The Art of Stealing Forever (6 page)

“And
did you see Muffy? I heard her youngest ran off with her Latin
tutor…”

“….Of
course, she served the scallops practically raw…”

“…all
those funds, just vanished. Crawford’s
got a lot to answer for.”

Crawford?
I perk up, and pay attention.

“I’m
just glad my husband had the sense to put our money in gold,”
one woman declares, sounding smug. “You
can’t
trust the markets anymore. Do you think he’ll
face charges?”

The
other woman laughs. “Of
course not. It’s
all perfectly legal, the investors knew the risk. He’s
covered himself.”

“Didn’t
he buy that new pied-a-terre in Cannes the other month?”

“And
a yacht to match. Our Crawford will be just fine.”

They
finally look up and see me lurking there, so I quickly snap my purse
shut and head back outside, pondering what I’ve
just heard.

I
find St. Clair on the main balcony, with two glasses of champagne.
“What
happened with Crawford’s
company?”
I ask.
“I
heard people gossiping in the ladies’
room.”

St.
Clair scowls. “His
investment company went bust. It’s
a racket—thousands
of people lost their pensions, their life savings, but Crawford and
his partners won’t
lose a dime.”

“That’s
so unfair!”
I exclaim.

“He’ll
get away with it, unfortunately.”
St.
Clair looks downcast. “It’s
the way the world works, especially for people like Crawford.”

We
walk back to the box, arriving just as the race gets started. I want
to shoot daggers at Crawford’s
sweaty back all day, but I’m
distracted by the starting pistol. It’s
exciting when the gun goes off and the horses jet out of their gates,
legs pounding the ground in a fury of hooves, jockeys hunched
intently over their saddles.

Crawford
cheers loudly for Thundercloud, his horse, as the thoroughbreds take
the first curve. “Go
go go go go go go gooooooooo!”
he
yells, pounding his fist on the ledge so hard he spills everyone’s
drinks.

The
race is thrilling, horses inching ahead by their noses, small gasps
from the audience, and intermittent cheers for certain horses, but it
is much more subdued than American sports. Crawford would probably
fit in better at a football game.

The
horses. They race down the final stretch of the track and for a
moment, Thundercloud noses ahead, literally, and then Buttercup, the
predicted winner, shoots up at the last second and crosses the ribbon
first.

Cheers
erupt from the bleachers below, but Crawford’s
loud booming “No!
God damn it!”
echoes
off the walls and everyone turns to look at him. A few women fan
their faces like they’ve
been scandalized, but Crawford pays no mind. He storms off, his poor
assistant and the dog trailing behind him like cartoon sidekicks. It
would be funny if it wasn’t
real life.

St
Clair and I mingle for a while longer. “You
want a closer look at the horses?”
he
asks.

“Can
we?”

“VIP
all the way,”
he winks, and takes me down to the paddock.

Buttercup
is surrounded by press and photographers, having his photo taken with
an arch of roses draped around his neck and proud jockey and owner at
his side. Buttercup looks almost as happy as his handlers, munching
on alfalfa.

Thundercloud,
on the other hand, looks miserable. When I get to the stalls, leaving
St. Clair to speak with some of his associates, I see the second
place horse whinnying and pawing at the ground in his stall as
Crawford yells at his jockey. I take a few steps back.

“You
tiny, worthless rider!”
Crawford
screams. “You’re
about as useful as this horse.”
Crawford
looks at Thundercloud, a dappled bay, neighing and pacing in circles.
“What?
You think you deserve praise? Second place is still a loser!”
He
punches the door to his stall. Natalie and the jockey jump, and so do
I. What an asshole.

“Mr.
Crawford, sir,”
the
jockey starts, but Crawford doesn’t
give him a chance to speak.

“You’re
fired! And I want this horse shipped off to the knackers yard! I’m
not paying for this thing anymore. What a waste of my time.”

He
kicks the stall again, and his dog starts barking, straining at his
leash as if he can’t
wait to get out of there. I sympathize.

“This
is a magnificent creature, Mr. Crawford. You can’t
just—”
The jockey tries to argue, but Crawford is relentless. “Dismissed!
Get out of my sight before I ship you off, too.”

Natalie
looks like she has tears in her eyes but she keeps a straight face as
the jockey storms off and Crawford looks at her. “You
too!” he
bellows.

“Yes,
sir,” she
squeaks, starting to move away.

“And
shut up that damn dog!”
he
yells but the dog just barks more rapidly.

Natalie
trembles. “I
don’t
think he likes the horses—”

Crawford
swiftly kicks the dog in its ribs, lifting it off the ground with the
force of his foot. The poor dog yelps and cowers around Natalie’s
legs, shaking now, but it stops barking. “There,”
he
snorts. “Now
go do your damn job before I have to fire you, too.”

Natalie
looks like she’s
about to burst into sobs as Crawford stomps past her and out of the
stables in a cloud of dust.

I
watch him go, overcome with rage. It’s
not fair that men like Crawford can do whatever they want and get
away with it. Where’s
the justice for the lives he’s
ruined?

The
anger is hot in my veins. I turn and go find St. Clair in the crowd,
dragging him away from his friends and over to a quiet corner away
from all the noise.

“What’s
wrong?” he
asks. “Did
something happen?”

I
nod, forcing myself to stay composed. “We
need to make Crawford pay.”

“How?”
he
asks.

“You
know how,”
I
say, steel in my voice.

St.
Clair looks surprised, and he’s
momentarily speechless. “But
Grace—”

“I
know what I asked of you, but I can’t
stand it. The way he treats people, it’s
not right. He deserves to pay for what he’s
done. And you’re
the only one who can hit him where it hurts.”

St.
Clair studies me, still uncertain. “I
agree with what you’re
saying. But Grace, you know, I’ve
given all that up now. I really have.”

“So
we do it together.”
I
look at him, determined. “We
steal that Armande painting back. That’s
one less thing he’ll
have to lord over someone.”

The
next morning, I wake up still determined to make Crawford pay for his
wrongs, but St. Clair isn’t
next to me in bed. I smell coffee and delicious bacon so I wander
downstairs and find him in the kitchen, cooking me a feast.

“What
should we do today?”
he
asks as he pulls crisp waffles from a waffle iron and sets them on
plates next to bacon and fresh fruit. “I
was thinking a picnic in St. James Park, by the lake. We can relax in
the sun, watch them feed the pelicans…what
do you say?”
He
tops the waffles with sliced berries and whipped cream and hands me a
plate. “It’ll
be lovely, just like you.”

I
smile. He’s
so sweet. “Mmm,
that smells heavenly.”
I
take the plate from him and sip the coffee he’d
already set out for me just the way I like it. “You’re
spoiling me.”

He
grins. “Exactly
my goal. Then you’ll
never want to leave.”

I
take a bite and am awed again by how good a cook he is. “Maybe
you should have gone into culinary arts,”
I
say and he laughs. We eat for a few minutes until I work up the
courage to ask, “Have
you thought any more about what I suggested last night?”

He
gives me a look. “I
was hoping you would sleep that off.”

I
shake my head. “I
just can’t
stand to watch him take advantage of everyone else and get away with
it.” I
tell St. Clair about Crawford kicking the dog, shipping the horse off
to be put down. “He’s
a truly horrible person, Charles.”

“Oh
believe me, I know that better than most,”
he
sighs. “And
I agree that he deserves to pay, but I promised you I’d
give up that life, remember? You didn’t
want me to take those risks.”

I
bite my lip. “I
know.”

He
smiles playfully and nudges me with his elbow. “Have
you changed your mind about how much you’d
miss me?”

“Of
course not.”
I
smile, but it’s
full of mixed emotions. “I
still don’t
want to lose you, or get arrested myself, but…if
the law isn’t
going to deliver justice, how will it ever happen?”

St.
Clair gives me a rueful smile. “This
is exactly what I’ve
been dealing with. It’s
tempting to take the law into your own hands, but Grace, I made you a
promise. I’m
committed to being a better man.”

“I
know, and it means the world to me. But I can’t
just sit back and let him get away with this.”
I
feel my frustration boil up all over again. “He
betrayed your family, he’s
destroyed countless others…I
know one painting isn’t
going to right those wrongs, but at least this way we can take
something he cares about, so he knows how it feels to lose, to be
betrayed like he’s
done to so many others.”

St.
Clair hesitates. “Are
you sure?”

His
gaze is so intent, I have to consider for a second, but yes, I’m
sure. I want to do this. “He
deserves it.”

St.
Clair slowly nods. He leans over and kisses me, full of heat. “Can
I just say how sexy you are right now, all pumped up with righteous
passion?”

I
bat him away, laughing, realizing I’m
excited. I’m
starting to understand St. Clair’s
and Paige’s
love of the chase, and we’ve
barely just begun. “Where
do we start? What’s
first?”
I take a big gulp of coffee. I want to be alert for this.

“First,
we need to make a plan,”
St.
Clair says, and already, I can see the gears of his mind working
behind those intelligent eyes.
“Crawford
keeps the painting in a safe deposit vault in London, so the first
step is reconnaissance. I’ll
make an appointment at the vault, pretend I’m
looking for storage for some of my valuable pieces. We can take a
tour, and check out what we’re
up against.”
He
smiles at me, and I can feel us both buzzing with energy and ready to
go. “Sound
good?”

I
nod, feeling a weird mix of excitement and nerves. “Can’t
wait.”

A
few hours later, picnic plans abandoned, we stand in front of the
vault facility. It’s
a high-end yet nondescript brick structure that could be a warehouse
except for the intense security: cameras posted on the exterior
walls, security keypads and buzzers everywhere, and a set of guards
at the front door.

“Ready?”
St.
Clair asks, squeezing my hand.

My
heart is racing.
I
think that’s
what they call an adrenaline rush, Grace.
Right.
I take a deep breath, and remind myself that nothing we’re
doing right now is breaking the law.
“Ready
as I’ll
ever be.”
I square my shoulders, try to look the part in my designer dress.
Casual, but elegant.

Guards
posted at the doors check our IDs and once we’re
past the front checkpoint, suddenly the warehouse vibe disappears and
it’s
all luxury inside. A posh lobby with marble flooring and gold trim on
the fixtures greets us, a chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, and
there’s
a hush like a bank even though several employees are milling about.

St.
Clair gives the receptionist our name and almost immediately, the
head of the whole outfit, the president of the vault, appears. “Mr.
St. Clair,”
he
says, shaking St. Clair’s
hand enthusiastically. “So
nice to meet you. And you, Ms. Bennett,”
he
says shaking my hand as well. “I’m
Mr. Potts. Shall we get started?”

He
leads us down a long hallway and through a nearly invisible door that
has a keypad mounted to the side. He punches in a few numbers and I
see St. Clair follow the movement of his fingers on the keypad. Potts
isn’t
even trying to hide the numbers!

“I’m
assuming there are cameras at all access points to support the keypad
security?”
St.
Clair says. “I
can’t
take any risks with my assets, you understand.”

Mr.
Potts chuckles. “Of
course, sir. This is simply the first measure.”
The door clicks open and we walk into another hallway, this one lined
with steel doors on each side, dozens of them. We stop at the first.

Mr.
Potts says, “This
is the sample vault; it’s
always empty so we can show prospective clients like yourself the
incredibly secure measures we have in place to protect your
valuables. First, there is a fingerprint scanner to open the door.
You’ll
see there are no handles or locks on the outside and the door is
hermetically sealed.”
He
presses his thumb to a pad and what looks like a piece of the wall
slides aside.

“Fingerprints
can be forged,”
St.
Clair points out.

“Absolutely,
which is why we move on to phase three.”
Potts
looks almost gleeful as he proudly displays the next step in their
security. Once the door is open, another panel slides out.

“Next,
there are dual key locks and another keypad with a thirteen digit
code—with
only one allowed entry before it locks you out.”
Potts
enters the codes, turns a key, and we step into the vault. It’s
a white, blank space with more doors along the wall. “Inside
you can see there are high-tech safes available upon request for the
utmost in protection.”
He
points out, “Cameras
line all the hallways as well as the vaults themselves. If any alarm
is tripped, all doors automatically close and seal shut, and both our
security and the local police are alerted.”
Mr. Potts smiles at us proudly. “As
you can see, we take security very seriously.”