The Art of Stealing Hearts

by Stella London

  “Please, I have to have that Rubens.”

  I can feel sweat on my palms. “I don’t know anything about bidding.”

  “Just raise your paddle until everyone else stops.” I must look as shell-shocked as I feel, thinking about that much power. “Seriously,” Charles insists, his dark eyes deadly serious. “Whatever it takes to get that painting. I’m counting on you.” He rushes away, putting the phone up to his ear and gesturing me toward the auction hall.

  Are you kidding me? What am I supposed to do? I shove my broom behind a potted palm and slip into the back of the hall. They are already on lot 51, a Da Vinci sketch, and the bidding is slowing down. Shit!

  “Sold!” the auctioneer shouts. He has gotten louder, and the patrons have gotten restless. The crowd of socialites is also much drunker than they were during the first half. I hear Asshole Andrew the Silicon billionaire say, “This is it next, right?” His friend nods. “Hot damn.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer says as a large painting is wheeled onto the stage, concealed under a canopy of black fabric. A hush settles over the hall and everyone strains in their seats to get a better look. “Here is tonight’s prize piece: The Judgment of Paris.” The painting is revealed, the dancing goddesses in all their fleshy glory, the dramatic lights and shadows intersecting, and it’s just as breathtaking as before.

  The room inhales in a rush.

  The auctioneer launches into the history of the painting and its creator. “Paul Rubens was a Flemish painter during the Baroque period, who developed his art later in life but had a distinctive style…” The pause gives me a chance to slip into St. Clair’s empty seat. The chair next to it is empty, too, his hot art consultant gone. My heart is pounding like when I first met him, except I haven’t just jogged ten blocks in heels.

  “…never before has this famed painting been available for purchase anywhere in the world. Now, you may have the privilege of owning this incomparable work of art.” He picks up his gavel. “Shall we begin the bidding at one million dollars?”

  Several dozen paddles dart into the air like someone asked a kindergarten class if they wanted cupcakes. “One point five million?”

  The same sea of white plastic sails into the air. “Do I hear two million?” the auctioneer says and I don’t know what to do. My knuckles are as white as the plastic in my panicked death grip. St. Clair told me he didn’t care about the cost, that he just had to have it. But I can’t bid this much. Can I?

  “Two million, do I hear two and a quarter?”

  I look around. A half dozen paddles are still in the air, and it looks like Asshole Andrew Tate’s is one of them.

  Was Charles serious? Was he playing some kind of game?

  “How about two point five million? Two point five, folks, for this one of a kind masterpiece.” Two paddles. OhmyGod, can I really do this?

  The auctioneer takes a breath and I feel like all my air has been stolen from my lungs. He says, “Two point seven five million dollars?”

  Andrew’s paddle is the only one to rise this time and the auctioneer says, “Going once, going twice…”

  I hold my breath and stick my paddle in the air.

  “And we’re up to three million folks,” the auctioneer cheers. “Who will bid three million?”

  Andrew’s paddle keeps waving, so I have no choice but to match and beat his bids. Higher and higher it goes, until we’re at four million…four point five…five million dollars.

  I think I’m going to pass out.

  “Five point eight!” Andrew stands, waving his paddle around like he’s signing semaphore. His face is red, and everyone in the room is whispering like crazy.

  Holy shit, is this for real?

  “Do I hear six?”

  I hesitate. Charles said whatever it takes, but this is six million dollars we’re talking about here. Did he really think it would go this high?

  “Going once…”

  Andrew smirks at me and I remember how he didn’t even care about the art, that he just wanted more boobs.

  “We’re at five point eight million, going twice…”

  Last chance. I bolt to my feet. “Six million,” I announce, my voice shaking.

  The room goes silent. Even the auctioneer looks surprised. But he composes himself with a brief nod and says, “Six million going once…”

  Andrew looks down at his friend, eyebrows raised. “Six million going twice…” Andrew’s friend shakes his head and then Andrew shakes his head at the auctioneer.

  “Sold! At six million dollars.” The auctioneer bangs his gavel and the room cheers. My heart is pounding in my ears and a wave of dizziness washes over me. I just outbid Andrew Tate on an original Rubens for six million freaking dollars. And Charles is nowhere to be seen.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  I’m glad I’m wearing black so no one can see how sweaty and nervous I am. I want to sink into my seat, exhausted, but people are clapping and laughing. I can feel the question in the air: who is this girl?

  “And that concludes our program for tonight—”

  The auctioneer is drowned out by the cacophony of chatter in the room.

  “Bennett!” One voice cuts through the din. I cringe. “Grace Bennett!”

  Lydia is charging through the crowd toward me like a hurricane, furious.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hisses at me.

  “This isn’t my paddle,” I stammer, my face flushing. “I—”

  “This is not a game, young lady.” She’s fuming. “If you think you can just come in here and humiliate this company—”

  “Did you get it?” St. Clair appears at my elbow.

  Lydia stops. “What?”

  I nod, then gulp. “Six million. Is that, umm, okay?”

  I brace myself, but St. Clair breaks into a boyish grin and actually whoops. “Yes!” He laughs and picks me up suddenly, spinning me around. “I can’t believe you did it! I thought for sure Tate was going to beat me out on this one.”

  “He nearly did,” I admit, my pulse racing in a giddy rush of relief. “But I jumped in at the last minute and he backed down.”

  St. Clair laughs, setting me down. “God, I wish I’d been here to see his face.”

  “You can now,” I grin, pointing across the room. Tate is charging for the exit, scowling.

  “I need to take you to all my auctions,” Charles grins, still holding me close. “You’re my good luck charm.”

  My head spins from his touch, his nearness, from the happiness in his eyes. “I just did what you told me to do.”

  “What he told you to do?” Lydia says, realization dawning on her face. She turns to St. Clair. “You asked her to bid in your stead?”

  “Yes, and she did splendidly.” He squeezes my hand, and I feel tingles rush up my arm. “Thank you.”

  Lydia ignores me. “A prestigious acquisition, Mr. St. Clair,” she says, and a few other people gather around to congratulate him as well, pushing me out of the way and off to the side.

  The white lilies in their vases have started to droop a little, and the chairs are no longer in straight rows. A burst of laughter erupts from the cluster of folks surrounding Charles, but he doesn’t look my way. I don’t want to linger here on the edge of the crowd, so I head back out to the lobby. This has been one of the longest shifts of my working life, and I’m ready to go home.

  I’m walking across the marble floor toward the exit when someone taps my shoulder. “Running away from me again?” Charles says, his voice low, his British accent crisp. He slides his finger down my arm and lightly turns me to face him. “You have to let me thank you properly for tonight.”

  I smile, thinking of the ways I wish his gorgeous body would thank me and hoping those thoughts don’t show on my face. Or maybe hoping they show a little. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Dinner? Tomorrow night?”

  I want to ask if this is a date, or if it’s really just a thank yo
u, but I’m aware of a few people watching us, the handsome art collector and this awkward nobody girl in a no-name brand dress. “Sure,” I say. “Of course.”

  He brushes a strand of dark hair off his forehead and beams. “Great. 8 pm. Hakkasan, Union Square.” I nod and he kisses my cheek, leaving an impression I can still feel when he pulls away. “See you then,” he says and then he’s gone while I am left here to catch my breath.

  Did Mr. Hottie Charles St.Clair really just ask me out?

  CHAPTER 5

  The next morning, I wake up almost hung over by the blur of last night’s events. I bid six million dollars on a painting, got to see a genuine Rubens up close, showed my new boss what I’m made of (and miraculously didn’t get fired), and at the end of it all was asked out by the most handsome, charming man I’ve ever met. I can remember the burn of heat when his hands grasped mine, the crackle of energy between us—

  My phone pings, a text from Paige. Where are you, lover?

  I drag my head up and check the time. It’s almost ten, the slot for our weekly Skype chat.

  Keep your panties on, I write back.

  Paige brings out the raunchy side in me, since it’s such a part of her nature. She’s also smart as a whip and way more confident than I am, so basically, the cooler friend. But she’s always been supportive of me and my art, even when I had to drop out and leave her alone at Tufts at the end of freshman year. We cried as we said goodbye, swearing to remain friends forever, and we have kept in close touch over the years.

  I open my laptop and click on the bouncing icon and Paige’s beaming face appears on my screen. Her hair is still wet, and she’s got a facemask on: it’s evening in London, and she’s getting ready to go out for the night.

  “Hey, you,” she says. “Tell me all about your glamorous new job!”

  “Oh, yeah, sweeping the floor is so glamorous.”

  “Hold up,” she frowns. “That fancy internship has you playing Cinderella?”

  “Right, you don’t know yet,” I say and explain to her all about the mix-up and actually being hired as a clerk/janitor/fill-in waitress/servant.

  “I’m sorry, Grace,” Paige says. “I know how much you wanted that internship.”

  “It’s a foot in the door,” I say. “And I got to be around some amazing art.”

  She nods emphatically. “Hell yeah,” she says. “And you are going to kick ass and show those bitches who’s boss.”

  I laugh, knowing she means it, and that she would have no trouble kicking ass. Paige wouldn’t hesitate for a second. “I got to see a Rubens up close.”

  She gasps. “The unveiling of The Judgment of Paris?” Paige works for an insurance company valuing art and antiquities. Of course she would know about the arrival of this highly prized masterpiece.

  I nod. “And before it went on stage, behind the scenes when I went to get chairs. I got to see it close enough to distinguish the brushstrokes.” I sigh, remembering. “It was incredible.”

  “I heard Charles St. Clair won the bid for six million.”

  “Wow,” I say, surprised. “News travels fast in the art world.”

  Paige shrugs, picking at her mask. “St. Clair is something of a celebrity in the art world. My boss said his collection is insured for like, hundreds of millions. The guy’s a veritable museum. And hot. Is he as dreamy up close as in all the gossip columns?”

  “I mean, I guess…” I look down, feeling my cheeks redden.

  “What?” Paige knows me too well. She squints at me. “Why are you blushing?”

  “Something else happened last night,” I say, dropping my voice.

  “Oooh,” she squeals. “Something juicy? It sounds juicy.”

  “I met him.”

  “Yes! What’s he like?” Paige demands. “Give me the gossip. Who was he there with? Did he seduce you with his eyes? Describe his ass. Details, my friend, details!”

  I laugh, and settle back in bed with my laptop. “God, he is so hot. Like a god, Paige, for real.”

  “Drool, much? Your face is bright red!” She laughs. “You liiiiiike him. You want to kiss him. You want to make sweet, sweet looooove.”

  “So does every other warm blooded female who looks at him,” I grin. “But I bid for him when he left to take a call and afterward he asked me out. That means something, doesn’t it?”

  “Absofuckinlutely!” she exclaims. “Hot famous guys have to go out on dates, too, don’t they?”

  “He’s famous? Like on TV famous?” I ask.

  “Occasionally. He does guest appearances on New York or London morning shows to talk about business or finance, or art.” She shrugs. “He’s young and articulate and loaded. Not to mention hot as lava.”

  “He’s in finance?” I realize I don’t know anything about him. Besides how charming and cute he is.

  “Yeah, family money from banking that he took global a few years ago and tripled his business,” Paige says, shaking her head at me. “He’s worth billions. Grace, you should really know who you’re going out with.”

  Billions? I feel nauseous. “So this guy is famous and worth more than I could make in fifteen lifetimes. Great.” We have nothing in common. This date is going to be a total disaster.

  “At least you know he’s not interested in you for your money,” she quips, and I wish I could throw something at her through the screen.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Because there are so many other things to love you for!” Paige covers. “Your wit, your heart, your amazing taste in friends…”

  “I get it,” I laugh, but I still can’t shake the feeling I’m way out of my league.

  Paige peers at her camera. “You’re looking a little green.”

  “I just didn’t know he was so famous.” I take a deep breath. “It’s such a different world for me, you know?”

  “I know.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “But I mean it, he’s the lucky one to be taking you out.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way. And these people I work with have been a nightmare. I just really want to show them I can be worthy,” I say, wishing my mom could be here.

  “Shut up. You already are more worthy than all those trust fund brats with their sports cars and diamond lipstick cases. Don’t you forget that. And if St. Clair doesn’t realize it too, then fuck him up his billionaire ass.”

  I burst out laughing. “I am so lucky to have you,” I say.

  “Don’t you forget that, either,” she beams. “When you’re a famous artist and the world is clamoring for your attention, including all the eligible hot guys, just remember who stood by you way back when.”

  “Some girl named…Penny? Polly?”

  “Ha,” she says, and sticks her tongue out.

  My phone vibrates with my alarm. “Sorry babe, I need to go get ready for my deli shift,” I say. “And we didn’t even talk about you!”

  “Eh, nothing’s new over here,” she shrugs. “London, schmondon. It won’t stop raining, my hair is begging for mercy. Talk next week?”

  “Duh.”

  “And take a picture of St. Clair’s butt when you see him again,” she demands. “Remember, no glove, no love!”

  She’s still making kissy faces at the screen when I sign off.

  Downstairs in the deli, Giovanni and Nona’s daughter Carmella runs a tight ship with an iron fist. I’m on register duty today, taking orders and writing tickets for the sandwich makers, but I can’t stop thinking about St. Clair. Charles. It even sounds hot. Why are British men never Charlie? I don’t care what he calls himself; if he called me I would listen to him talk all day.

  “Would you like mayo and mustard?” I ask the lady in front of me who ordered a turkey avocado on wheat.

  “Just a touch of mayo,” the woman says and I think of Charles’ hands on mine, his lips on my cheek. He’s like no one I’ve ever met before. Confident, but not cocky, smooth, charming, but also genuine.

  “That’ll be ten fifty,” I say. Charles trusted me
with millions of his dollars. Would he have done that with just anyone?

  “Next!”

  A young couple comes up, hanging all over each other. His hand is in her back pocket, and she’s nuzzled up against his chest.

  I want Charles to want me like that.

  “What can I get you?” I say, trying to push away the thought of him. What the hell’s happening to me? I’ve never felt this way about a man before, never really ached to be near someone like this.

  “…and extra pickles.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I ask, flustered. I’m zoning out here.

  “Grace? Earth to Grace?” Carmella snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Are you sick or something? You are way off your game today.”

  “I’m sorry, Carmella. I had to work late last night. I’m a little out of it.”

  “Take your break,” she says, pushing me out of the way and taking my place to help the next customer like a cog in her own well-oiled machine.

  I head out front and take a seat on one of the benches outside the deli. I can smell the ocean not too far from here mixed with the marinara simmering in the kitchens, and the late afternoon light is filtered by the low clouds drifting past like leaves in a flowing river. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, releasing the tension in my shoulders.

  “You’re way too pretty to always be so stressed, dollface.” Cousin Eddie steps out of the doorway to the restaurant next door.

  “Do you stalk me or something?” I ask, tired.

  “I live to melt all your troubles away,” he says, flashing a smile big enough to reveal his silver molars. “Come out with me tonight. We’ll dance, drink, be merry.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Come on,” he says, sitting next to me. The scent of his cologne is thick. “Give me one good reason why not.”

  “I have plans tonight,” I say, relieved to have an actual excuse for once.

  He squints in disbelief. “What plans? Like a date?”

  “Yeah, like a date,” I say. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “You have a date!” Nona squeals, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. “Oh, thank God,” she says, walking out from Giovanni’s to hug me. “We were getting worried about you.”