The Art of Stealing Forever

by Stella London

  So this is what it’s about? He’s angry at himself. He blames himself for what happened.

  My heart swells. “Don’t.” I tell him, placing a quieting hand on his arm.

  “I’m not a child or a fifties housewife, Charles. I don’t need your permission to take action, and I knew what I was getting into, I knew the risks involved. I chose to come along. I am responsible for me.”

  “No, but—”

  “Listen,” I insist. “This was my idea from the start. You can’t wrap me in tissue paper and keep me safe from the world. I have to be willing to face the consequences of my actions, and I am.”

  St. Clair doesn’t look convinced. “I won’t do that again,” he warns me. “I know you want to be a part of this life, but I meant it, I’m quitting it all, and I’ll never steal another thing if that’s what it takes to keep you out of danger.”

  I slip my arms around him and rest my head against his chest. “I think I’m done with the heist lifestyle,” I admit. “My nerves aren’t up to it.”

  He laughs, a low rumble against my ear. “You could have fooled me. You seemed so calm.”

  “It was all an act. I was freaking out inside.”

  St. Clair tilts my face up to him. “I’m so, so sorry,” he says again, fervently.

  “It’s okay. You came back for me.” I smile. “You could have left me and saved your own skin, but you didn’t.”

  “Never,” St. Clair vows. He kisses my palm, sending a little batch of shivers down my spine. “I love that you can still surprise me with your strength, Grace. You were incredibly brave tonight.”

  I look down, sheepish.

  “You are unlike any woman I’ve ever known.” He kisses my forehead.

  I can’t help but light up at his words, but there’s still something I need to know. “Why did you come back for me? You could have gotten away.”

  He lifts my chin up to meet his eyes, those always shifting shades of blue like a painting of an ocean. Right now it’s a sea of love, and I am going to dive in. “I will never leave you, Grace. Not for a painting or anything else. I will always return to you, always. You are what matters most.”

  My heart swells at his words. “I believe you.”

  He kisses me, his mouth fierce and hungry against mine. I sway into him, adrenaline rushing through me, my need for him growing stronger and more desperate with every insistent stroke of our tongues.

  St. Clair pushes me back against the wall, his hands roaming, already tearing my clothes away. I grab at his shirt, pulling it open to reveal his sculpted chest. Buttons go flying, fabric rips, but I don’t care. All that matters is our skin, together, the feel of his hard body naked against mine. He grips my thighs and lifts me, wrapping my legs around his waist. I can feel his cock, ready and pressing against me, and I moan in sweet anticipation.

  St. Clair carries me over and lays me out on the dining table.

  “What a feast you’ll be,” he murmurs, peeling off my panties and tossing them aside so I’m spread out, totally naked in front of him.

  My stomach twists, I shiver with lust.

  “Don’t move,” he growls, placing my hands up above my head, and nudging my legs apart. “Just hold on.”

  I curl my hands over the edge of the table, bracing myself, but St. Clair takes his time. He circles the table slowly, like an animal, his eyes devouring me.

  God, he’s sexy.

  I wriggle, impatient. I can feel his gaze like fire on my skin, and with every passing second my heart pounds faster, my body aching for his touch. I’m naked, completely exposed, but in this moment I feel powerful.

  He needs me.

  I arch my back, jutting my breasts higher, and hear an appreciative groan.

  “You belong in a gallery,” he breathes, trailing one hand over my breasts. Pleasure ripples through me, but it’s not enough. “A masterpiece, for the whole world to worship.”

  “You mean, like this?” I lift my head and give him a teasing smile.

  He chuckles. “No, this view is just for me.”

  He grips my ankles, and suddenly pulls me down the table toward him. My breath comes out in a rapid pant. He lowers to his knees, cups my ass, and buries his face between my thighs.

  “Oh, God,” I moan as his tongue finds me, caresses me, teasing my clit and flicking into the hot aching heart of me. I lay back, totally at the mercy of his devouring mouth. He reaches for my tender breasts, stroking me, squeezing me. He traps my nipples between his fingers and pinches lightly, then harder, the pain making the pleasure between my thighs even more intense.

  “Charles,” I whisper in between my shallow breaths, coming undone.

  He licks deeper, harder, and fuck, I can feel my orgasm rising. But before the waves can crest, he lifts his head. I almost sob in frustration, but he just smiles.

  “Darling, we’re just getting started.”

  He lifts me from the table, and crosses to the bedroom in a few short strides. He places me face down on the bed, landing a swift spank on my ass. I gasp at the brief pain as a shiver of desire runs through me.

  “Tell me, my sweet Grace…how do you want it?” St. Clair is behind me, his voice a seductive growl in my ear. I can still feel his hands on me, soothing, caressing.

  “I just want you,” I try to twist around to see him, but he pulls my legs down to touch the floor so I’m bent over the bed now, my ass in the air. He spanks me again, sharp and sweet.

  “Do you want me here?” he murmurs, sliding a hand around to lightly stroke my clit.

  I moan.

  “Or how about here…” His fingers dip deeper, skimming just inside my slick entrance.

  “Yes. Please,” I beg.

  “Ask nicely,” he orders me.

  “Please, Charles,” I thrust back against him, wanting his fingers deeper. “Fuck me.”

  He curls them higher, and it’s good, so good, but not as good as his cock.

  I squirm, impatient. “Charles.”

  “My sweet, dirty girl,” he chuckles. “You want me, don’t you? You need my cock, driving deep, giving you everything you need and more.”

  “Yes.” Yes, a thousand times yes.

  “Yes what?”

  “I need your cock,” I beg, wanting him inside me more than I’ve ever wanted anything. “Fuck me, Charles. Fill me up. Do it hard. Please—”

  He grabs me by the hips, turning me over onto my back on the bed, and then slams inside me in a single devastating stroke. “Fuck!” I yell, burying my face in his chest. He pauses, and I pull his ear close to my lips. “More,” I demand. “Don’t stop.”

  St. Clair obeys, filling me with that thrumming hardness, and I push back in rhythm with him, both of us gasping for breath.

  “God, Grace,” he whispers, his heart beating so strong I can feel it pounding against mine as my nails scrape the skin of his flexed back. He plunges into the deepest parts of me and then slides out slowly, slowly, before pushing back along my slick and ready skin. We’re staring into each other’s eyes and it’s so intense, the connection, the heat, the moment, as he thrusts, his steady pace building faster and faster, until I close my eyes and the world fades away.

  He pounds me into the covers, thrusting over and over until I’m sobbing, begging for more. And he gives it to me, all of it, exactly what I need.

  “Charles!” I scream, writhing under him as the climax rips through me. I think I might explode, my whole body vibrating and raw as he thrusts one last time and collapses on my chest, spent.

  “I love you, Grace,” he says and kisses my shoulder.

  I fall asleep feeling safer than I’ve felt in years.

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning, St. Clair leaves me to go to some meetings – keeping up the charade that he’s just a successful businessman on a trip for work and play. He tells me to relax, go get a spa treatment or take in the Parisian sights, but the moment he’s not around to distract me anymore, all I can do is worry.

  I go
over our night a million times, wondering if there’s something we missed – something that will give the game away and broadcast our guilt. I keep checking the online news sites, the art blogs, the industry chat rooms where art news is often first revealed for word that our heist has been discovered, but there has been nothing so far. I refresh and refresh like a crazy person, waiting for them to find out that the real painting has gone missing, and there’s a forgery hanging in its place— but all day, it’s nothing but radio silence. Or rather, just excited chatter about the opening tonight and the two exquisite (and rarely seen) paintings on loan from two of Europe’s most important art donors. It should be good news, but I can’t seem to shake this edgy feeling, like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to plummet into the unknown.

  I know we were lucky. I was lucky. If those alarms hadn’t been malfunctioning, the sirens would have brought the guards, the police and the media raining down on both of us. I’d be sitting in a prison cell right now instead of a luxurious apartment, dressed in an institutional uniform instead of preparing for a fancy gala event.

  It was too close. I can’t put myself or St. Clair at risk like that again. I wanted to see into his secret life, join him in a heist and see justice granted where it was due, but I wound up risking both our lives instead.

  I may be a world away from the timid, pushover Grace I was just a few months ago, but I’m not a hardened criminal yet. My nerves can’t take the heat.

  Except you did, a little voice whispers in my mind. You stayed cool, you escaped unscathed – and you made sure he got the painting, too.

  You got away with everything.

  I feel an unfamiliar shiver: triumph, and pride too. I may not be lining up to undertake any more heists, but there’s still a part of me that’s proud of what we did accomplish. And tonight, Crawford will be crowing like he’s got the upper hand – with a fake hanging on the wall behind him all along.

  Nobody will know the difference. Nobody except me and St. Clair.

  I force myself to shake off the weird foreboding feeling, and get ready for the event. St. Clair thoughtfully left me the address of a beauty salon nearby, so I spend the rest of the afternoon getting primped and blow-dried, until I feel like I can fit in with all the glamorous socialites who’ll be in attendance tonight. By the time he meets me at the front door at eight, I’m transformed, sleek and polished in the red silk dress Paige helped me pick out.

  “Wow,” the look of lustful admiration in his eyes makes all my effort worthwhile. St. Clair kisses my collarbone, then my neck, then my ear. “You look stunning,” he whispers in my ear before nibbling on the lobe and stirring up a little heat low in my body.

  “Mmm,” I sigh happily. “That’s exactly the look I was going for.”

  He guides me down to the limo we have waiting, and opens the door for me gallantly.

  “You’re not too shabby yourself,” I tease, straightening his bow tie. He changed at the office, and looks like he just stepped off the red carpet, in a dashing tuxedo.

  “I try to keep up.”

  The gallery is a short drive, one I feel like I know by heart after our midnight adventures. My pulse speeds as we get closer, memories of last night flashing through my mind. St. Clair takes my hand, as if to calm me. “It’s all smooth sailing from now on,” he reassures me. “Tonight we just play our parts and act normal. It’s all about the art.”

  “But what if somebody notices?” I quake. “The forgery—”

  “They won’t,” he stops me. “And even if they do, nobody will say a word. It would be a huge scandal. Trust me,” he adds with a grin. “I know people who’ve spent years passing off fakes as the real deal, rather than admit they were fooled. Crawford would never admit he could have bought a forgery, back in the day.”

  He twines his fingers through mine as if it’s how our hands were always meant to be.

  I try to relax as we arrive at the gallery to an actual red carpet laid out along the marble stepped entrance. There are lights everywhere, camera flashes and spotlights on the who’s who of the art world and European society. We exit the limo to a fit of flashes and microphones in our faces. St. Clair is debonair and gracious, thanking the compliment givers and saying that he’s “just doing what I can to support the gallery and the larger world of art I love so much.”

  I grin at him as we make it through the barrage of reporters and art fans. I know by the twinkle in his eye he is enjoying this as much as I am. I didn’t expect it, but it’s a rush having such a huge secret shared, just between the two of us. Nobody has any idea that last night I was trapped behind a security grille in this very gallery, and now I feel like I’m standing at the literal top of the world and looking down at the old me, the nobody me, the me who never would have taken this risk. She looks so small now. “This feels amazing.”

  He smiles. “You have no idea how much better it is with you by my side.”

  I didn’t think I could feel any higher than I already did, but his last words send me up to cloud nine. “My favorite place to be is by your side,” I tell him honestly. “You make me feel in control, like I can choose my own destiny.”

  He squeezes my hand as we pass through the main doors. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Grace, you know that.”

  “I do now,” I say as I take in the room.

  A rainbow of gown colors stands out in contrast to the sea of black tuxes and white shirts, glamourous society people dressed up for the art opening of the season. Since St. Clair is one of tonight’s stars, I know we won’t have much more alone time together, and I want to tell him something. I pull him aside, out of the stream of people, and look up into his eyes.

  “After I lost my mom, I think I gave up a little inside,” I confess, “I let other people make my decisions—about what mattered, what I should do. I just let the world happen to me instead of choosing my own path.” I take a deep breath, feeling emotionally exposed, but wanting him to know how much his support has helped me heal. “You helped bring me back to myself. You reminded me that I have to follow the life I want, and decide what that is for myself.” I lean up and kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  I can tell he wants to say something, but Marie, the gallery director, interrupts.

  “Mr. St. Clair!” she greets us, air kissing me on both cheeks. “Welcome. Everyone wants to meet the great man. Do you have a moment to chat with some press?”

  “For you, Marie, anything,” he answers graciously. We’re led into the crowd, and just like always, he’s mobbed with well-wishers, business acquaintances, and society friends. It’s a whirlwind, but I’m getting used to it, and can hold my own, too – chatting about his recent acquisitions and our plans for his collection.

  I love being by his side. I understand why he has so many fans, there’s something about his energy that makes you feel like you’re at the center of things, where the action is.

  There’s a commotion near the bar, and I see Crawford gesturing wildly to the bartender, who does not look amused. That guy just spreads misery wherever he goes; I’m going to be glad to see him get a taste of his own medicine. He gets his drink and then notices the crowd gathered around St. Clair, and with a look of annoyance he shoves his way across the room to get to us.

  “Looks like most of the news outlets that matter have already concluded their interviews for the evening,” he says smugly. “I mean, they interviewed me, so there really wasn’t much left to cover, was there?” He laughs. “I wouldn’t feel bad the TV crews didn’t stick around to talk to you,” Crawford goes on. “I’m sure the media recognizes an industry giant and tastemaker like me, a real rags to riches story of moving up through hard work rather than getting Daddy’s company handed to him as an afterthought.”

  Anyone who knows St. Clair is well aware of how hard he worked to expand and improve his father’s company, Crawford included. He’s just goading Charles because he thinks he’s won.

  He doesn’t realize that
the painting on the wall with his name on it is worthless now.

  But St. Clair stays cool. “You’re sounding a bit hoarse—you must have done quite a bit of talking in those interviews! Why don’t we let you rest your voice?” He puts his arm around my waist and leads me away.

  “I thought I might be having regrets,” I murmur, “But that jerk deserves it.”

  I grab us two flutes of champagne as they float by on a silver tray carried by a waiter. The night I bid on the Rubens for Charles, the night I was the server at a fancy art gala like this, seems like a thousand years ago. How far we’ve come, together.

  “To us.” I raise my glass and St. Clair does the same. As we clink and drink, I’m happy enough to sing from the rooftops, but I’ll settle for gazing at my work of art boyfriend. “What’s next?” I ask. “The London trip will be wrapping up soon. Will we be heading back to San Francisco?”

  “Yes, eventually, but I was thinking of a detour first.” St. Clair pulls me closer, pressing me near to his statuesque body. “How does the Caribbean sound? You and me and a white sand beach? Clothing optional,” he winks.

  “It sounds like heaven,” I sigh. But the look on his face tells me he’s serious. “Wait. Really?”

  “I’ll get the tickets booked.” He grins. “I know of this little five-star place, tucked away in St Kitts. Very private…very sexy,” he murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle at my ear.

  I feel shivers. This is for real: me, and him, and whatever adventure we want. I can’t believe it, but it’s not just a dream anymore.

  For a moment, we’re suspended in our own private world. Then I hear a commotion, coming from across the gallery. St. Clair and I both look up and see a bustle of security guards walking through the room, spreading out into the corners and across the space at various points. My heart starts to beat faster.

  Something is wrong.

  St. Clair tenses, and I know he feels it too. “I think that’s our cue to leave,” he says casually. He starts to lead me through the crowd, strolling toward the door that leads into the hallways, where the storage rooms will provide us with easy exits.