“Yes…”
I arch up, coiled tight with want, needing him deeper. Needing more.
St. Clair fucks me with his fingers, slow and deliberate, until my blood is boiling, and I can’t take anymore. I break free from his embrace, and turn, sliding my wet body against his torso until I’m straddling his legs, facing him.
I hold his gaze as I press my pussy against his rock hard cock.
St. Clair’s jaw clenches, he lets out a groan. “We’re done playing,” he growls.
I gasp as he grips my hips and lifts all of me up, sliding my wet clit against the whole length of him slowly, slowly until I feel just the tip of him about to break contact, and then he pulls me down onto him in a rush of slick pressure. Oh, God.
I force myself to relax onto him, taking every inch inside me until I’m filled completely. God, he feels so good, and with me on top, I can feel the thick length of him rubbing my walls, the friction rising as I slowly rock against him, finding my pace, letting out a whimper.
God, yes.
St. Clair’s fingers dig into my ass as he grips me to him, urging me on. I rock faster, loving the heat between us, the slick glide of the water on our skin. I can feel my climax building, and I arch up, slamming down on him over and again, not caring that we’re splashing all over the tile. St. Clair matches me, thrusting up, reaching to cup my breasts and murmur my name, over and over.
“Fuck, yes, Grace.” His words drive me on, and I feel incredible, unleashed, like nothing can hold me back. I take my pleasure from him and give it too, grinding my hips with every thrust to satisfy the ache. Again and again he lifts and plunges, his face in my breasts, our fast breaths and soft grunts urging each other on, until I can feel the hum building in my clit, a rising symphony of pleasure intensifying with each second until I’m sure it can’t get any better.
“Yes,” I groan in his ear. “Yes.” And then it does get even better, and I scream St. Clair’s name as the crescendo of a lifetime blows my mind, my orgasm ripping through me as St. Clair thrusts up one last time and lets out an animal groan.
We come together, and I collapse into his arms.
“I love you, Grace.” He kisses my shoulder and I shiver. “More than I’ve loved anyone, ever.”
Later, we’re wrapped in luxurious fluffy robes, relaxing in front of a roaring fire. “Do you have a stash of these at each house?” I ask, fingering the soft fabric. “Are you their biggest customer?”
“Hardly,” he says. “I know for a fact Prince William has a different one for each day of the week.” He pulls me in for a kiss and our lips are still not tired of each other, our tongues melting into each other yet again…I lean back too far and bump into the side table. My purse topples to the floor, spilling its contents like confetti.
I pick up my phone and notice that the case has come dislodged. There’s a tiny chip attached, just inside by the speaker. I freeze, then hold out my phone to show it to St. Clair.
“What is it?” I whisper. “A bug?”
He looks it over, then nods his head. He draws me across the room. “It’s a tracking device too, so it’ll record all your phone conversations and transmit your location. They must have planted it back at the station, while you were in custody.”
My heart falls, my earlier insecurities come rushing back. “He’ll never give up,” I say. “Lennox is coming after us, no matter what. He wants to catch his master thief.”
“We’ll think of something.” St. Clair squeezes my shoulder. “I promise, he’ll come up empty-handed.”
“Maybe he doesn’t have to.”
A glimmer of an idea tugs at my brain.
St. Clair frowns. “What do you mean?”
I smile as my plan starts to take shape. “If Lennox’s plan is to trail me in order to catch the mastermind behind all these heists, why don’t we give him exactly what he wants: a thief in handcuffs, the collar he’s been after all this time?”
St. Clair catches the sly glint in my eyes; I know because I see it in his eyes too. He’s catching on. “I like the way you think.”
I grin. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
CHAPTER 14
The next day, I pack the last of my things, and head down to the street to wait for the cab. My phone rings. It’s St. Clair – he’s already gone ahead, like we planned.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“Yes, the cab is on its way.” I make sure to speak clearly.
“Grace? Don’t get scared, okay? What’s the number one rule?”
“Stay calm,” I say, watching the street. I notice a dark car parked down the block…is there someone in there watching me? This time, I really hope so.
“Good girl,” St. Clair says. “Now what’s the plan again?”
I take a deep breath, remembering my lines. “I’ll pick up the painting and come meet you where we agreed.”
“Perfect,” he says, just like we rehearsed. “The buyer is coming this afternoon, and as soon as he’s paid us, we’ll be on a plane to sandy beaches and sunny skies for the rest of our lives.”
“Can’t wait.” A dark blue taxi pulls up in front of St. Clair’s apartment and honks. “My ride is here,” I tell him, hoping that gives Lennox enough time to start his car and get ready to move. “I have to go.”
“Grace, be careful,” St. Clair says, and I know he actually means it. “I thought someone was following me this morning. You might have a tail, too. Watch your back.”
“I will,” I say, hoping that Lennox is taking the bait. “You be careful, too.”
I hang up and whisper a little prayer that nothing goes wrong before getting into the cab, forcing myself not to turn around to check the tail car. Everything counts on us carrying out this risky plan. My plan. If we fail, it’s all on me—Crawford’s bragging rights reinstated, my romance with St. Clair ruined, not to mention my freedom and ability to live like a normal citizen permanently revoked.
One night behind bars was more than enough for me, yet here I am, risking it all again. I take a deep breath. Focus, Grace. One step, one brushstroke at a time. You can make a whole painting that way, but first you have to start.
And if we can pull this off…Lennox will leave us alone, once and for all. We’ll be free.
It’s worth the risk.
I take the taxi to St. Clair’s storage space, and make sure to exit the building with a not-so-subtly concealed brown painting tube under my arm, just like the one St. Clair emerged from the alley with that night in London when I found out the truth. It seems like a lifetime ago, and the irony doesn’t escape me that I’m in his exact position now.
Only I want to get caught.
I get back into the cab and direct the driver to the Gare du Nord train station. When I check behind us, I see that same dark car from back at the apartment still trailing behind.
They’re taking the bait.
“Merci,” I say to the cab driver as I pay him and roll my suitcase behind me. The old train station is bustling with people under the stone archways, everyone carrying bags and hurrying from one place to another. I look around nervously as I tuck the painting tube under my jacket, making sure to leave the end in plain sight. I want to look anxious and scared, but this part isn’t faked. I really am worried now. So much of the plan could go wrong, and there are so many details we can’t predict.
One step at a time.
I approach the ticket counter. “One ticket to Alsace,” I speak loudly, so anyone nearby can hear, even though the tracker in my phone will lead them straight to me. I take my ticket to the train, walking slowly, then climb on board the train.
I head down the narrow corridor and find an empty compartment. My phone chirps with a text from St. Clair. Everything okay?
All according to plan, I write back.
The engine starts, and the train slowly moves out of the station. I sit back, watching from the windows as the Paris city streets make way for rolling countryside. It’s beautiful, and the passing la
ndscape reminds me of all the movies my mom and I watched with characters taking trains or planes or hot air balloons to their next adventures in faraway lands. Look at me now, doing just that, going on a quest to help someone I love, to places I’ve always wanted to visit. The circumstances may not be exactly what I dreamed of, but I’m here, and the fantasy can’t compare to the reality of love, of a connection like St. Clair and I have. And the future we’re going to build together. Fields of yellow daisies stretch out in a vista worthy of a painting outside my window, white puffy clouds drifting lazily above in the blue sky.
I can’t believe that just a month ago I was rushing to make that first intern interview at the auction house-and ran straight into St. Clair. I had no idea then what awaited me.
Us.
It’s easy to feel like he swept me off my feet, but even though St. Clair offered me the chance of a lifetime, I was the one who decided to take it. And every new day has taken me further from that nervous, timid girl back in San Francisco, toward…what? I’ve changed, I can feel it, I’m more confident now; braver. Happier. I like to think if my mom was here, she’d be proud of me for growing. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of this, it’s that I can no longer wait for fate to give me what I want.
I look at the sky, at the cotton ball clouds, and wonder for the millionth time since my mom died if she can see me, really see me. Would she approve of this plan, of what I’m doing in the name of justice, and love? Would she understand?
She would if she could see my heart, and that’s one part of me I know she always understood. She used to tell me, “If you’re happy, I’m happy,” except she really meant it. She did everything she could to make me smile.
“I’m happy, Mom,” I whisper to the heavens. “I hope you are, too.”
I arrive at the station right on schedule, and make sure to carry the tube obviously as I drag my case out and hail another cab. I give the driver an address in the countryside. As we head away from the crowd at the train station, adrenaline starts coursing through me. This is it. The last step.
Don’t blow it now.
About twenty minutes outside of town, the cab turns off the main road down a winding country lane. The trees turn manicured, spaced evenly to create a grand driveway. As we crest a hill, a sprawling estate comes into view. A stone mansion sits behind a low brick wall and at least three other stone buildings and a wooden barn are scattered behind on acres and acres of green hillside dotted with trees.
“Wow,” I breathe. It’s elegant, tasteful – and considering the owner, I’m surprised.
The tires crunch on the gravel in the driveway. The cab deposits me outside the grand front door, and then drives away. I wipe my palms on my skirt and silently count to three.
Breathe, Grace.
A few steps to the door and I ring the bell.
“Yes?” A barking voice calls. “I told you, I’m not interested in your local bloody milk—”
The door swings open, and I come face to face with the owner of the estate.
Spencer Crawford.
He looks surprised to see me. “I know you,” he sneers. “You’re St. Clair’s latest bit of alright. Weren’t you arrested?”
I clear my throat. “Grace Bennett. And they let me go.”
“So? What’s all this about?” Crawford looks around. “Is St. Clair here?”
“No. But may I have a moment of your time? This won’t take long,” I add.
Crawford pauses, then shrugs. “Make it quick. I have some friends due tonight. And they like to party, if you know what I mean.”
I try not to shudder as I step toward the door – holding the painting tube outstretched. But before I can set foot inside, the shriek of sirens comes screaming up the drive. A fleet of police cars careen toward us, lights flashing and horns blaring.
Right on cue.
“What the hell…” Crawford swears and steps outside, covering his ears.
More sirens approach, their alarms making the air vibrate with screeching, and above us, a helicopter circles the estate.
Whoa, a helicopter?
“Don’t move!” a voice yells through a megaphone. “You are surrounded. Put your hands above your head and remain where you are.”
We both raise our hands to the sky, wide-eyed. I don’t have to fake my fear or shock here—this is quite a turn out. It’s crazy: cops everywhere, the noise from the chopper, and even the sound of barking as a group of police search dogs are let out of the back of a van. At last, the chaos seems to calm, and a familiar voice comes striding out of the crowd.
Lennox.
Crawford sees him, too. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?!” he bellows. “This is private property!”
“And I have a badge and probable cause,” Lennox says, flashing his Interpol ID. “Now where is St. Clair?”
Crawford stutters. “St. Clair? I don’t understand.”
“He’s not here,” I say, innocently. “Is there something you’re looking for?”
Lennox glares at me. “Grace, I’m done playing games with you. If St. Clair isn’t here, you’ll go to jail yourself.”
He snatches the painting tube out from under my arm faster than I can react. “All I need is this evidence,” he says, opening the tube. He pulls out the canvas and unrolls it. Then his face changes.
“What is this?” he demands.
“Not what you were expecting, detective?” I smile sweetly.
“Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?” Crawford butts in.
“This isn’t the Armande.” Lennox scowls. He turns to yell at his team. “Search the house!”
Men push past us, heading inside with the police dogs. Lennox turns back to me. “Where’s the painting you stole?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That painting—an O’Brien from St. Clair’s own private collection, by the way—is supposed to be a gift for Mr. Crawford.” I turn to the man I loathe and smile. “Mr. St. Clair sympathized with your loss, having just lost one of his own paintings to a heist as well, and wanted to offer you a little consolation. St. Clair isn’t the monster you think he is,” I tell Lennox pointedly. “Maybe you can see now that you misjudged him.”
Dogs start barking from inside. Lennox snaps his head around, and charges into the house.
I follow, with Crawford hot on my heels. “What the hell?” Crawford is still complaining angrily. “Be careful! Those are antiques!”
The dogs cluster around a door, barking wildly.
“What’s behind there?” Lennox demands.
“That’s the wine cellar,” Crawford blusters. “I keep a priceless collection, you mustn’t disturb the bottles—”
Lennox kicks open the door.
Crawford is livid, his face red. “Expect a lawsuit tomorrow! You, this whole department!” He gestures wildly and shouts at Lennox’s back. “Dumb dogs!” He moves to kick the still barking dogs but one of the husky German Shepherds lunges at him, snapping his teeth.
“Owww!”
Crawford reels back, scurrying outside. “Where is my assistant? Natalie? Natalie!” he bellows.
She comes around the corner from one of the guest cottages. “You yelled?” she asks.
“Who are these people?” he demands. “Get me my lawyers, right now!”
“Good idea,” Lennox’s voice comes. He steps out of the house – holding the Armande painting. “You’re going to need them.”
Crawford looks confused. “Where did that come from? I thought you said it had been stolen.”
“That’s what we thought.” Lennox fixes him with a suspicious glare. “Trying to run an insurance scam, Mr. Crawford?”
Lennox calls to the other officers, “I want an evidence team in that cellar. I spotted at least half a dozen stolen paintings down there. And search the rest of the house. I believe we’ve found our thief.”
“This is ridiculous!” Crawford explodes. “I’ll have your badge for this! Nata
lie!”
She stands there calmly. “I had no idea,” she says. “Agent Lennox, should I get the keys to the rest of the property? There are some outbuildings and garages. I can show your men the way.”
“Thank you, that would be very helpful.”
Natalie catches my eye for a moment, and we share a secret grin. It wasn’t hard to recruit her to our cause: she’s seen first-hand the damage Crawford has done. She was more than willing to give us access to the estate, so St. Clair could sneak in and plant the incriminating stolen art early this morning.
“Get this area marked off for the crime unit.” Lennox carefully places the Armande in a painting tube. “It looks like my search is over. Spencer Crawford, you’re under arrest.”
He pulls out a pair of handcuffs and slaps them on Crawford’s wrists. As he sputters and yells and threatens all the cops, including Lennox, he feebly struggles like he might run away, before he’s placed in the back of a police car. “You won’t get away with this!” are the last words he roars before the door is shut.
Another car races up the drive and screeches to a stop beside us. St. Clair rushes out, and sweeps me into a hug. “Are you okay?” he demands.
“I’m fine,” I laugh, pulling away. “You’re late. You missed all the action.”
St. Clair looks around at Crawford in the back of a police car, handcuffed, and at Lennox standing not too far away, watching us with an unreadable expression.
“Seems you finally found the real culprit, Lennox,” St. Clair says. “Congratulations. This is a career-making bust.”
Lennox closes the short distance between us. “Seems that way,” he says, the suspicion still in his voice. “But you know as well as I do that things are not always as they seem.”
“The evidence never lies, right, detective?” I say. “Like I said, you were chasing the wrong guy.”
Lennox cocks his head to the side and considers, looking at me and St. Clair standing close together, his arm around my waist, protective, both of us straight faced and unblinking under the weight of his stare. He finally nods. “You’re right. I apologize.” He appraises us one last time, his mind working through something he decides not to say.
The Art of Stealing Forever Page 10
