The Art of Stealing Hearts (11 page)

He
chuckles. “Then
I won’t
stand between you and your meal.”

He
pulls out my chair for me and I sit, my eyes drawn to the sunset’s
changing colors across the sky. “It’s
like a living painting.” I
sigh, taking in the views.

“I
bought this place because of it,” he
says, lifting the silver serving domes and revealing a simple green
salad with arugula and shaved parmesan, and two perfectly grilled
steaks.

“This
smells delicious.” I
take a bite of the steak. It is delicious. “Wow.
Is there anything you can’t
do?”

He
laughs as he pours us sparkling water from a glass carafe. “I
like cooking. It helps me unwind. What about you?”

“I
leave all the cooking to the experts downstairs.”
I smile at
his confused expression. “I
live above an Italian restaurant,” I
explain, “So
most nights I just grab some food from there. Nona likes to keep me
fed.”

“So
what do you like to do for fun? To relax?”
he asks,
spooning a lemon and olive oil dressing over our salad.

“Sleep?”
It sounds
like a joke but that is what I do with a lot of my free time.

He
laughs again. “No,
really,” he
prompts me. “What
helps you relieve stress, get back to yourself?”

I
take a breath. “Well,
painting used to feel like an escape.”

“Not
anymore?”

I
shrug. “It’s
been hard to feel inspired since I lost my mom.”

He
nods thoughtfully as he chews. “Do
you want to paint professionally?”

“Maybe,”
I say,
pushing food around my plate. “As
much as anyone can, I guess. Making a living as an artist isn’t
exactly stable.”

“Ah,
but then at least you’re
following your passion!” His
whole face lights up with energy. “Imagine
the life you could live, traveling the world, studying with masters…”

“Living
on the streets…” I
add and he stops to look at me quizzically. “That
sounds wonderful, but I don’t
have the money, or a patron like they did in the Renaissance.”

“I
get it. But doesn’t
it make you feel stifled, to ignore your true love?”

I
try to smile. “It’s
hard to pursue my art when I have to work to pay the bills.”

He
pauses, looking at me across the table. “You
should try to find the time, Grace, or someday you won’t
recognize yourself. You’ll
look at your life and wonder when you stopped feeling alive.”

Is
that what happened to you?
I
want to ask. There’s
something in his eyes that feels regretful, but I don’t
want to bring the mood down. “Thank
you,” I
say instead.

He
seems surprised. “What
for?”

I
gesture to the dinner, our almost empty plates, the vineyard, the
darkening sky. “Today
has been amazing. And not just today,”
I add. “Ever
since I met you…I
don’t
know, I feel different, somehow. More alive.”

I
can’t
believe I just said that, but St. Clair’s
gaze doesn’t
waver.

“Today’s
not over yet,” he
says in a sexy, low voice.

I
flush.

He
begins to gather our empty plates.

“Let
me help with that,” I
say, picking up the salad bowl. “I
am, after all, the most experienced waitress in the house right now.”

In
the kitchen, we pile dishes in the sink. I begin to rinse them off.
“You
don’t
have to do that,” he
stops me, reaching his arms around me to turn off the water.

I
freeze, his body pressed gently against my back, his breath warm at
the nape of my neck.

“I
don’t?”
I can feel
the heat of his body against mine, the sweet smell of his aftershave
as he lifts my hair off my shoulder and drops a kiss on the side of
my neck.

I
exhale in a shiver.

“You’ve
done enough for me today.”

My
breath catches as he spins me around to face him, his blue eyes
piercing. “Let
me do something for you,” he
says and he kisses me, slow at first and then deep, his lips
demanding against mine until I open and let him in.

His
tongue teases me, and I wrap my arms around to his muscled back and
drag him closer. Our kisses become faster, deeper, and I’m
shocked by the feelings racing through me. The fire, the heat, the
connection, the need.

It’s
like nothing I’ve
felt before.

His
hands grip my hips and pull me gently into him. He grazes his lips
down my neck, over my shoulders, down to the neckline of the dress,
sending shivers down my body, goosebumps across my skin, every inch
of it aching to be touched, stroked.

“God,
you’re
beautiful,” he
whispers, easing back to cup my cheek and gaze into my eyes. His eyes
are dark with lust, the same desire ricocheting through my body and
gathering into a knot between my thighs. “I
want to look at you.”

He
slips his hands under the straps of my dress, lifting them off my
shoulders. I meet his gaze, and he steps back to watch as I push the
dress down my hips and it slips down to the floor.

I
catch a shaky breath. I’m
standing here in just my lace panties and bra, but I feel worshipped;
adored. St. Clair looks at me so reverently, I feel like a work of
art.

He
leans in and kisses a trail along my collarbone, his hands moving to
stroke and cup my breasts. I moan at the delicious contact, arching
against him.

“Your
turn,” I
gasp, reaching for his shirt. I undo the buttons and push it aside,
kissing the expanse of golden muscular chest until St. Clair suddenly
lifts me and carries me to the dining table. He lays me down, so I’m
spread to him, on display, and my stomach flips again.

As
anticipation races through me, St. Clair takes his time, clearly
enjoying the way he’s
going so slowly. He leans over and removes my bra, glides his mouth
over my left nipple, teasing at the right with his thumb. I moan as
he toys with me, trailing his lips and tongue down my stomach and
across my hips. He uses his teeth to tug the top of my lace panties
down, then hooks his thumbs under the elastic band and pulls the them
off, leaving me entirely naked.

I’m
too caught up in the heat of it to care, feeling every touch and kiss
like wildfire on my skin. He slides his fingertips up my thighs, and
I feel like my cells will burst with desire.

He
nudges my legs apart and I’m
close to begging him to touch me.
Please,
just touch me.
Still, St. Clair keeps up his slow and steady pace. He kisses my
thighs, teases the sensitive skin with his tongue, slipping his hands
under my ass to cup the cheeks. He drags his tongue up my inner
thigh, slowly, up, up, until finally he slides the wet tip lightly
along my clit, just grazing like the lightest brushstroke. I groan,
arching my back and he dips his tongue deeper into me this time.
“Yes…”
I whisper,
reveling in the sensation.

His
hands keep me pinned in place as his tongue slowly strokes over me
again, then again, an artist fervent in his work, painting with
thick, long, wet strokes, becoming more and more impassioned. I arch
my back to meet his mouth, spread my legs as his tongue paints me
with his vision. Slick and kinetic shorter strokes, harder strokes,
building the paint in layers, the pressure building, tightening,
pulsing, rising to a throbbing peak…
OhGod.
OhGod—

Oh.
My. Fucking. God.

I
cry out, calling his name as the climax rips through me, sweetness
and heat exploding in a dazzling masterpiece that leaves me
breathless, spent. Undone.

I
roll over and stretch out in the softest sheets I’ve
ever been on, but they are unfamiliar. I hear a shower running and my
eyes shoot open, taking in a big bed in a plush bedroom, and an en
suite bathroom letting out soapy-scented steam. Then it all comes
flooding back: I’m
at St. Clair’s.
Charles’.
The man who gave me the best orgasm of my life last night.

My
cheeks heat up as I remember it all, every last detail, and I feel
the flush moving lower as I imagine returning the favor someday.

But
maybe this was just a one-time thing? I don’t
have much experience with those. Just once, with a guy I met at a
party my first semester at college. I was so embarrassed afterward
that I left his dorm at five am and did the walk of shame home as the
sun was beginning to rise. Here, I don’t
have that option, because I’m
lounging in luxury, literally, in million thread count sheets in a
king-size bed on the Napa estate of a billionaire.
What
have I gotten myself into?

Charles
is humming in the shower, a tune I don’t
recognize, and I can’t
help but smile. Adorable. He’s
clearly relaxed, which makes this whole
what-the-hell-do-I-say-to-a-guy-who-has-heard-my-O-noises-but-doesn’t-know-where-I-live
thing extra awkward. The shower stops and I wonder what I’m
going to say to him. I wish I could read his mind.

“Hey,”
Charles says,
coming out of the bathroom looking devastatingly sexy with just a
towel wrapped around his waist. His chest muscles are perfectly
shaped, leading down into abs chiseled from stone, a trail of hair
leading down even farther. It’s
the first time I’ve
seen him shirtless in the light and I’m
worried I might start drooling. “Did
you sleep okay?”

I
swallow. “Yes,
great. Thank you. ”

He
rubs a smaller towel over his wet hair. “It
sure sounded that way from your snores.”

I
gasp. “I
don’t
snore!”

“You
do,” he
grins, tossing the hair towel into a hamper, his other towel slipping
low enough for me to see his the top of his hip bones. “Quietly.
It’s
adorable.”

I
frown. “Yeah.
Like ‘picking
your nose’ is
adorable.”

“Wait,
do you do that, too?” He
smiles and I throw a pillow at him, laughing.

He
goes into a huge closet, with hanging suits and a dresser and more
that I can’t
see from the bed. “Listen,
I’d
love to stay and eat breakfast with you, but I have to get to L.A.
for a meeting,” he
says. “My
car is waiting for you downstairs to take you to the city. You should
be back in time for work.” He
comes out of the closet wearing slacks and an unbuttoned blue shirt,
four different ties draped over his arm. He holds them up against his
shirt. “Which
do you think?”

“The
blue,” I
decide.

Charles
grins. “Of
course.”

“How
many do you have in there?” I
ask.

He
laughs, shaking his head. “Why?
Are you going to ruin all of them? Maybe I shouldn’t
leave you alone with all these innocent victims.”
He flashes me
another grin just as my stomach rumbles.

He
laughs again. “Perfect
timing. I’ll
see you downstairs.” Then
he disappears out the door.

I
get dressed quickly, use the bathroom to freshen up, and head
downstairs just as he is coming out of the kitchen with a thermos of
coffee, a warm croissant wrapped in wax paper, and a bottle of orange
juice. He tucks them into my purse with a wink.

“Thanks,”
I say, my
mind going blank. “Um,
that was fun last night.”

“Fun?”
his voice
drops, sexy. He moves closer, reaching to stroke along my collarbone.
“I
was thinking more ‘mind-blowingly
sexy.’”

My
pulse races. “That
too.”

There’s
a noise outside, a dull roar. St. Clair gives a rueful smile. “That’s
my cue.”

I
follow him out, in time to see a helicopter appear above the trees.
An actual helicopter. “Wow,
you really go big to get away from your dates,”
I say,
giggling so he knows it’s
a joke, but also wondering if I’ll
ever see him again.

He
leans over and kisses me, soft and deep. I melt against him, until
finally, he pulls away. A car is waiting with a driver. “I
have a busy week ahead,” he
says. “But
I’d
like to see you next weekend?”

“I’d
like that too.”

He
smiles. “I’ll
call you.” He
kisses me again, and then heads away toward the helicopter. I watch
him effortlessly climb inside, and then a moment later, it rises up
over the treeline and buzzes off into the distance.

The
ride back to the city is much less interesting without Charles to
look at. Despite the fog rolling across the bay, I feel content and
excited to see where this thing with Charles goes. Imagine, less than
a week ago I was desperately trying to claw my way into the art
world, and now I’ve
been flung into it headfirst, romantically and professionally. I
helped with an appraisal yesterday! I feel proud as the driver drops
me off in front of Carringer’s,
and I hold my head high as I walk through the doors.

My
pride doesn’t
last long. “Thank
God you’re
here.” Stanford
materializes the minute I’m
inside.

“How
do you do that?” I
ask. “Just
appear, like you knew I’d
be here.”

“I’m
omniscient,” he
cracks. “Now
I need you in the basement today, the police left everything a mess.
Start with the floors, and work your way up.”

I
sigh. So much for feeling on top of the world. “Okay,
okay.”

I’m
glad that at least my day-old clothes won’t
be noticed if I’m
scrubbing floors. I take my cleaning supplies up the back stairs and
begin the first day of a week of sweeping, mopping, and wiping down
walls, but despite the drudgery of my tasks, nothing can shake my
happy glow. I have memories of St. Clair to keep me company as I
clean: his smile, that body, his tongue…

I
don’t
hear from him all week, and by Friday, I’m
wondering if I should be worried. I know it’s
probably just that he has so much else to deal with, that his lack of
contact doesn’t
mean he’s
no longer interested, but I can’t
help getting anxious. I mean, he runs an international finance
corporation! He must be juggling a million balls at a time, right?