The Art of Stealing Forever (7 page)

“Yes,
it certainly looks to be the case,”
St.
Clair says, which is like the understatement of the year. This place
would give Fort Knox a run for its money. It’s
impenetrable, unbreachable.

My
heart sinks just looking around. How the hell are we going to beat
all this?

“We’re
not,” St.
Clair answers me, once we’ve
left and are far enough away from the vault to discuss our plans in
peace. “That’s
serious stuff in there, all the best security protocols.”

“But
you can beat it, right?”
I
ask hopefully. “You’ve
done this before, tons of times.”

St.
Clair smiles. “Carringer’s,
the museums, they were all a cake walk compared to this. Those places
had people coming and going, and there are always cracks to slip
through. Here, there are no cracks. No one gets near those vaults
who’s
not supposed to. Including us.”

I
feel my hopes deflate. “Well,
I guess we tried,”
I
say, but my voice is heavy with disappointment.

St.
Clair glances at me as we cross the street into a bustling area full
of boutiques and cafes. He looks amused. “Are
you always so quick to give up? That’s
not the Grace I know.”

“What?”

“I
thought you wanted to do this.”

I’m
confused. “But
you just said—”

“I
said we couldn’t
break in
there
.”
He
grins. “So
we’ll
just have to make Crawford move the painting somewhere else.
Somewhere with less security.”

I’m
intrigued, and impressed. He thinks of everything, his mind always a
step ahead. No wonder he spent so many years foiling the cops. “You
are a genius,” I
say.

He
pretends to preen. “Now
she sees my brilliance!”

I
laugh and elbow him lightly. “Okay,
so where? How?”

He
gives me a mysterious smile. “I’ll
think of something. Now, though, I have to be getting to a meeting.”
He
pulls me in for a kiss. “You
okay to get home?”

“Of
course,” I
say. “I
love exploring this city.”

I
kiss him again, deeper, not caring who else is around. His mouth
meets mine and it’s
still the knee-weakening, foot popping, butterflies in my stomach
spark as the very first time. He trails a kiss to the side of my neck
and my pulse speeds up, heat rising up my chest. “Hold
that thought,”
he
whispers, sending shivers down my body as he grins and walks away.

I
inhale his scent. “Oh,
I will,” I
say and I watch his tight ass as he jogs down the street.

I’m
still feeling the imprint of his lips as I stroll back along the
street. The bakeries and cafés
blur, and soon I lose track of my direction. I’m
still so caught up in the shivering excitement of St. Clair’s
touch –
and
the intoxicating risk of our plans
—
that I barely notice the man who falls into step beside me until he
says, “Hello,
Grace.”

I
jolt. It’s
Nick Lennox, strolling along next to me. My heart stops. How long has
he been watching us?

“Anything
I can help you with today, Agent?”
I
ask, trying to sound casual.

“You’re
quite a ways from home.”

“A
whole ocean away, in fact,”
I quip.

He
smiles. “You’re
clever, like your boyfriend. But that will only take you so far.”
He rubs his chin and the perpetual stubble that lives there. “Do
you want to tell me what you’re
doing here, Grace?”

“I’m
exploring this great city,”
I
shoot back. “That’s
not a crime.”

“No,
but obstructing an investigation is. This is not a joke, Grace. You
could go to jail.”

My
nerves tremor, but I keep walking. “For
taking a midday stroll?”

“You
know exactly what I mean.”
Lennox moves in front of me, blocking my path. He looks at me
sternly. “You’re
a good girl, Grace, but you’re
playing with fire, risking your entire future. I don’t
want to see you taking the fall for him. You wouldn’t
last a week in jail.”

He’s
trying to scare me and it’s
working. My palms are starting to sweat and my heart is racing in my
chest. But I try to stay calm.

He’s
bluffing right now, it’s
all he’s
got. If he had any real evidence against St. Clair, he would have
gotten that search warrant and arrested him by now. “But
only guilty people go to prison, right?”
I
insist. “And
I’ve
done nothing wrong.”

Lennox
snorts. “Breaking
and entering, accessory to grand theft, or hell, maybe you’re
in on the whole thing.”
He
leans in close.
“Even
if you just know more than you’re
telling me, I can make sure that you do time. Is that worth it for a
boyfriend? Especially a player like St. Clair?”

“Are
you done with your vague ominous threats yet?”
I
shoot back. “Because
I’ve
heard them all before, and I’d
like to get to lunch sometime soon.”
A month ago his line might have sent me into all kinds of worry about
St. Clair’s
commitment to me, but not now. I know where I stand in his life, and
we’ve
both made our choices.

Lennox
scowls. “Don’t
say I didn’t
try and help you.”
He
stands aside. “You
had your chance to make a deal, and bring him to justice. Now, if he
goes down, you will too. I’ll
see to that.”

I
hurry away, his words still echoing in my mind.

I
decide not to tell St. Clair about my run-in with Lennox, it would
only make him more annoyed with the Interpol agent and maybe make him
reconsider going after Crawford. Now that I’m
set on bringing that asshole to justice, making him pay whatever way
we can, I don’t
want St. Clair getting distracted.

I
try to busy myself with work and a few hours of painting in my studio
for the next few days. I even manage a call home to the di Fiores,
but when Nona starts asking how St. Clair is treating me, and what
we’ve
been up to here in London, I make up an excuse about needing to get
back to work and hang up. I know I can never explain this side of my
life to her, and I don’t
want anyone worrying about me while I’m
so far away. I miss San Francisco and my little Italian family, but
I’m
not ready to go back yet. Not until justice is served.

Meanwhile,
Charles does whatever it is that high-profile financiers-slash-art
thieves do, until finally one evening he greets me at his apartment
with a satisfied smile.

“Fancy
a night on the town?”
he
asks.

I
can tell he’s
excited about something, and he’s
full of playful energy as he pulls me in for a kiss. “Anywhere
in particular?”
I ask.

“I
was thinking the Bellingham,”
he
says, his hands roving over my body and making my pulse kick. He nips
at my neck. “It’s
a private supper club. Crawford’s
regular stomping ground.”

“So
you’ve
figured it out?”
I
pull away, excited. He laughs.

“Maybe.”
St.
Clair grins. “I
have a plan, we just need to see if he bites.”

“What
do I need to do?”

“You
just be your gorgeous self,”
he
says, and then leans in to murmur in my ear. “And
perhaps don’t
wear any underwear…”

I
blink. “Your
plan for revenge on Crawford involves me not wearing any panties?”

He
smirks. “No,
but my plan to ravish you later does.”

My
stomach skips. His hands move around between my thighs, caressing me
through my work dress. I shiver, and press against him, feeling his
strong body against me in a wall of muscle. St. Clair’s
breath is hot in my ear for a moment as his hands skim up, teasing
over my breasts and stomach. I want to strip right here and show him
just how ready for him I am, but St. Clair steps back.

“Later,”
he
vows, his eyes dark with lust. “First,
Crawford.”

“Whatever
you need. For your plan to work,”
I
reply, a little breathless. I can’t
wait for the night to get underway.

We
arrive at the Bellingham in time for dinner, the valet greeting us
outside and sweeping us in through the discreet gilded entrance.
Inside, it’s
old world England, with a wood-paneled whiskey bar and a grand formal
dining room. We linger in the bar amongst the posh regulars, St.
Clair greeting a few acquaintances, but I can tell his attention is
focused on the door, until finally, Crawford arrives in with his
assistant Natalie in tow. No dog this time, and I hope the poor thing
didn’t
get shipped off like the horse.

“Here
they are,”
I
whisper to St. Clair, feeling my heart race. He hasn’t
told me the big plan yet, and I’m
excited to see it unfold.

“Patience,”
he
whispers, then smoothly starts a conversation with the couple beside
us about the stock market, and their kids.

I
watch Crawford. He sets up in a corner booth, while Natalie scurries
off to the bar to fetch him a drink. She returns hesitantly with a
glass of something, and Crawford takes one sip –
then
spits it out, splashing her blouse. She takes a small step back as he
starts up his usual verbal abuse.

I
tense. St. Clair’s
hand is on my waist, calming me, but my blood still boils to watch
him belittle her in front of everyone. Finally Natalie slips away,
red-faced as she ducks into the crowd, heading for the ladies’
room.

“Excuse
me,” I
tell St. Clair’s
friends. “Just
going to freshen up.”

I
find Natalie in the restroom, sniffling and trying to rinse off her
shirt. She glances at me when the door opens. First she looks
embarrassed, but I give her a sympathetic smile.

“Are
you okay?” I
ask.

She
wipes at her eyes again and then seems to recognize me. “You
were at the Ascot Day with St. Clair,”
she
says, her voice still shaky with tears.

“Yeah.
I’m
his art consultant. And girlfriend.”
I
blush and then hold out my hand. “Grace.”

She
shakes it. “Natalie.”
She
blows her nose.

“You
work for Spencer Crawford?”

“Yes,
the tosspot.”
She
flushes. “Sorry.
I just have to make up names for him in my head since I can’t
say anything back to his face.”

“I
saw him kick your dog. I’m
so sorry.”

Natalie
starts crying again and I move forward and hand her a tissue from the
box on the counter. “It’s
his dog! He forced me to get him one even though I knew it was a bad
idea and then he treats it terribly, and makes me take care of the
poor thing.”
She
blows her nose again and wipes her eyes. “I
feel so bad for Wall Street.”
I
raise my eyebrows and she rolls her eyes. “I
know. That’s
his name. He’s
a purebred.”

I
start laughing and then she starts laughing and then we’re
both having a giggle fit right there in the bathroom of a posh club
where we don’t
really belong. We are both here only because we work for (and/or
date) rich men who can afford to belong to places like this.

“Thanks,”
she
says, when our laughter dies away. “I
needed that.”

“I’m
sorry he’s
such a jerk. Why do you put up with it?”
I ask, but I think I already know. It wasn’t
that long ago that I was in a similar position: desperate to get my
foot in the right door, taking any paid work I could, hoping to make
my way up the ranks if I just stuck it out long enough.

“I
hope this job will lead to something else, but if I resign, everyone
will just think I couldn’t
handle it,”
she
says, sad but determined. “I’ve
got to grin and bear it.”

She
sounds like a true Brit, with a stiff upper lip attitude. But I also
understand her drive—just
a few months ago, that was me. My boss at Carringer’s
was not as bad as Crawford, but she was no walk in the park. Those of
us who are not born lucky have to work a little harder, take a little
more crap.

“I
get it,” I
say, and I do. But I also now want to teach Crawford a lesson even
more. For Natalie. And for Wall Street. I lean in. “But
I also know karma is a bitch and he’ll
get what he deserves eventually.”

She
looks hopeful. “You
think?”

I
smile.
Oh,
I know
.
“I
do. And it might even be sooner than you expect.”

I
leave Natalie to finish composing herself—she
came prepared with make-up since she says she often ends up crying at
work—and
I force myself not to stomp over to Crawford and deck him in his fat
chin right now. I remind myself that St. Clair is clever, and I
should leave the subterfuge up to him. He’s
been at this game longer than I have.

I
rejoin him at the bar. He’s
with a group of people now, and Crawford is lurking nearby. St. Clair
winks at me as I approach.

“As
I was saying, this loan I’m
making for the Chervelle Foundation will be the talk of the art
scene—no
one else is going to come close!”
He
elaborates a little with his charm, building up the donation without
giving many specifics, just talking a little louder and louder until
Crawford takes the bait.

“What
is this about, St. Clair?”
he booms, parting the crowd like the red sea.

St.
Clair gives a casual shrug. “I
was just talking about my new acquisition.”

Crawford
snorts. “What,
did you buy another Picasso?”

“Actually,
it’s
the
Portrait
of a Princess
by Sergio Graziano.”

A
few people make small gasps, and I understand why: it’s
a famous impressionist painting that’s
rarely been exhibited. Crawford is skeptical. “That
painting has never been for sale.”

St.
Clair smiles coolly. “It
was, though, and I bought it. Too bad you didn’t
know it was available. I suppose they only bothered contacting
serious buyers.”
He
emphasizes the word ‘serious’
and
I can see the vein in Crawford’s
forehead pulsing.