The Art of Stealing Hearts

by Stella London

  “My stolen painting—” St. Clair adds with a teasing grin.

  “Yes. Well, that people like that can buy a masterpiece they don’t love,” I exclaim.

  “And then store it in the cellar like a block of cheese getting pricier with age,” St. Clair continues.

  “Right! That’s a tragedy,” I say, and mean it. “God, If I had a Picasso or a Rubens, or a Rothko, I’d put it on display, like you.” I mean, I’d put him on display, too, but I gesture to his walls, painted plain white so the art can stand out. “Somewhere I could stare at it all day long.”

  “Art is meant to be seen,” Charles says and I smile. “What?” he asks.

  “My mom always said that,” I confide.

  “Smart woman,” he says. “Just like her daughter.”

  Our eyes lock, and I feel the heat pulse between us again. Then somewhere, a clock chimes and the moment is broken. “Let me show you to the guest suite,” he says and I follow him up a staircase to the second floor.

  The carpet is so plush it muffles our footsteps as St. Clair leads me to a huge master suite, perfect as a hotel penthouse. “Here we are. Is this okay?” he asks.

  I try not to laugh. There’s a king-size bed, and through the door to the bathroom, I can see a tub big enough for the whole di Fiore family. It’s so luxurious, I never want to leave. “I think I’ll manage.”

  He chuckles. “Dinner should be ready in about an hour. Relax, make yourself at home.” He closes the door behind him, leaving me alone.

  Wow. The décor is stunning—more thick carpet and elegant curtains and bedding, satin sheets and a beautiful quilt stitched with blue and silver patterns that looks like a work of art. Did he have this made up for me, or is he always prepared with an exquisite guest suite in case he decides to bring a girl home?

  Huge windows look out over a private patio and the vineyards beyond. It’s like I’m dreaming, except that kiss in the elevator was definitely real, and hot, and he invited me here, alone, which is also not a dream. I’m in Charles St. Clair’s house, about to have dinner with just him. The thought sends shivers of nervous anticipation down my spine.

  I head to the bathroom and fill the massive tub with hot water and lavender scented bubble bath. He said to make myself at home and a long luxurious bath sounds like just the ticket after the stress of today and our long drive. I undress and slide into the water, loving the feel of the bubbles and hot water on my skin. For once, I don’t have anywhere to go, or anything to do: no waitressing shift, or job interview, no boss demanding my time, I can just lay back and breathe it all in.

  After a while, I worry about being late to dinner so I stand and wrap a towel around me. Then it hits me: I only have my work clothes from before to wear! It feels wrong to be putting my boring blouse and suit back on for a romantic dinner, but as I step into the bedroom, I notice a dress has been laid out on the bed. It’s a simple blue sundress that looks like it will hug my curves but still be comfortable. I’ve got to give the guy credit. He has good taste in everything.

  For a moment, I wonder why he has brand new women’s clothing on hand, but I push the thought aside. My make-up is a bit faded, but my cheeks are pink with the heat of the bath and thoughts of what tonight might bring, so at least my face has some color, and my eyeliner has smudged in an I-just-happened-to-sleepin-my-make-up-and-wake-up-looking-sexy way that I could never have pulled off if I’d tried to achieve it. Not bad, Gracie. Already, something smells delicious downstairs, so I get dressed, take a deep breath and head out to face St. Clair again.

  “Hello?” I call, looking around the empty living area.

  “Out here.”

  St. Clair’s voice comes from outside, so I follow the sound out to the terrace. It’s breathtaking. There are twinkling candles, and a rustic table with a white tablecloth has been set with two places. Beyond the terrace, the sunset has splashed an array of colors across the sky, lighting up the clouds and turning them a fiery orange-pink-purple-gold mix. But none of that takes my breath away like the sight of St. Clair. He’s changed into worn, casual jeans that hug his ass just right, with a white shirt open at the neck and his feet bare on the flagstones. He looks relaxed, at ease, and good enough to eat.

  “You look great in that dress,” he says, greeting me with a light kiss on the cheek. “I had to guess your size, but I figured it would fit. And I know you like blue, so…”

  “Thank you, it’s perfect.”

  “You’re very welcome. I like to keep some things here for guests.”

  So he does have women here all the time! I try to hide my disappointment, but it must show on my face because St. Clair adds, “Guests like my sister. She and her family like to come stay at the estate during vacations.”

  “Oh,” I say, secretly filling with relief at not being just another interchangeable ‘guest’ he brings up for a night. “That sounds nice. I bet they love it here.”

  “That they do. Are you ready to eat?” he asks.

  “Yes, please!” I reply right away. I haven’t eaten since lunch, and it feels a lifetime ago.

  He chuckles. “Then I won’t stand between you and your meal.”

  He pulls out my chair for me and I sit, my eyes drawn to the sunset’s changing colors across the sky. “It’s like a living painting.” I sigh, taking in the views.

  “I bought this place because of it,” he says, lifting the silver serving domes and revealing a simple green salad with arugula and shaved parmesan, and two perfectly grilled steaks.

  “This smells delicious.” I take a bite of the steak. It is delicious. “Wow. Is there anything you can’t do?”

  He laughs as he pours us sparkling water from a glass carafe. “I like cooking. It helps me unwind. What about you?”

  “I leave all the cooking to the experts downstairs.” I smile at his confused expression. “I live above an Italian restaurant,” I explain, “So most nights I just grab some food from there. Nona likes to keep me fed.”

  “So what do you like to do for fun? To relax?” he asks, spooning a lemon and olive oil dressing over our salad.

  “Sleep?” It sounds like a joke but that is what I do with a lot of my free time.

  He laughs again. “No, really,” he prompts me. “What helps you relieve stress, get back to yourself?”

  I take a breath. “Well, painting used to feel like an escape.”

  “Not anymore?”

  I shrug. “It’s been hard to feel inspired since I lost my mom.”

  He nods thoughtfully as he chews. “Do you want to paint professionally?”

  “Maybe,” I say, pushing food around my plate. “As much as anyone can, I guess. Making a living as an artist isn’t exactly stable.”

  “Ah, but then at least you’re following your passion!” His whole face lights up with energy. “Imagine the life you could live, traveling the world, studying with masters…”

  “Living on the streets…” I add and he stops to look at me quizzically. “That sounds wonderful, but I don’t have the money, or a patron like they did in the Renaissance.”

  “I get it. But doesn’t it make you feel stifled, to ignore your true love?”

  I try to smile. “It’s hard to pursue my art when I have to work to pay the bills.”

  He pauses, looking at me across the table. “You should try to find the time, Grace, or someday you won’t recognize yourself. You’ll look at your life and wonder when you stopped feeling alive.”

  Is that what happened to you? I want to ask. There’s something in his eyes that feels regretful, but I don’t want to bring the mood down. “Thank you,” I say instead.

  He seems surprised. “What for?”

  I gesture to the dinner, our almost empty plates, the vineyard, the darkening sky. “Today has been amazing. And not just today,” I add. “Ever since I met you…I don’t know, I feel different, somehow. More alive.”

  I can’t believe I just said that, but St. Clair’s gaze doesn’t waver.

 
“Today’s not over yet,” he says in a sexy, low voice.

  I flush.

  He begins to gather our empty plates.

  “Let me help with that,” I say, picking up the salad bowl. “I am, after all, the most experienced waitress in the house right now.”

  In the kitchen, we pile dishes in the sink. I begin to rinse them off. “You don’t have to do that,” he stops me, reaching his arms around me to turn off the water.

  I freeze, his body pressed gently against my back, his breath warm at the nape of my neck.

  “I don’t?” I can feel the heat of his body against mine, the sweet smell of his aftershave as he lifts my hair off my shoulder and drops a kiss on the side of my neck.

  I exhale in a shiver.

  “You’ve done enough for me today.”

  My breath catches as he spins me around to face him, his blue eyes piercing. “Let me do something for you,” he says and he kisses me, slow at first and then deep, his lips demanding against mine until I open and let him in.

  His tongue teases me, and I wrap my arms around to his muscled back and drag him closer. Our kisses become faster, deeper, and I’m shocked by the feelings racing through me. The fire, the heat, the connection, the need.

  It’s like nothing I’ve felt before.

  His hands grip my hips and pull me gently into him. He grazes his lips down my neck, over my shoulders, down to the neckline of the dress, sending shivers down my body, goosebumps across my skin, every inch of it aching to be touched, stroked.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, easing back to cup my cheek and gaze into my eyes. His eyes are dark with lust, the same desire ricocheting through my body and gathering into a knot between my thighs. “I want to look at you.”

  He slips his hands under the straps of my dress, lifting them off my shoulders. I meet his gaze, and he steps back to watch as I push the dress down my hips and it slips down to the floor.

  I catch a shaky breath. I’m standing here in just my lace panties and bra, but I feel worshipped; adored. St. Clair looks at me so reverently, I feel like a work of art.

  He leans in and kisses a trail along my collarbone, his hands moving to stroke and cup my breasts. I moan at the delicious contact, arching against him.

  “Your turn,” I gasp, reaching for his shirt. I undo the buttons and push it aside, kissing the expanse of golden muscular chest until St. Clair suddenly lifts me and carries me to the dining table. He lays me down, so I’m spread to him, on display, and my stomach flips again.

  As anticipation races through me, St. Clair takes his time, clearly enjoying the way he’s going so slowly. He leans over and removes my bra, glides his mouth over my left nipple, teasing at the right with his thumb. I moan as he toys with me, trailing his lips and tongue down my stomach and across my hips. He uses his teeth to tug the top of my lace panties down, then hooks his thumbs under the elastic band and pulls the them off, leaving me entirely naked.

  I’m too caught up in the heat of it to care, feeling every touch and kiss like wildfire on my skin. He slides his fingertips up my thighs, and I feel like my cells will burst with desire.

  He nudges my legs apart and I’m close to begging him to touch me. Please, just touch me. Still, St. Clair keeps up his slow and steady pace. He kisses my thighs, teases the sensitive skin with his tongue, slipping his hands under my ass to cup the cheeks. He drags his tongue up my inner thigh, slowly, up, up, until finally he slides the wet tip lightly along my clit, just grazing like the lightest brushstroke. I groan, arching my back and he dips his tongue deeper into me this time. “Yes…” I whisper, reveling in the sensation.

  His hands keep me pinned in place as his tongue slowly strokes over me again, then again, an artist fervent in his work, painting with thick, long, wet strokes, becoming more and more impassioned. I arch my back to meet his mouth, spread my legs as his tongue paints me with his vision. Slick and kinetic shorter strokes, harder strokes, building the paint in layers, the pressure building, tightening, pulsing, rising to a throbbing peak…OhGod. OhGod—

  Oh. My. Fucking. God.

  I cry out, calling his name as the climax rips through me, sweetness and heat exploding in a dazzling masterpiece that leaves me breathless, spent. Undone.

  CHAPTER 11

  I roll over and stretch out in the softest sheets I’ve ever been on, but they are unfamiliar. I hear a shower running and my eyes shoot open, taking in a big bed in a plush bedroom, and an en suite bathroom letting out soapy-scented steam. Then it all comes flooding back: I’m at St. Clair’s. Charles’. The man who gave me the best orgasm of my life last night.

  My cheeks heat up as I remember it all, every last detail, and I feel the flush moving lower as I imagine returning the favor someday.

  But maybe this was just a one-time thing? I don’t have much experience with those. Just once, with a guy I met at a party my first semester at college. I was so embarrassed afterward that I left his dorm at five am and did the walk of shame home as the sun was beginning to rise. Here, I don’t have that option, because I’m lounging in luxury, literally, in million thread count sheets in a king-size bed on the Napa estate of a billionaire. What have I gotten myself into?

  Charles is humming in the shower, a tune I don’t recognize, and I can’t help but smile. Adorable. He’s clearly relaxed, which makes this whole what-the-hell-do-I-say-to-a-guy-who-has-heard-my-O-noises-but-doesn’t-know-where-I-live thing extra awkward. The shower stops and I wonder what I’m going to say to him. I wish I could read his mind.

  “Hey,” Charles says, coming out of the bathroom looking devastatingly sexy with just a towel wrapped around his waist. His chest muscles are perfectly shaped, leading down into abs chiseled from stone, a trail of hair leading down even farther. It’s the first time I’ve seen him shirtless in the light and I’m worried I might start drooling. “Did you sleep okay?”

  I swallow. “Yes, great. Thank you. ”

  He rubs a smaller towel over his wet hair. “It sure sounded that way from your snores.”

  I gasp. “I don’t snore!”

  “You do,” he grins, tossing the hair towel into a hamper, his other towel slipping low enough for me to see his the top of his hip bones. “Quietly. It’s adorable.”

  I frown. “Yeah. Like ‘picking your nose’ is adorable.”

  “Wait, do you do that, too?” He smiles and I throw a pillow at him, laughing.

  He goes into a huge closet, with hanging suits and a dresser and more that I can’t see from the bed. “Listen, I’d love to stay and eat breakfast with you, but I have to get to L.A. for a meeting,” he says. “My car is waiting for you downstairs to take you to the city. You should be back in time for work.” He comes out of the closet wearing slacks and an unbuttoned blue shirt, four different ties draped over his arm. He holds them up against his shirt. “Which do you think?”

  “The blue,” I decide.

  Charles grins. “Of course.”

  “How many do you have in there?” I ask.

  He laughs, shaking his head. “Why? Are you going to ruin all of them? Maybe I shouldn’t leave you alone with all these innocent victims.” He flashes me another grin just as my stomach rumbles.

  He laughs again. “Perfect timing. I’ll see you downstairs.” Then he disappears out the door.

  I get dressed quickly, use the bathroom to freshen up, and head downstairs just as he is coming out of the kitchen with a thermos of coffee, a warm croissant wrapped in wax paper, and a bottle of orange juice. He tucks them into my purse with a wink.

  “Thanks,” I say, my mind going blank. “Um, that was fun last night.”

  “Fun?” his voice drops, sexy. He moves closer, reaching to stroke along my collarbone. “I was thinking more ‘mind-blowingly sexy.’”

  My pulse races. “That too.”

  There’s a noise outside, a dull roar. St. Clair gives a rueful smile. “That’s my cue.”

  I follow him out, in time to see a helicopter appear abo
ve the trees. An actual helicopter. “Wow, you really go big to get away from your dates,” I say, giggling so he knows it’s a joke, but also wondering if I’ll ever see him again.

  He leans over and kisses me, soft and deep. I melt against him, until finally, he pulls away. A car is waiting with a driver. “I have a busy week ahead,” he says. “But I’d like to see you next weekend?”

  “I’d like that too.”

  He smiles. “I’ll call you.” He kisses me again, and then heads away toward the helicopter. I watch him effortlessly climb inside, and then a moment later, it rises up over the treeline and buzzes off into the distance.

  The ride back to the city is much less interesting without Charles to look at. Despite the fog rolling across the bay, I feel content and excited to see where this thing with Charles goes. Imagine, less than a week ago I was desperately trying to claw my way into the art world, and now I’ve been flung into it headfirst, romantically and professionally. I helped with an appraisal yesterday! I feel proud as the driver drops me off in front of Carringer’s, and I hold my head high as I walk through the doors.

  My pride doesn’t last long. “Thank God you’re here.” Stanford materializes the minute I’m inside.

  “How do you do that?” I ask. “Just appear, like you knew I’d be here.”

  “I’m omniscient,” he cracks. “Now I need you in the basement today, the police left everything a mess. Start with the floors, and work your way up.”

  I sigh. So much for feeling on top of the world. “Okay, okay.”

  I’m glad that at least my day-old clothes won’t be noticed if I’m scrubbing floors. I take my cleaning supplies up the back stairs and begin the first day of a week of sweeping, mopping, and wiping down walls, but despite the drudgery of my tasks, nothing can shake my happy glow. I have memories of St. Clair to keep me company as I clean: his smile, that body, his tongue…

  I don’t hear from him all week, and by Friday, I’m wondering if I should be worried. I know it’s probably just that he has so much else to deal with, that his lack of contact doesn’t mean he’s no longer interested, but I can’t help getting anxious. I mean, he runs an international finance corporation! He must be juggling a million balls at a time, right?