The Art of Stealing Forever

by Stella London

  He gives me a look. “I was hoping you would sleep that off.”

  I shake my head. “I just can’t stand to watch him take advantage of everyone else and get away with it.” I tell St. Clair about Crawford kicking the dog, shipping the horse off to be put down. “He’s a truly horrible person, Charles.”

  “Oh believe me, I know that better than most,” he sighs. “And I agree that he deserves to pay, but I promised you I’d give up that life, remember? You didn’t want me to take those risks.”

  I bite my lip. “I know.”

  He smiles playfully and nudges me with his elbow. “Have you changed your mind about how much you’d miss me?”

  “Of course not.” I smile, but it’s full of mixed emotions. “I still don’t want to lose you, or get arrested myself, but…if the law isn’t going to deliver justice, how will it ever happen?”

  St. Clair gives me a rueful smile. “This is exactly what I’ve been dealing with. It’s tempting to take the law into your own hands, but Grace, I made you a promise. I’m committed to being a better man.”

  “I know, and it means the world to me. But I can’t just sit back and let him get away with this.” I feel my frustration boil up all over again. “He betrayed your family, he’s destroyed countless others…I know one painting isn’t going to right those wrongs, but at least this way we can take something he cares about, so he knows how it feels to lose, to be betrayed like he’s done to so many others.”

  St. Clair hesitates. “Are you sure?”

  His gaze is so intent, I have to consider for a second, but yes, I’m sure. I want to do this. “He deserves it.”

  St. Clair slowly nods. He leans over and kisses me, full of heat. “Can I just say how sexy you are right now, all pumped up with righteous passion?”

  I bat him away, laughing, realizing I’m excited. I’m starting to understand St. Clair’s and Paige’s love of the chase, and we’ve barely just begun. “Where do we start? What’s first?” I take a big gulp of coffee. I want to be alert for this.

  “First, we need to make a plan,” St. Clair says, and already, I can see the gears of his mind working behind those intelligent eyes. “Crawford keeps the painting in a safe deposit vault in London, so the first step is reconnaissance. I’ll make an appointment at the vault, pretend I’m looking for storage for some of my valuable pieces. We can take a tour, and check out what we’re up against.” He smiles at me, and I can feel us both buzzing with energy and ready to go. “Sound good?”

  I nod, feeling a weird mix of excitement and nerves. “Can’t wait.”

  A few hours later, picnic plans abandoned, we stand in front of the vault facility. It’s a high-end yet nondescript brick structure that could be a warehouse except for the intense security: cameras posted on the exterior walls, security keypads and buzzers everywhere, and a set of guards at the front door.

  “Ready?” St. Clair asks, squeezing my hand.

  My heart is racing. I think that’s what they call an adrenaline rush, Grace. Right. I take a deep breath, and remind myself that nothing we’re doing right now is breaking the law. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” I square my shoulders, try to look the part in my designer dress. Casual, but elegant.

  Guards posted at the doors check our IDs and once we’re past the front checkpoint, suddenly the warehouse vibe disappears and it’s all luxury inside. A posh lobby with marble flooring and gold trim on the fixtures greets us, a chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, and there’s a hush like a bank even though several employees are milling about.

  St. Clair gives the receptionist our name and almost immediately, the head of the whole outfit, the president of the vault, appears. “Mr. St. Clair,” he says, shaking St. Clair’s hand enthusiastically. “So nice to meet you. And you, Ms. Bennett,” he says shaking my hand as well. “I’m Mr. Potts. Shall we get started?”

  He leads us down a long hallway and through a nearly invisible door that has a keypad mounted to the side. He punches in a few numbers and I see St. Clair follow the movement of his fingers on the keypad. Potts isn’t even trying to hide the numbers!

  “I’m assuming there are cameras at all access points to support the keypad security?” St. Clair says. “I can’t take any risks with my assets, you understand.”

  Mr. Potts chuckles. “Of course, sir. This is simply the first measure.” The door clicks open and we walk into another hallway, this one lined with steel doors on each side, dozens of them. We stop at the first.

  Mr. Potts says, “This is the sample vault; it’s always empty so we can show prospective clients like yourself the incredibly secure measures we have in place to protect your valuables. First, there is a fingerprint scanner to open the door. You’ll see there are no handles or locks on the outside and the door is hermetically sealed.” He presses his thumb to a pad and what looks like a piece of the wall slides aside.

  “Fingerprints can be forged,” St. Clair points out.

  “Absolutely, which is why we move on to phase three.” Potts looks almost gleeful as he proudly displays the next step in their security. Once the door is open, another panel slides out.

  “Next, there are dual key locks and another keypad with a thirteen digit code—with only one allowed entry before it locks you out.” Potts enters the codes, turns a key, and we step into the vault. It’s a white, blank space with more doors along the wall. “Inside you can see there are high-tech safes available upon request for the utmost in protection.” He points out, “Cameras line all the hallways as well as the vaults themselves. If any alarm is tripped, all doors automatically close and seal shut, and both our security and the local police are alerted.” Mr. Potts smiles at us proudly. “As you can see, we take security very seriously.”

  “Yes, it certainly looks to be the case,” St. Clair says, which is like the understatement of the year. This place would give Fort Knox a run for its money. It’s impenetrable, unbreachable.

  My heart sinks just looking around. How the hell are we going to beat all this?

  “We’re not,” St. Clair answers me, once we’ve left and are far enough away from the vault to discuss our plans in peace. “That’s serious stuff in there, all the best security protocols.”

  “But you can beat it, right?” I ask hopefully. “You’ve done this before, tons of times.”

  St. Clair smiles. “Carringer’s, the museums, they were all a cake walk compared to this. Those places had people coming and going, and there are always cracks to slip through. Here, there are no cracks. No one gets near those vaults who’s not supposed to. Including us.”

  I feel my hopes deflate. “Well, I guess we tried,” I say, but my voice is heavy with disappointment.

  St. Clair glances at me as we cross the street into a bustling area full of boutiques and cafes. He looks amused. “Are you always so quick to give up? That’s not the Grace I know.”

  “What?”

  “I thought you wanted to do this.”

  I’m confused. “But you just said—”

  “I said we couldn’t break in there.” He grins. “So we’ll just have to make Crawford move the painting somewhere else. Somewhere with less security.”

  I’m intrigued, and impressed. He thinks of everything, his mind always a step ahead. No wonder he spent so many years foiling the cops. “You are a genius,” I say.

  He pretends to preen. “Now she sees my brilliance!”

  I laugh and elbow him lightly. “Okay, so where? How?”

  He gives me a mysterious smile. “I’ll think of something. Now, though, I have to be getting to a meeting.” He pulls me in for a kiss. “You okay to get home?”

  “Of course,” I say. “I love exploring this city.”

  I kiss him again, deeper, not caring who else is around. His mouth meets mine and it’s still the knee-weakening, foot popping, butterflies in my stomach spark as the very first time. He trails a kiss to the side of my neck and my pulse speeds up, heat rising up my chest. “Hold that thought,” he whispe
rs, sending shivers down my body as he grins and walks away.

  I inhale his scent. “Oh, I will,” I say and I watch his tight ass as he jogs down the street.

  I’m still feeling the imprint of his lips as I stroll back along the street. The bakeries and cafés blur, and soon I lose track of my direction. I’m still so caught up in the shivering excitement of St. Clair’s touch – and the intoxicating risk of our plans — that I barely notice the man who falls into step beside me until he says, “Hello, Grace.”

  I jolt. It’s Nick Lennox, strolling along next to me. My heart stops. How long has he been watching us?

  “Anything I can help you with today, Agent?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  “You’re quite a ways from home.”

  “A whole ocean away, in fact,” I quip.

  He smiles. “You’re clever, like your boyfriend. But that will only take you so far.” He rubs his chin and the perpetual stubble that lives there. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here, Grace?”

  “I’m exploring this great city,” I shoot back. “That’s not a crime.”

  “No, but obstructing an investigation is. This is not a joke, Grace. You could go to jail.”

  My nerves tremor, but I keep walking. “For taking a midday stroll?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.” Lennox moves in front of me, blocking my path. He looks at me sternly. “You’re a good girl, Grace, but you’re playing with fire, risking your entire future. I don’t want to see you taking the fall for him. You wouldn’t last a week in jail.”

  He’s trying to scare me and it’s working. My palms are starting to sweat and my heart is racing in my chest. But I try to stay calm.

  He’s bluffing right now, it’s all he’s got. If he had any real evidence against St. Clair, he would have gotten that search warrant and arrested him by now. “But only guilty people go to prison, right?” I insist. “And I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Lennox snorts. “Breaking and entering, accessory to grand theft, or hell, maybe you’re in on the whole thing.” He leans in close. “Even if you just know more than you’re telling me, I can make sure that you do time. Is that worth it for a boyfriend? Especially a player like St. Clair?”

  “Are you done with your vague ominous threats yet?” I shoot back. “Because I’ve heard them all before, and I’d like to get to lunch sometime soon.” A month ago his line might have sent me into all kinds of worry about St. Clair’s commitment to me, but not now. I know where I stand in his life, and we’ve both made our choices.

  Lennox scowls. “Don’t say I didn’t try and help you.” He stands aside. “You had your chance to make a deal, and bring him to justice. Now, if he goes down, you will too. I’ll see to that.”

  I hurry away, his words still echoing in my mind.

  CHAPTER 7

  I decide not to tell St. Clair about my run-in with Lennox, it would only make him more annoyed with the Interpol agent and maybe make him reconsider going after Crawford. Now that I’m set on bringing that asshole to justice, making him pay whatever way we can, I don’t want St. Clair getting distracted.

  I try to busy myself with work and a few hours of painting in my studio for the next few days. I even manage a call home to the di Fiores, but when Nona starts asking how St. Clair is treating me, and what we’ve been up to here in London, I make up an excuse about needing to get back to work and hang up. I know I can never explain this side of my life to her, and I don’t want anyone worrying about me while I’m so far away. I miss San Francisco and my little Italian family, but I’m not ready to go back yet. Not until justice is served.

  Meanwhile, Charles does whatever it is that high-profile financiers-slash-art thieves do, until finally one evening he greets me at his apartment with a satisfied smile.

  “Fancy a night on the town?” he asks.

  I can tell he’s excited about something, and he’s full of playful energy as he pulls me in for a kiss. “Anywhere in particular?” I ask.

  “I was thinking the Bellingham,” he says, his hands roving over my body and making my pulse kick. He nips at my neck. “It’s a private supper club. Crawford’s regular stomping ground.”

  “So you’ve figured it out?” I pull away, excited. He laughs.

  “Maybe.” St. Clair grins. “I have a plan, we just need to see if he bites.”

  “What do I need to do?”

  “You just be your gorgeous self,” he says, and then leans in to murmur in my ear. “And perhaps don’t wear any underwear…”

  I blink. “Your plan for revenge on Crawford involves me not wearing any panties?”

  He smirks. “No, but my plan to ravish you later does.”

  My stomach skips. His hands move around between my thighs, caressing me through my work dress. I shiver, and press against him, feeling his strong body against me in a wall of muscle. St. Clair’s breath is hot in my ear for a moment as his hands skim up, teasing over my breasts and stomach. I want to strip right here and show him just how ready for him I am, but St. Clair steps back.

  “Later,” he vows, his eyes dark with lust. “First, Crawford.”

  “Whatever you need. For your plan to work,” I reply, a little breathless. I can’t wait for the night to get underway.

  We arrive at the Bellingham in time for dinner, the valet greeting us outside and sweeping us in through the discreet gilded entrance. Inside, it’s old world England, with a wood-paneled whiskey bar and a grand formal dining room. We linger in the bar amongst the posh regulars, St. Clair greeting a few acquaintances, but I can tell his attention is focused on the door, until finally, Crawford arrives in with his assistant Natalie in tow. No dog this time, and I hope the poor thing didn’t get shipped off like the horse.

  “Here they are,” I whisper to St. Clair, feeling my heart race. He hasn’t told me the big plan yet, and I’m excited to see it unfold.

  “Patience,” he whispers, then smoothly starts a conversation with the couple beside us about the stock market, and their kids.

  I watch Crawford. He sets up in a corner booth, while Natalie scurries off to the bar to fetch him a drink. She returns hesitantly with a glass of something, and Crawford takes one sip – then spits it out, splashing her blouse. She takes a small step back as he starts up his usual verbal abuse.

  I tense. St. Clair’s hand is on my waist, calming me, but my blood still boils to watch him belittle her in front of everyone. Finally Natalie slips away, red-faced as she ducks into the crowd, heading for the ladies’ room.

  “Excuse me,” I tell St. Clair’s friends. “Just going to freshen up.”

  I find Natalie in the restroom, sniffling and trying to rinse off her shirt. She glances at me when the door opens. First she looks embarrassed, but I give her a sympathetic smile.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She wipes at her eyes again and then seems to recognize me. “You were at the Ascot Day with St. Clair,” she says, her voice still shaky with tears.

  “Yeah. I’m his art consultant. And girlfriend.” I blush and then hold out my hand. “Grace.”

  She shakes it. “Natalie.” She blows her nose.

  “You work for Spencer Crawford?”

  “Yes, the tosspot.” She flushes. “Sorry. I just have to make up names for him in my head since I can’t say anything back to his face.”

  “I saw him kick your dog. I’m so sorry.”

  Natalie starts crying again and I move forward and hand her a tissue from the box on the counter. “It’s his dog! He forced me to get him one even though I knew it was a bad idea and then he treats it terribly, and makes me take care of the poor thing.” She blows her nose again and wipes her eyes. “I feel so bad for Wall Street.” I raise my eyebrows and she rolls her eyes. “I know. That’s his name. He’s a purebred.”

  I start laughing and then she starts laughing and then we’re both having a giggle fit right there in the bathroom of a posh club where we don’t really belong. We are both here only b
ecause we work for (and/or date) rich men who can afford to belong to places like this.

  “Thanks,” she says, when our laughter dies away. “I needed that.”

  “I’m sorry he’s such a jerk. Why do you put up with it?” I ask, but I think I already know. It wasn’t that long ago that I was in a similar position: desperate to get my foot in the right door, taking any paid work I could, hoping to make my way up the ranks if I just stuck it out long enough.

  “I hope this job will lead to something else, but if I resign, everyone will just think I couldn’t handle it,” she says, sad but determined. “I’ve got to grin and bear it.”

  She sounds like a true Brit, with a stiff upper lip attitude. But I also understand her drive—just a few months ago, that was me. My boss at Carringer’s was not as bad as Crawford, but she was no walk in the park. Those of us who are not born lucky have to work a little harder, take a little more crap.

  “I get it,” I say, and I do. But I also now want to teach Crawford a lesson even more. For Natalie. And for Wall Street. I lean in. “But I also know karma is a bitch and he’ll get what he deserves eventually.”

  She looks hopeful. “You think?”

  I smile. Oh, I know. “I do. And it might even be sooner than you expect.”

  I leave Natalie to finish composing herself—she came prepared with make-up since she says she often ends up crying at work—and I force myself not to stomp over to Crawford and deck him in his fat chin right now. I remind myself that St. Clair is clever, and I should leave the subterfuge up to him. He’s been at this game longer than I have.

  I rejoin him at the bar. He’s with a group of people now, and Crawford is lurking nearby. St. Clair winks at me as I approach.

  “As I was saying, this loan I’m making for the Chervelle Foundation will be the talk of the art scene—no one else is going to come close!” He elaborates a little with his charm, building up the donation without giving many specifics, just talking a little louder and louder until Crawford takes the bait.