “Is this another line you think I want to hear?” I ask, afraid he’s just hoping and may not be able to follow through. “Can you really give up the thrill, the challenge, the…opportunity to right the wrongs?”
“I guess I’ll just have to find another way to get my thrills.” His eyes rake suggestively over my body, but I’m not so easily convinced by his teasing. This is serious.
“But what about helping people – I thought that was the reason you were doing all this in the first place.”
He leans in so his forehead rests against mine, our noses touching. “Grace. You are more important to me than any masterpiece or adrenaline rush could ever be. From now on, no more robberies. I’ll be a good, law-abiding citizen, I swear it. Please trust me.”
I want to jump for joy, but instead I reach up into his dark hair and pull his mouth to mine. Our kiss is hot and charged, the days of being apart now igniting between u
s with new passion. His tongue glides into my mouth, stroking against mine with demanding thrusts as his hands rove over my body. Then his mouth moves to my neck, his lips slipping down to my collar bone, kiss by kiss, an occasional flick of the tongue making me swoon.
My hands find the buttons on his shirt and I undo them, sliding my fingers under the fabric and across his skin, smooth and taut over hard muscles. He reaches up under my shirt and unclasps my bra, moving his hands around to the front to cup my breasts, teasing and stroking with agonizing pressure. I moan, and he slips my bra off, moving his hot, searching mouth to my hardening nipple. He rolls the tight peak against his tongue and slides his other hand down over the curve of my ass, squeezing with urgency that makes me ache.
I reach for the button on his pants and he laughs softly. “So I guess we’re okay?”
“Shut up and take your clothes off,” I say, my voice breathy with want. “We can talk more later.”
St. Clair laughs again, but slips out of his shirt first, and then his pants, and I watch with appreciation as his muscles are revealed like a sculpture being unveiled. I lean down to kiss the definition in his abs, slide a finger under the waistband of his boxers, stripping them down until I can see the tip of his cock. Mmm.
I take him in my mouth, sliding my tongue over his head until St. Clair is groaning. I take him deeper, suctioning tight with my lips, but before too long, he’s pulling me back, claiming my mouth again as he pins me down beneath him on the couch. His strong arms prop up his gorgeous body just inches above mine. Energy prickles between us, my skin aching to touch his, my whole body thrumming with the desire to close the distance.
I arch my back and he bows his head to kiss my breast, then he trails his mouth, his tongue down my belly, then licks the top of my panty line and nudges my panties down. I squirm, desperate for his touch. He groans, low and sexy, then slowly begins a torturous slide down my body, kissing every inch until his mouth is positioned right where I need it the most.
He licks up against me, his tongue trailing hot and slow toward my clit, where he pauses for a moment before taking it between his firm lips. His moan sends a shock of sweet vibrations straight through me.
The Art of Stealing Forever Page 3
