The Art of Stealing Forever
Read The Art of Stealing Forever Online
Authors: Stella London
Tags: #Romance, #Contemporary, #New Adult & College, #Stealing Hearts
Copyright © 2015 Stella London
Cover art/design by: Perfect Pear Creative
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.
I
blink back tears. Alarms are echoing off the stone walls of the
alleyway, piercing the London night. In front of me stands Charles
St. Clair: billionaire art collector, my new boss –
and
the man I’ve
fallen in love with.
“Please,
Grace,” he
urges me, tugging at my hand. “We
have to get out of here.”
My
eyes go to the narrow tube under his arm, the kind used to transport
paintings.
Stolen
paintings.
The
sirens screaming from the art gallery down the street are too loud
for me to think, but one thing I do know: St. Clair has been lying to
me all along.
“Lennox
was right, wasn’t
he?” I
demand, my heart breaking. “You’re
behind all the heists –
in
America, and here too. You’re
the thief.”
St.
Clair looks up, stricken, as lights appear in apartment windows above
the alley, casting out squares of ugly yellow light.
“Grace,
there’s
no time. We have to go.”
I
shake my head. “Tell
me you didn’t
set off these alarms, that there’s
nothing in that tube you’re
carrying!”
I
feel like my ear drums will burst from the shrill cry of the sirens,
but I need him to make sense of all of this. “Please,”
I
beg him. “Tell
me it’s
not you.”
I
stare into those blue eyes that I adore, waiting for the magic words
that will explain all my suspicions away.
But
none come.
St.
Clair shakes his head sadly. He can’t
deny it because it’s
true.
“No,”
I
whisper, feeling like someone just punched me in the gut.
He
takes my hand again. “Just
trust me to get us out of here, okay? You can hate me all you want
once we’re
safe.” I
can hear the pleading in his voice, the worry, though I’m
sure it’s
more for his own ass than mine.
Reality
hits me hard. The alarms mean security will be on their way: police,
and Lord knows what else. And I’m
standing right here with the culprit. An accessory to his crimes.
I
finally stop resisting and let St. Clair pull me down the alley, away
from the gallery. He shoves the brown painting tube into his coat,
hiding it from view as he walks briskly. “Where
are we going?”
I ask, trying to make my mind work faster, come up with my own plan
so I don’t
have to rely on him.
“Just
stay calm.”
He
squeezes my clammy hand and I want to kick him for thinking that’s
going to comfort me right now.
“’Stay
calm?’”
I
hiss under my breath. “We
are running away from a robbery in the middle of the night with the
stolen artwork!”
He
continues to drag me down a maze of streets and alleys, turning every
block until I’m
disoriented and totally lost. It’s
hard to watch my feet on the uneven cobblestones at this pace in the
dark, and I have to jog to keep up with his long legs.
“Don’t
run,” he
warns me, looking around. “It
looks suspicious.”
“Then
slow down!”
I
say, flustered and irritated.
St.
Clair takes a breath. “Sorry,”
he
says softly, slowing his pace.
We’re
further from the gallery now, almost out of earshot of the alarms. I
start to relax, then suddenly three cop cars fly by, red lights
flashing, tires squealing around corners.
I
panic all over again. St. Clair ducks us into the shadow of a
building and moves his face in close to mine so we’re
invisible to the road. Without warning he kisses me, his warm lips a
shock after the cool night air. More police sirens scream at us as
they pass and St. Clair presses his mouth into mine, parts his lips
enough to let his teeth bite at my lower lip. My knees go weak and
despite my brain’s
protests, my body responds, melting against him.
When
the sirens have passed, St. Clair steps away. “I
don’t
think they saw us,”
he
says, watching the street. I realize with a start that the kiss was
just a cover.
Was
I
ever anything more than that to him?
“We
should move.”
He
puts a casual arm around my shoulders as we step back out onto the
street. “Thank
you,” he
says as we stroll along nonchalantly like nothing in the world could
possibly be wrong. Except so many things are wrong right now I can’t
even count them.
“For
trusting me.”
“I
haven’t
decided anything yet,”
I
say and I mean it. I haven’t
had time to process any of this, my heart is still racing with panic
and terror. All I want is to get safely home, away from the sirens
and police. Then, maybe I can figure out what the hell I’m
doing next.
St.
Clair guides us along the dark London streets. We walk at a normal
pace, though there are only a few people out at this hour. The
gallery sirens seem to have stopped, or at least we can’t
hear them from here. I know we have to go slow, but my muscles are
itching to run full out, to somehow escape all the way home to my
apartment in San Francisco where things were normal, legal.
Oh
my God, but what if they weren’t?
My
mind races with fresh anxiety. St. Clair had to have been planning
the Carringer’s
theft before I even met him, so that means he’s
been lying to me the whole time!
Even
worse than lying, what if Lennox was right? What if he was
using
me from the start?
A
chill runs through my body. I have to stop to catch my breath.
“Are
you okay?” St.
Clair asks, but the concern in his face just makes me angrier.
“What
do you think?”
St.
Clair looks chastened. “Not
far to go,”
he
says. “We’ll
be safe soon.”
And
yet I wonder if I’ll
ever be.
We
walk another ten minutes or so to his townhouse. As soon as he’s
latched the door behind us, I turn on St. Clair. “What
the hell just happened?”
“Shh,”
he
warns me, and leads me upstairs. I follow, my heart racing. All this
time, he’s
been lying to me, fooling everyone. I thought he cared about me.
I
thought he loved me.
St.
Clair enters the bedroom and makes straight for a bookcase on the far
wall. He pulls on a book and a compartment on the other side pops
open, near the floor, revealing a safe.
My
jaw drops. “Who
are you, James Bond?”
He
kneels down to punch in a few numbers on the keypad, and the door to
the safe unlocks. He stashes the brown painting tube inside and shuts
the door, hiding the whole contraption from view again. Only then
does he seem to relax, bowing his head for a moment and exhaling a
long breath before standing up. He has the nerve to smile at me, his
dimples flashing like we just got away with breaking the rules.
But
I’m
not relieved or relaxed. Not at all.
I
fold my arms and stare at him. “I
want answers. Now. And no more lies.”
“Grace,
I never wanted to lie—”
He takes a step toward me but I hold up my hand.
“I
don’t
want your charm, Charles. And I don’t
want you to say what you think I want to hear. I need an explanation
that makes sense before I—”
The
doorbell rings.
We
both freeze.
“I
thought you said we’d
be safe here!”
I
whisper. “What
if it’s
the police? What if someone saw you –
saw
us!”
St.
Clair moves swiftly to the window and looks down. “It’s
Lennox,” he
reports. “And
it appears he’s
brought the whole bloody police force with him.”
My
heart actually stops for a second before it starts pounding, pumping
blood with Niagara-falls force through my veins. I open my mouth to
speak but nothing comes out.
St.
Clair moves over to me and takes my hands. “Grace?
Grace, look at me.”
All
I can think is that I’m
going to jail. I’m
going to die in prison because I was bamboozled by a beautiful face
and a hot ass.
“How
could you do this to me?”
I say.
“I’ll
explain everything later,”
he
says calmly. “But
for now, I need you to cover for me with Lennox. Can you do that,
Grace?”
I’m
having trouble breathing and my heart is roaring in my ears. The
doorbell rings again and someone pounds loudly on the door. I jump.
“Grace?”
St.
Clair says again. There’s
no time to think, no time to weigh the consequences. “Please,
trust me,”
he
whispers. “I
promise it will all be okay.”
I
nod. Even after everything, I want to believe him.
The
doorbell doesn’t
let up. St. Clair strips off his coat and the clothing underneath,
until he’s
just wearing boxer briefs. He pulls on a bathrobe.
“Get
undressed,”
he
tells me, and tosses over another robe. “We’ve
been here all night, in bed, together, okay?”
I
stand, frozen, still in a panic.
“Grace?”
St.
Clair comes closer. He cups my cheek with his hand, so gentle, and
looks into my eyes. “This
is important. I know you’re
scared, but we have to be clear on our alibi. We’ve
been together all night. Right here, at home. Can you do this?”
From
the hammering on the door and the flashing police lights outside,
it’s
obvious I don’t
have a choice.
“Yes,”
I
answer, my voice coming out stronger than I feel.
“That’s
my girl.” St.
Clair kisses my forehead, then hurries out, down the stairs.
I
hear him open the door. “What’s
going on?”
St.
Clair’s
voice echoes up. “Agent
Lennox, how can I help you?”
I’m
impressed, even in my panic. St. Clair sounds sleepy and confused,
like he was fast asleep when the commotion started, and not fresh
from a major heist.
“I
need to ask you some questions,”
Lennox
demands, his voice gruff.
“Of
course,”
St.
Clair agrees. “But
can’t
it wait until morning?”
Lennox
snorts. “It
is morning.”
“I
meant, when the sun is up. A more civilized hour?”
“We
can do this now, or you can come with me to the station.”
Lennox
sounds unmoved.
My
heart stops. If Lennox is threatening to take him in, he must have
something. Evidence. Oh God.
“Of
course, come in.”
St.
Clair finally says. I cringe.
I
slip out of the bedroom and creep to the top of the stairs so I can
hear better over my pounding heart. I peek over the landing and see
Lennox step inside. He gestures for the other police officers to
follow, but St. Clair casually blocks their path.
“Just
you,” St.
Clair says calmly. “That
is, unless you have a search warrant?”
There’s
a pause, and then I see Lennox scowl. “Wait
outside, lads,”
he
says.
St.
Clair closes the door behind them, and asks more casually than I
could have managed, “Can
I get you a tea? Coffee?”
St Clair yawns, tightening the belt on his robe. “Sorry,
I’m
still half-asleep.”
The
alibi. Right. I quickly duck back to the bedroom and strip off my
black jeans and sweatshirt. I remember to kick them under the bed
before pulling on a fancy negligee nightgown. I picked it out for St.
Clair, and it makes me feel ill to think of using it now as part of
this big performance. But I don’t
have any other choice.
St.
Clair said to trust him. Am I foolish to give him one last chance?
Not
foolish, I correct myself. This is self-preservation. If Lennox busts
St. Clair tonight, then I’m
caught in the crosshairs too. And Lennox has made it clear, he’ll
be happy to take me down too if it even looks like I’ve
played any part in St. Clair’s
illegal dealings.
For
my own sake, I have to make sure this alibi sticks.
By
the time I get back to the top of the stairs, the men are further
down the hallway, out of earshot. I slowly creep down the steps until
I hear Lennox’s
voice again. They’re
in the kitchen.
