The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (6 page)

He
grins. “I
want you to select the honorees.”

I
catch my tongue before blurting out
Me?
like a moron. “Are
you sure? It wasn’t
so long ago I was a student myself.”

He
leads me down a hallway. “I
want to show you something.”
We stop in front of a studio space, and I peer through the big glass
window at five easels set up, with painters focused and working
behind each. A professor wanders the room, critiquing, wiggling her
fingers at some folks and gesturing wildly in sweeping motion with
her arms at others.

The
smell of paint and just-stretched canvas is thick in the air. I take
a deep breath, letting memories of classes and afternoons spent with
my brush guiding my hand wash over me. “This
takes me back.”

“Exactly,”
St. Clair
says. He points to the students, who don’t
pay any attention to us. In the zone. “You
know how much this will mean to those students, and you have no
ulterior motives or political agenda, so you are the perfect person
to choose the winners.”

“But
who’s
to say what the best really is?”
I ask, nervous.

He
raises an eyebrow. “Well,
you, for one, being my art consultant. That’s
part of your job.”

I
frown. “You
know what I mean, right? Art is so subjective—why
should my opinion matter more than someone else’s?”

“Because
it does.”
St. Clair looks at me. “You
have a gift at seeing the deeper emotion of a piece. It’s
why I hired you. Your opinion matters more than anyone’s.”

I
have to look away.

I
watch the students working, their faces concentrated, their brushes
dipping and lifting from canvas to palette. I think about what
possibilities may have been out there for me if I’d
been able to finish my scholarship at the prestigious east coast
college where I met Paige. What an award like this would have meant
for me.

“Someone’s
life is going to change dramatically after this,”
I tell him.
Not unlike mine did recently. The universe is funny like that, giving
us the thing we want only after we’ve
given up hope. Maybe because it’s
then that we are finally willing to take a risk.

“Just
follow your instincts,” he
reassures me.

We
walk back to the main entrance, but fatigue hits me like a bullet
train and I’m
suddenly too tired to stand. I wobble a little and St. Clair steadies
me. “You
okay?”

“I
think I may need to lie down.”

He
chuckles softly. “I
told you, jet-lag is no joke.” He
slips an arm around me. “Now,
the TSA, that’s
a joke.”

“Haha,”
I say, but
I’m
practically letting him carry me as we begin walking back to the
front of the building. “Sorry
to be such a pain.”

“Not
at all,” he
says, always a gentleman. “Let’s
get you back to the apartment so you can sleep. We have plenty of
time for this, so take tomorrow to rest and settle in.”

“Thanks,”
I murmur. A
whole day to explore! My tired brain is already racing with the
possibilities, so I know I’d
better take advantage of this opportunity to rest while I can.

I
sleep like the dead for fifteen hours straight. St. Clair was right
about jet-lag being no joke, but I wake feeling refreshed and
rejuvenated, and ready to take on the world. How could I not be? I’m
in London: international center of art and culture—
and sexy accents. Though St. Clair’s
is still my favorite.

I
text Paige.
I’m
here, lover! Want to have lunch today?

I
make a pot of tea and sip as I watch the light play off the orange
and pink houses on this block, the white trim like reflectors in the
morning sun. Paige writes back,
OMG,
yes!! Meet me at the Covent Garden market. 2 hours?

I
write,
Tips
for getting there?

Tube
it up!
She replies.
There’s
a Covent Garden stop. Excited to see you!

My
chest constricts. It’s
been so long.
ME
TOO.

I
shower and slip into a casual dress—London
is generally dressier than San Francisco, but it’s
still a weekday afternoon—and
head out into the street feeling like I always imagined it would feel
to live abroad: glamorous, thrilling, a little bit scary. Things are
new, but that makes them exciting, and I feel like a whole new
version of myself, too.

I
head down the steps to the Tube station under the big red and white
circle icon, figure out how to buy a subway pass, and step through
the turnstile. I take a picture of the Mind the Gap sign, for Fred
back home, who wants that painted on his kitchen wall someday. The
London Underground train seems much cleaner than BART, and it moves
fast, though there’s
not much to see since it is, after all, underground.

I
exit at Covent Garden and find myself in a narrow maze of old cobbled
streets. Here, the stores are crammed in older buildings, and there
are a ton of tourists watching street performers by the side of the
road. I get my bearings, and head down the hill to where a covered
market is filled with food and craft stalls, vendors and shoppers
milling about like a school of fish. I see Paige sitting at a café
right on the
edge of the crowd. I quicken my pace, and she jumps up from the table
when she sees me. “Gracie!”

“Paigie!”

We
squeal and hug, take a step back to look at each other and then hug
again. “It’s
been so long,” I
say, and I start to tear up, feeling silly.

“I
know!” she
says. “I
missed you too much!”

“Me
too.” We
hug again, until I glance at the other café
patrons and
notice a few frowns. “Okay,
okay, people are starting to stare,”
I say,
releasing my grip on my best friend.

“Screw
‘em,”
she says, but
she sits down without a fight. “The
Brits are a little weird about PDA,”
she admits.

I
sit in the chair opposite her. “You
look amazing!”

“It’s
the working so much you don’t
have time to eat diet,” she
jokes. “So
do you!”

“Thanks,”
I say,
relaxing. “Although
I’m
definitely not on a diet. I’m
starving. What shall we get?”

Paige
holds up a silver pot. “English
breakfast tea? If you’re
going to live here, you better tea like a Londoner.”

“Sure.”
I’m
usually a fan of herbal teas, but when in Rome, or, er, England,
right?

“You’ll
want to add cream and sugar.” She
pours dark brown liquid into our shiny white mugs. “I
also ordered you an Eggs Benedict. Still your favorite?”

“You
are the best.”

“I
know.” Paige
grins, her full pouty lips upturning into the gorgeous smile that
broke so many boys’ hearts
in college. “Unfortunately,
even I don’t
seem to be able to crack the code of this bastard art thief.”

“Still
no leads on the Reubens painting?” I
dump a packet of sugar into my cup and a splash of cream.
“It’s
been almost a month now.”

“That
Interpol guy Lennox thinks it’s
related to that new museum theft in San Fran, but it feels like a
cold trail to me.”
She shakes her head.

“Oh,
I heard about that.” That
was the museum St. Clair took me to for our brown bag picnic. We even
walked past the painting that was taken. “I
wonder who would want to steal these pieces—what
for? There haven’t
been any black market sales reported, but there’ve
also been no ransom calls or letters, which would make the most sense
if the thieves aren’t
selling off the paintings…so
why would someone be hoarding all this art?”

“We
have no idea, and that’s
the problem.” Paige
sighs. “There’s
no pattern to the thefts—no
time of day or MO similarities, the paintings themselves are all from
different time periods and artists and countries of origin, and he
hasn’t
left a shred of real evidence. It’s
baffling.”

“Like
a puzzle.”

“Except
this one seems unsolvable, and I am not going to become one of those
characters in a TV drama who gives up her life and her sanity—not
to mention her figure—to
stare at some case she can’t
crack.”
Paige grins.

“But
don’t
you like the chase?” I
know she does, or she at least loves chasing all the men she sets her
eyes on.

“Yeah,
I love the chase, but I also love to get the guy, too. Do you know
how awesome it is to catch a snooty investor filing a false claim, or
bust someone for fraud?”
Paige’s
eyes light up.

I
laugh. “You’re
like insurance fraud Dirty Harry.”

“Damn
straight!” She
grins. “But
this thief is just too good, and the cops aren’t
good enough. The leads are played out, the trail’s
going cold, and I’m
getting bored.” She
sips her tea. “I
wish they would give me something else to work on.”

The
waiter brings our food and it smells delicious. I dig in as Paige
says, “You
know what’s
not boring?” I
groan. “That’s
right—you
bumping nasties with the hottie billionaire. Give me the scoop,
woman!”

I
swallow a mouthful of heavenly hollandaise sauce. “There
isn’t
a lot to tell, really. I’ve
told him I want to keep things professional, and he’s
been respecting that.”

“Professional
only?
Please
.”
Paige eyes me
with skepticism. “You
can suddenly be just coworkers? How’s
that working out for you?”

“He’s
my boss, Paige. I want to earn his respect, not blow this opportunity
to advance my career.”

“It’s
the blowing that helps you keep the job, girl,”
she jokes.

“Haha.”
I roll my
eyes. “Seriously.
This matters to me. I want to do this right.”
I feel a
little like a stick in the mud, but Paige knows how hard I’ve
worked to get here, what hurdles I’ve
had to clear for this opportunity.

“I
get it, Grace, I do.”

I
take another sip of my tea, pleasantly surprised to find that I like
it, and have to keep from spitting it out when Paige says,
“But
dear God, that ass!”

We
burst into giggles and it feels like the old days, like we’re
sitting in our pajamas eating popcorn and watching Netflix. “It
is definitely distracting,” I
admit. “I’m
trying to do a good job, stay focused on the work…but
I’ve
never met a man like him before.”

“You
mean sexy, rich, and charming as all hell?”

“Exactly!”
I think of
him encouraging my painting and telling me the passion will come
again, him getting me to my apartment when jet-lag knocked me out.
“And
sweet and kind and generous…”

“Uh,
oh,” Paige
says, reaching across the table to press the back of her hand against
my forehead. “Someone’s
got it bad.”

I
swat her hand away. “It’s
not a fever. It’s
an inappropriate crush. Remember that Anthropology TA you dated?”

“Carl.”
She makes a
grossed out face and I laugh.

“Carl!”

“It
was three dates,” she
says.

I
grimace. “His
feet left black marks on our carpet.”

She
points at me. “What
about Roman?”

“Oh,
God,” I
say, covering my face with my hands, ashamed.

“Didn’t
he ask to have a threesome on your first date?”

“Yeah,
with you.”

Paige
laughs. “That’s
right!”

“He
was so surprised I said no.” We
both crack up and it’s
a wonder they don’t
ask us to leave, we’re
being so loud.

“I
missed this,” Paige
says when we’ve
giggled ourselves silly and out of breath. “It’s
so great to see you in person.”

“Me
too. So much. I can’t
wait to see you more now.”

“Tru
dat,” she
says and we burst into another fit of laughter.

Paige
goes back to work after lunch, and I take a stroll around the
neighborhood, just taking it all in. Then I see an email on my phone
from Maisie: still managing to be efficient, even from across an
ocean.
Here
are the student portfolios.
I can’t
wait to dig in.

I’m
standing in front of a gorgeous park—a
green expanse like a golf course with a small pond in the center—and
I decide that a lovely pastoral setting like this might ease the
pressure of my choice a little. Maybe. At the very least, it will be
pretty, and I can never turn down something beautiful.

I
follow a dirt path down to the pond. Mothers push strollers and
elderly women walk tiny dogs past cute white metal benches and little
trees growing pink and orange flowers. I sit on a bench and pull my
tablet from my bag to better see the art. I angle the screen so it’s
shaded by trees above and get to work.

There
are 250 graduating seniors and I can choose just ten final projects.
Ten students whose careers are going to potentially be catapulted
into the stratosphere. This is a life-changing award, and I feel like
I’m
in no position to be dealing out people’s
fates. Just a few weeks ago, I was in their shoes, applying for an
internship with fierce competition and hoping that the selection
committee would see my talents, hoping that I could show them what I
was worth.

My
phone pings. St. Clair writes,
How’re
your sea legs? You up for dinner tonight?

I
smile as I type back,
Yes!
Though my legs make no promises.
I hit send before I realize how suggestive that sounds. Crap! Was
that too much, past the line of cute flirty and into desperate bar
slut-y?

Pick
you up at 8
.
He adds a winky face emoticon and I know it’s
silly and so middle-school, but I do a little twirl holding my phone
to my chest even though I’m
in public. And in England, where public emotion is generally frowned
upon.

I
don’t
care. I can’t
wait.

St.
Clair opens the car door for me and I step out onto a busy street,
pulsing with lights and chatter and after-work drinkers. “Welcome
to Soho,” he
says. I stand sort of shell-shocked for a minute as my eyes adjust to
the barrage of color. “Don’t
worry, the restaurant won’t
be this bright.”