The Art of Stealing Hearts (7 page)

“Can
I help you?” The
hostess wears a tiny little hat on half her head. She looks me up and
down and doesn’t
smile. “Do
you have a reservation?”

“St.
Clair?” I
ask and the hostess’s
demeanor immediately changes.

“Oh,
of course!” She
smiles broadly. “Right
this way, please, watch your step.”

She
seats me at a table by the window with a gorgeous view of the
twinkling lights of San Francisco. The tiered shadows of the city
skyline and the darkness of the bay beyond spread out before me. It
feels like I’m
on top of the world. Not two seconds pass before a waiter is asking
if I would like a cocktail. I pick something from the long list on
the table, and he hurries away.

I
settle back, thinking how nice it is to not be the one running into
the kitchen and bringing drinks. Though, this is a gorgeous
restaurant to be working in. The moody blue lighting pools all around
me. Deep brown oak wood beams show in the ceiling and the thick
wooden tables look like slabs sliced right off redwoods. Leather
seats, deep cushions. Recessed light above and tabletop candles
complete the look: classy, romantic.

“Your
drink,” the
waiter says. “Can
I get you anything else while you wait for your companion?”

“No
thanks,” I
say, impressed at all the attention I’m
getting just because I used St. Clair’s
name, but as soon as he’s
gone I realize I haven’t
eaten since my late breakfast. Beautifully composed trays of food
pass by—dumplings
in red, orange and white, plates of cooked veggies in sauces and
dough balls and crispy fried pockets of goodness packed with things
that smell like heaven…

“I’m
so sorry I’m
late,” St.
Clair says, appearing suddenly at my side. I bob out of my seat as he
bends down to kiss my cheek.

“Sorry!”
I blurt, as I
knock right into him.

He
smiles. “How
about we try that again?”

Resting
one hand on my arm, he leans in and kisses my cheek. This time, I
stay still, savoring the feel of his mouth brushing lightly against
my skin.

“I
hope you’re
not too hungry,” he
says, moving to sit opposite. I drop back into my chair, my heart
suddenly pounding.

“I’m
fine,” I
say just as my stomach rumbles. I’m
mortified, but he laughs, his dimples showing.

He
has dimples too?

“Let’s
get that seen to.” He
only has to make eye contact before two waiters are hurrying to our
table. “We’d
like the chef’s
sampler plate—he
knows what I like—and
I’ll
have whatever fruity drink my date is enjoying.”

“Very
good, sir,” the
waiter says and leaves.

St.
Clair turns to me, gives me the full strength of his gaze. There’s
a slight lift of one eyebrow and a playful upward tilt of his mouth
that hints at a smile waiting to be unleashed. “So,
Grace.” His
blue eyes are penetrating. “Now
that we have a chance to get to know each other…who
are you?”

My
mind goes blank. “Uh,
well, besides working at Carringer’s
I’m
also a waitress and an art student.”

“Where
do you attend school?”

“Oh,
well, I graduated last year from—
uh, with an
art degree.” I
stop before I can tell him about my less than illustrious pedigree. I
still remember the way Lydia sneered, so I turn the conversation
around. “How
about you?”

“I
studied at Oxford and Harvard, finance,”
he says
casually. “But
my life experiences have always been more valuable to me.”

I
nod, unable to make my mouth move.
What
is wrong with me?!
I take a sip of my drink and he glances out the window.
Say
something!
“Pretty
out there,” I
manage and realize I sound like a four year old.

“Did
you grow up in the city?” he
asks.

“East
Bay,” I
manage to reply. “Oakland.
It was kind of sketchy in our neighborhood, but Mom always said it
made things more interesting. There was a lot of different art and
culture—”

“Charles
St. Clair?” A
gorgeous woman in a shimmering cocktail dress stands next to our
table in four inch heels, towering over us.

He
looks surprised. “Have
we met?”

“No,
I just had to come over and say hello,”
she gushes.
“You
are so smart, and your piece in Newsweek was just so insightful.”
Her face
looks familiar and I search to place it.

“Thank
you.” St
Clair is polite. “That’s
nice of you to say.”

The
woman gives him a practiced sexy half smile and extends her hand.
“Lori
Sloane.”

Seriously?
I stare at her in disbelief. Now I recognize her, she’s
a famous Hollywood actress. I’ve
only ever seen her in the gossip magazines, but here she is, looking
at St. Clair like she wants to eat him right up. She holds his hand
for a beat too long before she lets go.

“This
is my friend, Grace,” St.
Clair says, gesturing to me. I fake a smile and try to ignore the
sting of his word choice. Of course we’re
friends. How else would he introduce me?

Lori
glances my way for a split second. “You
must come visit me in L.A. next month.”
She bats her
eyelashes and places her hand on his arm. “We
can relax by the pool all day and drink all night.”
She giggles
and leans so he can make sure to see her cleavage.

“My
schedule is a little busy,” he
says.

“Oh,
you’ll
make time. It’ll
be positively fabulous!” She
flips her long blonde hair and squeezes Charles’
bicep. “I’ll
see you—soon.”
She winks and
walks away and I am dumbfounded. A ten-foot tall goddess of a starlet
just hit on my date.

“I’m
so sorry,” he
apologizes, giving me a rueful look as soon as Lori is out of
earshot.

“It’s
fine,” I
lie, but now I really feel out of my league. “I’m
sure that kind of thing happens to you all the time.”

“Maybe
we should have gone somewhere quieter.”
He refolds
his napkin, looking uncomfortable.

“It’d
be the same wherever we go,” I
say, trying to make my voice light. “I
mean, of course people are going to recognize you.”

“You
didn’t,”
he points
out, with a teasing grin.

I
flush. “Other
people are much more in the know than I am,”
I say.

“Well,”
he says,
leaning back. “I
want to know more about you.” His
blue eyes are clear, honest, and I almost believe it’s
not a line he’s
used before.

The
food arrives in a whirlwind of dozens of trays, bamboo baskets and
plates of all shapes and sizes until our table is covered with enough
food to feed a small army. My mouth waters and my stomach growls
again, loud enough that Charles laughs and I can tell this is his
real laugh, the unguarded laugh, and it’s
like a switch flips in my brain. So I’m
not a Hollywood star, but he asked
me
out. Enough insecurity, I need to relax and start enjoying the night.

“This
looks amazing,” I
sigh happily.

“Dig
in!” he
says, lifting a steamer basket full of dumplings. “The
shu mai here are out of this world.”

They
are. Like little pork pillows of joy, salty and savory and delicious.
Everything is incredible. I wolf down a doughy bun filled with pork,
several assorted dumplings, and some fried noodles before I realize
I’m
not being very ladylike. “Sorry,”
I giggle,
pausing with my chopsticks halfway to my mouth. “I
guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

“Don’t
apologize for enjoying yourself,” he
smiles, digging into his own food. “It’s
nice to see a woman who actually eats her food instead of making it
dance around the plate.”

I
laugh. “Well
I’m
sure those women look better than I do.”

“You
look great,” he
says, and the look in his eyes tells me it’s
not just a line.

I
flush.
You
too
.
I take a sip of water to cool down. “So
you’re
a business mogul?”

St.
Clair laughs. “You
could put it like that. I run the financial services company my dad
started—high
level banking, essentially. But I took the firm global, hired some
people smarter than me, and now the business basically runs itself.”

“I
doubt that.” I
smile. “You’re
just being modest.”

He
chuckles. “Is
it working?”

“Hmmm,”
I pretend to
think. “We’ll
have to see.”

“What
about you?” St.
Clair asks. “What
made you fall in love with art in the first place?”

“My
mom was an artist,” I
reply, smiling. “She
used to take me to the city all the time, to museums and galleries.
She’s
the one who taught me how to paint.”

St.
Clair raises an eyebrow. “So
you’re
an artist too.”

“No,”
I say
quickly. “Just
for fun. I’m
not as talented as my mom. I love to see the masterpieces up close.
That Rubens yesterday…” I
trail off, thinking about the beauty of that canvas.

“I
can’t
agree more,” he
says. “It’s
going in my permanent collection. Thank you again,”
he adds. “I’m
glad you didn’t
let it get away.”

“I
still can’t
believe I bid that high!” I
shake my head.

“I
had an instinct about you,” St.
Clair grins. “I
knew you’d
come through.”

“I
heard the other bidder talking about how he just wanted the art for
its investment value,” I
admit. “He
didn’t
care about the work itself. It seemed wrong to let him take it.”

“Andrew
Tate?” I
nod. St. Clair grimaces. “I’m
usually not one to speak ill of anyone, but that guy is an asshole.”

I
laugh. “I
called him Asshole Andrew in my head all night.”

Charles
laughs. “I’ve
said it to his face many times. He always tries to beat me out at the
auctions. I got to see the Rubens collection in Paris a few years
ago,” he
adds. “Actually,
it was an entire Baroque exhibit. You would have loved it.”

“Don’t
make me swoon,” I
say and he laughs again, the genuine laugh that’s
full of the kind of joy that’s
so sweet and innocent it makes you laugh too. “I
would love to go to Paris.”

“You
haven’t
been?”

I
shake my head. “I
haven’t
been anywhere. I was planning to study abroad in college, but...that
didn’t
work out. I’ve
never left the country.” I
stop, wondering if that makes me sound unsophisticated, but St. Clair
is still looking interested.

“Where
would you go if you had the chance?”

“Where
wouldn’t
I?” I
laugh. “Italy,
Spain, Greece…just
think of the art. Renaissance paintings and classical sculpture…”

“A
true romantic,” he
says, and the lights dim suddenly, casting the room in deeper blue
shadows.

I
squint at him. “Did
you plan that?”

He
smiles, dimples appearing in his sculpted cheeks. “You’ll
never know.”

“A
man of mystery,” I
say, hoping that won’t
be true for too long. This is fun, getting to talk and joke about art
with someone else who cares as much as I do. Now that I’m
relaxing, I realize I haven’t
laughed this much in years.

“What
happened to your plans?” he
asks, sipping his drink. “You
said you were set to travel. What changed? If you don’t
mind me asking,” he
adds.

I
pause, deliberating. “My
mom got sick,” I
finally tell him. “I
dropped out of college and came home to take care of her.”

“That’s
an incredible sacrifice,” he
says, reaching across the table to take my hand. The weight of it is
comforting, even as the touch sends electricity racing across my
skin.

I
shrug, uncomfortable. “It
wasn’t
a choice. You would have done the same for your parents.”

St.
Clair gives a wry smile. “Perhaps.
You must love her very much.”

My
heart aches. “She
didn’t
make it,” I
admit quietly. “She
passed last year.”

Charles
is silent for a moment as he squeezes my hand. “I
am so sorry. I lost my brother when I was sixteen,”
he says
gently. “I
know it sounds trite, but I understand how hard it can be, going
through something like this. If you ever need to talk…”
He looks at
me with openness, like we share something, just the two of us. “I’m
here for you if you want me to be. I mean it.”

It’s
suddenly too much. Revealing so much of myself to him, feeling like
he sees me, understands me, after I’ve
been all alone for so long. It’s
overwhelming.

“I’m
sorry, will you excuse me for a minute?”
I bolt up
from my seat.

“Is
everything all right?” he
asks, standing as I stand like a perfect gentleman.

“I’m
fine, I just need to visit the ladies’
room. Be
right back.” I
walk away like I’m
not having a panic attack inside. What am I doing here? Who do I
think I am, out at a fancy restaurant in designer clothes with a
gorgeous, smart man – not
to mention, worth billions?

But
it’s
not about the money, it’s
about him. He’s
kind, and perceptive, and actually cares about what I think. That’s
about as rare as a unicorn in this city. There has to be a catch.
It’s
not insecurity, it’s
just plain common sense that makes me wonder what he sees in me.

In
the bathroom I run cold water and splash a little on my cheeks and on
my neck to calm down. I take a deep breath and see myself in the
mirror, eyes still rimmed with kohl pencil, hair still pinned and
loosely falling like a prom ‘do,
like I’m
dressed up for a ball where I don’t
really belong.

St.
Clair sure seems like Prince Charming, except this is real life and
not a fairy tale. Not everyone gets happily ever afters here.

“You
can always choose to be happy,” my
mom used to say.

“No
you can’t,”
I retorted
once, after a first boyfriend broke my heart. “What
if they leave you behind?”