The Art of Stealing Forever

by Stella London

  I squeeze his hand. “You’ve made me happy, too. Showed me what life can be like when you live to the fullest. Thank you.”

  I realize how lucky I am, to know the joy of finding a person who delights in the same things as you, who understands you fully, down to your soul.

  St. Clair lifts his glass. “To us.”

  “To adventure,” I say.

  “To tonight,” St. Clair winks just like he did the day we met, as we clink our glasses and toast to our future.

  CHAPTER 9

  The apartment St. Clair rented for us is gorgeous: full of French antiques, with amazing high ceilings, cream curtains, and duck egg blue walls. But for once, I’m not focused on the art adorning the walls, or the incredible views of the city. No, tonight my stomach is tangled up with nerves for what’s ahead.

  Stealing Crawford’s painting.

  We get dressed together for the big night: black pants and black jackets. I feel like Trinity in the Matrix movies: ready for action.

  “You’re such a cute little cat burglar,” St. Clair jokes. He’s poring over a bunch of blueprints and maps that are spread out on the table, double-checking his plan.

  I trust him to plan the heist, but I am nervous. Especially about being caught on tape. After the other night and Lennox banging on the door, I want to be sure there won’t be any evidence. “How are we getting past the security cameras?” I ask. “They see everything.”

  St. Clair grins. “No need to worry about the cameras. I have a software program that will intercept the security feed and loop the same footage. They won’t see us coming or going.”

  I smile. “You say the sweetest things.”

  He chuckles and gestures for me to come over. “Look,” he says, pointing at a map of the gallery. “This is where the paintings will be, the staging room where they keep them after unpacking.” He traces his finger along a line. “This is the night guard route, but tonight there’s a big soccer match on, so they’ll be distracted. I’m guessing they’ll only patrol during the intervals and half-time, if at all. Galleries like this don’t see much action late at night, and they won’t be expecting prowlers.”

  “You think of everything,” I say, shaking my head.

  “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he winks. He’s totally relaxed and confident as he packs a small bag and slings it over his chest.

  But it is mine. I can only trust that St. Clair’s expertise and luck hold out.

  We park a few blocks away from the gallery on a quiet street. The night has turned smoky black, the city’s lights trapped in the low lying clouds that also obscure the stars now. St. Clair opens his door and climbs out. He leans back through the open window and kisses my cheek. “Stay here, keep your head down, and be ready to drive on my signal.”

  Oh, hell no. “What? I’m coming with you.”

  He frowns. “It’s too dangerous, Grace. I can’t risk anything happening to you.”

  “Then why did you let me come?” I ask, strangely hurt. “I’ve been in on this from the start. It was my idea!”

  St. Clair looks torn. “What if you get caught? Your whole life’s at stake.”

  I stand firm. “It’s my risk to take. And I want to take it.”

  He looks at me like he’s sizing up how hard I’ll fight. “Fine,” he relents and hands me a small ear piece and a microphone from his bag. “Put these on so we can communicate.” He slips an earpiece over his ear and I do the same, and then we slide quietly out of the car into the night.

  “Just be casual,” St. Clair whispers as we walk along shadowed walls on the way to the gallery. “The trick is, not to be noticed at all.”

  I follow St. Clair’s finely shaped figure, walking along like we’re on our way somewhere, slowing to listen when he cocks his head.

  We circle around to a street at the back entrance of the gallery. This is the loading dock we saw from the inside today, now totally silent and dark.

  St. Clair puts out his arm, stopping me. “Wait.”

  He pulls a hi-tech device from his pocket, the size of a cellphone, and taps the screen. “This will intercept the security cameras. See?” The screen shows black and white footage at weird angles – hallways and doors, from inside the building. And, the empty street ahead of us.

  “Now, we just loop what the cameras are seeing…” St. Clair taps some keys. I don’t see anything change: the alleyway is still on the security feed.

  “Okay, come on.” He takes my hand, and starts towards the building, but I pull back.

  “How do you know it’ll work?” I ask, panicked. “What if something goes wrong?”

  “I’ve done this before,” he reassures me. “It’ll work. But if you want to wait in the car…”

  I pull it together. “No, I’m still in.”

  My heart is pounding a million miles a minute as we walk out of the shadows toward the doors. St. Clair shows me the screen again: the cameras are still showing the looped feed. To anyone watching from inside, we’re completely invisible.

  I take a deep breath, trying to relax.

  St. Clair’s done this, probably a dozen times before. I need to trust him.

  The irony hits me. The thing that made me not trust him is the one thing I need now more than ever. His skills as a thief, his quick mind and ability to get out of any scrape.

  We quickly move to the smaller door that’s right next to the large loading garage door. There is an access panel for a security pass, and luckily we have one of those. I feel proud of my distraction today as St. Clair swipes the card and a little green light blinks. He raises his eyebrows and pushes the door. It opens. We’re in.

  Inside, the building is dark, just a few security lights glowing along the walls. We slip down the hall quiet as mice, moving slowly in the dark. We’re halfway to the main exhibition hall when suddenly, footsteps sound in the hallway.

  I freeze, my blood running cold, but St. Clair doesn’t bat an eye. He pulls me back and presses our bodies to the wall in a split second, with cat-like reflexes.

  “Shhh,” he whispers in my ear. “Relax.”

  I force myself to breathe quietly, until the flashlight passes by a few feet ahead, in the cross-connecting corridor. As the footsteps fade, St. Clair motions for me to stay.

  “I’m going to check out the guard booth,” he whispers. “You sit tight, wait for me to call you on your earpiece. Okay?”

  My stomach drops at the thought of being left here alone, but I force myself to nod.

  “Be right back.”

  He creeps after the guard, following him around the corner and out of sight. The seconds stretch, unbearably long standing here alone in the dark. My heart is beating so loudly, I swear anyone could hear from across the building.

  What are you doing, Grace?

  I ignore the doubts and try to focus on my breathing until finally, St. Clair’s voice crackles in my earpiece and makes me jump. “The guard booth is at the end of the next hallway,” he murmurs. “They’re watching the game, so come to me slowly. Stay low, you can crawl under the counter and stay out of sight.”

  Oh God. This is it.

  I don’t want to move, but I can’t stay here all night, so I swallow my fear and head over. I edge around the corner, my eyes darting around anxiously. Just as St. Clair said, at the end of the hallway there’s a large glass window into the security booth. Inside, two guards are watching the match on a small TV. As I get closer, I can hear them talking in French, occasionally grumbling at the screen or calling in excitement.

  St. Clair is waiting in the shadows just beyond the booth. He beckons. I have to go right past them.

  I brace myself, then bend double, and stay crouched close to the ground as I scurry the final few feet past the window, my heart pounding in my ears the whole time.

  They don’t turn.

  Thank God.

  I join St. Clair by the next doorway. He nods at me and swipes the security card again, and then we enter the storage room where all the c
rates are waiting around like boulders. We spot Crawford’s crate and ease off the lid. St. Clair uses his gloved fingers to carefully lift the painting out of the crate. “It’s gorgeous,” I whisper.

  “I used to love to stare at it when I was a child.” He admires the brushstrokes, the oils on the canvas seeming to shine. “I can’t wait to get it back where it belongs.”

  I look around for St. Clair’s crate with the forgery we need to swap in for the real Armande. “Where’s your crate?” I ask. He searches the room with his eyes and frowns.

  “I don’t see it,” he says.

  Crap! “We need that,” I say, beginning to panic. “What are we going to do?”

  “Stay calm,” St. Clair says. “That’s rule number one.”

  I try to think rationally. We have just a few minutes before the soccer match breaks, or one of the guards decides to take a look around. There are dozens of places the painting crate could be, and hardly any time to check them all. “You check the back rooms then, and I’ll look in the gallery space. It has to be here somewhere,” I whisper.

  St. Clair looks reluctant. “I don’t want to separate…”

  I don’t either, but we don’t have time. “What other option do we have?”

  He looks torn, but concedes. “Okay, but if you hear anything, call me right away.”

  He heads back into the storage areas, and I turn back to the gallery. It’s a dark maze of interconnected rooms. I creep around, trying to stay in the shadows and low to the ground. Even knowing the cameras aren’t tracking me, I’m still nervous, my heart racing every time my feet make the slightest noise. I creep around from room to room until I see it: St. Clair’s painting.

  “I found it!” I call him on the earpiece. “It’s in the Martinique room, they’ve already hung it.”

  “Is the crate there?”

  I cast my eyes around the room, studying the shapes in the shadows. “Yes, it’s in the corner.”

  “Good work.” I hear him let out a breath of relief. “On my way.”

  I move over to the crate, checking for the secret compartment where St. Clair hid the forgery. Every second that ticks past, my panic grows. The guards could come soon, they could find St. Clair before he gets to me. We need to swap the paintings and get gone – now.

  I have a buzzing feeling in my gut that something is about to go wrong. Stay calm, Grace. Don’t panic.

  I run my hands over the inside of the crate, checking for a lever or catch. There.

  I pull it open, and find the rolled-up canvas tucked inside. I lift it free, and turn to check the door—

  And the canvas roll in my arms brushes up against a painting on the wall.

  Oh. Shit.

  Red lights start flashing in the ceiling. It must have triggered some alarm. My heart stops. I freeze, but it’s too late. A metal security grille comes down from the ceiling, banging onto the floor like a prison door that’s just been slammed – barring my exit.

  I’m trapped.

  CHAPTER 10

  I rattle the heavy grille, but it doesn’t shift. Pounds of metal stand between me and freedom.

  Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, repeats over and over in my head. Good advice but I’m having a hard time listening. The next thought is slightly more comforting: St. Clair will figure something out.

  But what if he doesn’t? Or what if we both get caught?

  “Grace!” St. Clair yells from my earpiece. “Grace, hello, are you there?”

  I’m ashamed of my mistake and terrified, but I find my voice. “I’m here.”

  “Thank God.” I hear the relief in his voice. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

  “I’m trapped in the display room with the paintings.”

  “What? How? I didn’t hear an alarm.”

  “It didn’t sound,” I say, fighting to keep the tremble out of my voice. “But the security grille fell. I can’t get out.” I feel the tears starting to well up behind my eyes.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  St. Clair’s answer is quick. “Don’t panic, Grace. I’m coming for you right now.”

  “No, don’t,” I protest. “You have to get out of here before the guards come.”

  Silence.

  “Charles? Please, just go! Take Crawford’s painting and get out of here while you can.”

  My earpiece remains silent. Maybe he’s already gone.

  Tears fall as I stand there feeling useless and stupid. If my mom could see me now, what would she say? What would Nona say? That I let my heart override my head. And now I’m going to be arrested, my whole life forever altered.

  I hear footsteps in the outer gallery and fight back a sob. The guards. Of course they would have been alerted to the alarm.

  I turn with my hands up, bracing myself, but instead of an angry guard, it’s St. Clair.

  “I told you to go,” I protest.

  “And there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you.” St. Clair smiles, but underneath it he looks fierce. He tests the bars, then moves around, checking the wall for hinges or a security panel with a release button.

  “Please, someone will come,” I beg him, as the lights keep flashing red. “This is my fault, all of it. I was the one who talked you into going after Crawford. You can’t go down because I messed up.”

  St. Clair doesn’t stop. “We’re in this together,” he vows. “Do you hear me, Grace? I’m not leaving you. Ever.”

  I catch my breath, overwhelmed. He means it. He would stay here and get carted off to jail, all because of me.

  Any last doubts or insecurities I had about him evaporate.

  He’s willing to risk it all for me.

  St. Clair levers open the security panel on the wall, and plugs in his device. He works furiously at the keypad, trying a dozen different things, and all the while, I’m waiting for the thunder of angry footsteps, and the guards to come charging in.

  “Got it,” he breathes.

  Suddenly, the lights stop flashing. The grille begins to rise.

  Relief and gratitude flood through me. I gape. “What did you do?”

  “Everything I could. The alarm system must have been faulty – the alert never transmitted along the system. That’s why the alarms didn’t sound.”

  A lucky break. God, I can’t believe it. St. Clair ducks under the rising metal bars and sweeps me into a fierce embrace. I cling to him, so glad to have him here with me. A man who would sacrifice his own safety for mine. He didn’t give up on me.

  He didn’t walk away.

  St. Clair kisses me passionately, then pulls back. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

  I let him lead me towards the exit, then I remember. “The painting!”

  “Never mind that.” St. Clair shakes his head, but I stand firm.

  “I have the fake one, right here.” I pick it up from the top of the crate. “We can’t have this whole night be for nothing.”

  To come so close, and leave empty-handed…I know I should want to put as much distance as possible between myself and this building, but there’s a stubborn streak, demanding that we get what we came for.

  St. Clair’s jaw flexes, and his eyes flash, but he nods, quickly closing the crate back up so it looks untouched, and then dragging me out of the room. This time, I have to run to keep up. I can feel the tension radiating from his body, and I have a sinking feeling it’s because of me.

  He’s disappointed, and probably angry. I nearly got us caught.

  St. Clair swipes us into the storage room again, and swiftly switches out the paintings. He doesn’t even look at me, just goes about his task with total focus: freeing Crawford’s original from the frame, and substituting his own forgery in its place. In a few moments, it’s done: the paintings traded, and nobody will be the wiser.

  He rolls the original painting under his arm. “We’re out of time,” he growls at me. “Hurry.”

  I follow him out the way we came, ducking past the booth where the guards ar
e now yelling at the TV screens, the volume blaring, everyone totally captivated by the game. A few more steps, and then there’s the door: freedom.

  St. Clair yanks me through it, and down the alleyway, until we disappear into the shadows.

  My heartbeat just about returns to normal by the time we drop the painting at a safe house and make it back to his apartment. The terror has faded, and in its place is a rush of triumph and elation so wild I feel invincible.

  If this is the adrenalin rush he gets from pulling off a heist, I can understand it now.

  “We did it!” I whoop, when we’re safely inside, and nobody can see my grin. “Oh my God, I can’t believe we actually did it.”

  St. Clair crosses to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a whiskey. He gulps it down in one swallow, then slams the glass on the table.

  My elation tremors. He looks furious, and I realize just how badly I screwed up. I risked everything, put both our lives on the line with my clumsy, amateur mistake.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I know I messed up, and you probably hate me right now, but we made it out okay, and that’s the most important thing. You were right, I never should have come—”

  “But you did.” He shoots me a look that stops me cold. “And whose fault was that?”

  My heart plummets even more. “I know, I talked you into it. It was a mistake.” He turns away and I edge closer. “Look at me. Please?”

  St. Clair turns, and I can see the fury on his face.

  I shrink back. “I should go,” I murmur miserably. “I’ll go back to England, or America, whatever you want. I’m sorry.”

  “Will you stop saying that?” St. Clair explodes. “You have nothing to be sorry about. This whole debacle is my fault!”

  I pause, not understanding. “Charles—”

  “I can’t believe I put you in danger like that.” St. Clair paces, his face stormy. “I knew it was too dangerous, but I was arrogant, I thought it would be a breeze. And then, when I saw you there behind those bars…fuck, Grace, I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t take better care of you. I put our whole future on the line, and for what?”