The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (12 page)

I
get up to leave, but he catches me on my way to the door, and pulls
me in, close to his chest. “Maybe
dinner tonight instead?” he
says, low, and I can see the desire in his eyes. He traces the
outline of my lips with his fingertip, and I can’t
help but melt against him.

My
mind may be torn and conflicted, but my body has no doubt.

He
kisses me, and I can’t
help it: I kiss him back.

My
guilt is as heavy as a statue.

I
walk to meet Lennox at the address he gave me: the Green Frog’s
Pub in Soho. It’s
a small, sort of old fashioned English bar with lots of wood and
flags outside, not as hip and modern as the other neighborhood spots.
I bet that’s
why Lennox chose it—not
as many people to overhear a discreet midday conversation.

My
heart is racing by the time I step through the door. I don’t
know what my game plan is, I just know, I need to find out more. It’s
going to be tricky dealing with Lennox, but I remind myself: he needs
my help. He doesn’t
know about St. Clair’s
calendar, and I don’t
have to tell him just yet, not until I’m
sure.

Inside,
the pub is dim and quiet. I find Lennox sitting in a small back room,
empty save for one other occupied table that houses two men talking
low and intently.

“I
feel like we’re
in a gangster movie,” I
say as I sit down. “Are
you actually a cop?” I
joke, but I really am nervous. I snuck out of the office even though
I’m
sure St. Clair’s
not following me. I feel like I’m
doing something shady, like I should be cloaked and slipping out into
the shadows under the cover of darkness.

A
ghost of a smile tugs at Nick’s
lips. “I
thought you might be more comfortable somewhere inconspicuous.”

“Okay.”
I jiggle my
leg, not sure what to say and full of nervous energy.

Lennox
studies me and then says, “You’ve
found something, haven’t
you?”

I
stop shaking and jerk my head at him. “No.”
Damn! I
really need to work on being cool under pressure. “I
just want to know more about the case.”
I force
myself to calm down. “These
are big accusations you’re
throwing around. And if it is St. Clair, then that might make me
guilty, too. An accessory or something like that. I need to know what
I’m
dealing with.”

Nick
nods. At least he looks like he believes me now.

“I
knew you weren’t
stupid,” he
says. “You’re
right, you need to think about yourself. You might have been an
accomplice to his crimes without even realizing it, and that could
get you in big trouble. Unless you cooperate now. Then I can help
you, cut a deal.”

“You
mean, testify against him?” My
stomach drops. “But
I told you, I don’t
know anything.”

Anything
concrete, at least.

“You
don’t
know that for sure.” Nick
leans forward. “We
need to go over everything you’ve
seen and heard since you met him. There must be something you’re
overlooking. Tell me what you know. It’s
the only way we can get you out of this mess.”

I
study him for a minute. He looks so eager.

That’s
when I realize: I’m
not the one who needs help. He does.

“You
really don’t
have anything on him, do you?”

Nick
frowns. “I
know he’s
guilty.”

“But
that’s
not enough, not to arrest him, or have any chance of winning a
trial.” I
sit back, feeling more in control. “You’ve
got nothing.”

Lennox
leans back into the leather booth and strokes his stubble. He makes a
tiny shrugging motion like he’s
decided it can’t
hurt to tell me. “Okay,
Grace, here’s
the deal. I checked his travel and the dates match up. I know St.
Clair was in the city of each stolen painting on or near the date of
each robbery.”

I
feel weirdly relieved. If Lennox already knows that, I don’t
have to tell him – or
betray St. Clair. But then it hits me –
Lennox does
have some evidence, after all.

He
watches my reaction. “You
don’t
seem surprised.”

“St.
Clair travels a lot. So do many other high-profile businessmen,”
I say, trying
to keep cool. “I
bet there are dozens of people whose travel patterns fit the same
dates.”

“But
St. Clair is the one who fits the psychological profile,”
Lennox says,
looking stubborn. “This
guy has rule-breaker all over him. Look at his family, his
upbringing. He was punished for breaking his father’s
strict guidelines and now he won’t
play by anyone’s
rules, including the law.”

“Lots
of people were raised with strict parents.”
I find myself defending him, even though I don’t
know why.

“Yes,
but combine that with his need to win, to possess anything he wants…”
Lennox
shrugs. “His
profile speaks for itself. He has motive, he has means, and we can
prove he had opportunity. Lots of it.”

“So
according to you, all rich men raised by overbearing fathers are
destined to become white collar criminals?”

He
shrugs. “Not
all. But definitely this one.”

My
mind races. Lennox hasn’t
told me anything I don’t
know – and
all his evidence so far is circumstantial. A coincidence. It’s
certainly not enough for a jury to be convinced. That means he’s
not even close to arresting St. Clair.

Why
does that make me feel relieved?

“What
I’m
hearing is a whole lot of theory, and no hard evidence,”
I tell him,
even though it all seems plenty damning to me.

“That’s
where you come in.” He
leans in, his brown eyes intense and sharp. “Career
criminals like St. Clair are good, smart. Hard to catch. And I’ll
tell you something else—I
need a break in this case soon or I’ll
lose it. That’s
the truth. He’ll
make a mistake eventually, but by then my bosses will be onto the
next thief.”

“Maybe
you’ll
be able to catch that guy.”

“I’m
going to catch this one,” Lennox
vows. “You
can get close to St. Clair, Grace. I need your help to get the proof
we both need.”

“You
want me to spy on him?” That’s
too far. “I
won’t
betray him like that.”

“It’s
not betrayal! You’d
be bringing him to justice.” Lennox
looks around to make sure no one heard him.

“But
what if he’s
innocent?” I
still have hope that he is. He has to be.

Lennox
smirks, like he knows I’m
clutching at straws. “Well,
then you won’t
find anything, will you? And I’ll
have to move on. Everyone wins.”

He’s
good. It’s
a Catch-22 for me: either tell him to go to hell and then risk
getting charged as an accessory to St. Clair’s
crimes, or spy on the man I care about in order to prove his
innocence.

But
I don’t
have to play Lennox’s
games, I remind myself. I can buy some time, and figure out what I’m
really going to do next.

“I
shouldn’t
have come here,” I
say, rising from the chair. “I
have to go.”

Lennox
sighs. “He’s
not innocent, Grace. Trust me, he’s
behind these heists.”

That’s
the thing, I don’t
trust him. I’m
not sure if I trust St. Clair fully right now either, but I trust how
I feel when we’re
together, trust that his sweet caresses are genuine, his generosity
not a cover for ulterior motives. “Sometimes
instincts are wrong,”
I point out.

“They
certainly are,”
he says as I head for the door.

Outside,
I walk along a cobblestone path that winds along the Thames. I watch
the grey water lap at the embankment, my mind racing to figure out
what to make of this situation.

Is
it a mistake to believe in St. Clair? To believe in the man who has
made me feel special and safe, who makes me laugh and makes me weak
in the knees, the man who believed in me right from the start, even
when no one else did? This whole fairy tale job-slash-romance has
seemed too good to be true from the get-go, but now that might really
be the case.

A
couple strolls by arm in arm, snuggled up in each other and oblivious
to the world, and despite everything, I wish St. Clair was here with
me right now. I wish he were here to watch the way the sunlight’s
reflection shimmers on the dark water’s
surface, to enjoy the cool air on our skin, to walk along this river
holding hands. He is the person I most want to ask for advice about
this whole situation, the person I most want to spend time with, no
matter what I’m
doing.

It
hits me then: why I didn’t
come clean to Lennox about my suspicions, or take his deal to
investigate St. Clair and find evidence.

After
everything, I still want to protect St. Clair. To be with him
– and
show him the same faith and belief he’s
shown in me.

I
can’t
help it. I’ve
fallen in love with him.

I
spend the next three days feeling like a spy, torn between what
Lennox told me and my own growing feelings for St. Clair. I try to
distract myself from the battle my brain is waging against my heart
with some solid time in the art studio, but even with all the easels
and brushes and paints I could ever want at my fingertips, my work
feels forced. After filling a few canvases with abstract color
studies (all of which are blue, and look a lot like the shade of St.
Clair’s
eyes), I give up and start spending my free time walking around the
neighborhood, lost in thought.

Part
of me wants to call Nona, ask for advice, admit that I’m
in way over my head. But when I left the di Fiores, I was full of
excitement and anticipation about this trip. The last thing I want is
for them to worry about me from all the way in San Francisco, or
worse—be
disappointed in my decision to come here, my decision to jump into
things with Charles so fast. In the end I decide to wait things out
for now—I’m
not ready to make a move until I know more.

In
the meantime I watch St. Clair for anything suspicious or out of the
ordinary, but I see nothing that raises any red flags. If anything,
he’s
more perfect than ever: planning little sightseeing trips around the
city for me, surprising me with a romantic dinner or bouquet of
roses, being more open and affectionate than I’ve
ever seen before.

He’s
the sweet, charming, sexy, funny guy I fell in love with…and
yet Lennox’s
certainty and the things I saw still have me questioning St. Clair’s
motives. How well do I really know him? If I keep getting closer,
keep risking my heart, what happens if I’m
wrong?

Can
I be in love with a man who might be a criminal?

“Ready?”
St. Clair
lifts a tuxedoed arm for me to take as I step out of the cab. It’s
the night of the big showcase exhibition at the London College of
Art. I can hear muted laughter and conversation and jazzy music from
inside the party, but I’m
nervous. The artists I selected tonight will reflect on St. Clair.
He’s
the patron after all, and I don’t
want to let him down.

I
inhale and exhale, following a tip from my mom for stressful
situations, and smile at him. “Ready.”

Together,
we step into the grand main room of the gallery at the college.
Tonight, it showcases the student art pieces I selected. Canvases,
sculpture, and mixed media pieces sit or stand or hang from or on
dazzling displays around the room, and I’m
proud of the diversity of the art.

St.
Clair whispers, “No
one has shouted in outrage at any of the choices, so that’s
a good sign.” He’s
teasing, I can tell.

“Maybe
they’re
being polite, and waiting until after the canapés
before they riot.”

St.
Clair chuckles, and leads me into the crowd. It’s
a well-dressed mix of London society and prominent art-world people.
“I
can see the headlines now: Scandal at the school of art!”

“Stop!”
I swat at him
playfully with my beaded clutch. “I’m
nervous enough!”

He
squeezes my hand and tilts his head down to plant the lightest of
kisses on my cheek. “You
have nothing to be nervous about. Just relax and enjoy the fruits of
all your labors. They’re
going to love it.”

We
circulate through the room, checking out the full size final projects
of the students. Some I hadn’t
seen in all their full sized glory, like the twelve foot sculpture of
Goliath, foot raised, about to squish a terrified three foot David,
his slingshot discarded on the ground, or the mixed media
installation that includes a piece of a toilet. I look around, still
nervous, but everyone seems to be enjoying the art and having a good
time.

No
riots yet.

“Congratulations,”
St. Clair
says to each student artist as we stop and study their work. He
introduces me to all of them, and talks about their pieces in depth.
It’s
clear he studied all the files I gave him, and now he asks great
questions, engaging them to talk about their passion.

I
love this part. It’s
so fun to see the artists in their element, explaining their
aesthetic choices, their ideas and the process of bringing those
ideas to life. It makes me want to get back in the saddle, to paint
something worth showing, worth talking about. I want to feel that
passionate about creating again.

St.
Clair makes sure to shake each student’s
hand before we move on, and he puts everyone, including me, at ease.
He’s
charismatic and gorgeous, as usual, and women find ways to touch him
all night, patting his shoulder or arm, commenting on his suit, his
hair.

One
woman is so bold she says a variation of the same line as the others,
“Your
suit looks so luscious. What’s
it made of?” except
she slides her hand along the top of his thigh to find out. He
manages to keep a straight face and discreetly remove her hand while
thanking her for her admiration.