The Art of Stealing Forever (11 page)

“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.

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?”