The Art of Stealing Hearts (9 page)

Lydia
looks stricken, and under better circumstances, I might enjoy her
squirming. “Is
that all necessary?” she
asks. “I,
uh, well, we’d
like to keep this as quiet as possible.”

“Your
company’s
reputation isn’t
my concern.” He
stares her down. “The
only thing I care about is finding that painting. Are we going to
have a problem here? Because if I need to call your boss…”

I
brace for Lydia’s
rampage, but instead she backs off. “No,
that’s
fine. I’ll
do whatever is necessary to help the investigation.”

“Good.
You can start by providing a client list of who bid on the painting
at the auction. Who had the winning bid, in the end?”
Lennox asks.

“That
would be Charles St. Clair.”

Lennox
quirks an eyebrow. “Interesting.
I’ll
need to speak with him.”

“You,
and our insurance agents too.” Lydia
looks pale. “The
deed transfer hasn’t
gone through. We’ll
take the full hit for the value of the painting.”

“Like
I said, not my problem.” Lennox
shrugs. “Let
me know when you have the information I need.”

He
turns and catches me watching them, so I quickly slink away back to
work. I find a corner to avoid everyone’s
frayed nerves and get into the groove of filing again until Stanford
finds me amid the dust motes. “Where
have you been!?” he
demands.

“Where
you told me to be,” I
say. “I
live to serve you.”

“Save
the humor for a day when we don’t
all face total ruin.” Stanford
sighs. “Come
on, it’s
your turn to face the inquisition.”

He
leads me upstairs to Lydia’s
office. I notice three cop dogs sniffing around the lobby and
hallways now. People are still on edge, jumpy, and when I enter the
office, I find the agent from the basement looking comfortable behind
Lydia’s
desk.

“Umm,
hi. They said you wanted to speak with me?”
I hover,
uncertain. I don’t
know what I can offer to help with the investigation.

“Thanks,
take a seat.” Lennox
flips his little leather notebook open and skims a few pages. “I’m
the lead agent on these cases, so I just have a few questions.”

Cases?
As in more than this one?
“Have
there been other robberies?” I
ask, sitting across from him.

He
looks up, eyebrows raised. “That’s
confidential for now.”

“Sorry.”
I flush.

He
smiles suddenly, and I realize he looks way more handsome when he’s
not scowling. “There’s
nothing you need to worry about. Now Miss…”
he glances at
his notebook, “Bennett.
Some routine questions. How long have you been employed by
Carringer’s?”

“I
just started last week, so I’m
not sure how much help I’ll
be.”

He
looks at his notes again and seems to get focused. “I
heard that you were the one who bid on the stolen painting?”

“Yes,”
I answer,
suddenly a bit anxious. “Mr.
St. Clair had to take a call and asked me to bid in his place.”

“Were
there other high bidders who seemed upset to lose?”

“Just
one. This guy Andrew Tate. He seemed angry, but more about losing,”
I say,
remembering his sexist jokes. “Maybe
about losing to a woman. But he didn’t
actually care about the painting.”

Lennox
jots a few things down. “Did
you have access to the storage area?”

“No.”

“You
were seen down there on Friday before the auction.”

“Oh,
that!” Crap.
God, interrogations are definitely harder than they look on TV. Who
remembers every detail of their days? “I
was sent back there to get chairs.”
I shrug. “I’m
the help. I do what I’m
told.”

“Did
you see anyone else back there?” he
asks.

“Just
Lydia and Stanford, a few photographers and clients…”
My hands
start to sweat. Now I’m
really nervous. “What
do you think happened? Do you think it was an inside job?”

Lennox
leans back. “It’s
too soon to tell, and I’m
not at liberty to share details, but it looks like it could be linked
to other high-end art heists we’ve
encountered in Europe.”

So
there have been other robberies. I doubt he’d
tell me what was stolen so I don’t
bother to ask. “Well,
good luck,” I
offer. “I
wish I knew more.” The
thought of all that stolen art makes my stomach clench.

Lennox
nods, going over his notes with a frown. He glances up as I stand.
“If
you think of anything else, remember any details…”
He pulls a
card out of his jacket pocket. “Call
me anytime.”

“I
really hope you find this painting,”
I tell him,
taking the card. “It’s
too beautiful to be hidden away in some thief’s
lair.”

He
smiles. “We’ll
find it, Miss Bennett,” he
says. “No
matter what it takes. You can count on it.”

Outside,
Stanford tells me that the auction house is closing for the day and
we can all go home. The lobby still looks like a crime scene—I
mean, I guess it technically is a crime scene—so
I try to go unnoticed through the hubbub. Then I see St. Clair,
standing with some older men by the doors.

I
pause, hanging back out of sight. Suddenly I’m
nervous, my stomach turning a slow flip. My cheeks burn as I think
about our kiss, but I’m
not sure if I should go over to him and his friends. God, it’s
like I’m
in high school. Is it awkward to go say hi?

“Grace!”

I
look up. St. Clair has seen me, and is waving me over.

“Hi,”
I say as I
get closer, wondering how to greet him—a
hug, kiss, handshake? I settle for a smile. “I’m
so sorry about the painting. It’s
such a shame.”

He
gives a rueful smile. “These
things happen. I have every confidence that the police will find it
and return it to me.”

“How
can you be so sure?”

“Because
I choose to be.” He
grins. I’m
surprised; I was expecting him to be angry or upset: a six million
dollar masterpiece is a big thing to lose, but instead he’s
focused entirely on me. “Where
are you off to right now?”

“I’m
going home,” I
tell him. “Carringer’s
is closing early for the investigation.”

“Well
if you’re
free this afternoon, perhaps you can help me with something? Lend
your expertise?”

I
laugh. “I’m
not really an expert in anything…”

“I
beg to differ.” St.
Clair smiles at me again, turning on that megawatt charm. “I’m
considering purchasing a painting and I would love your opinion.”

“Really?”
He’s
messing with me, right? “Why?”

He
lifts an eyebrow like,
Come
on.
“Why
do you think?”

“I
have no idea,” I
admit, confused. “I’m
not really qualified, like a certified appraiser or consultant. I
don’t
know if—” He
puts a finger to my lips and the shock of his touch makes me fall
silent.

“I
don’t
care about qualifications,” he
says, staring into me with those deep blue eyes. “You
have a good eye and great taste. That’s
what matters to me.”

I
gulp. “Well,
okay…” I
say. “But
you can’t
blame me if I tell you to spend millions on a kid’s
crayon scribble.”

He
chuckles again. “I’ll
have my fusty official advisors there, too, but I really want your
passion. Your gut reaction.” He
takes my hand, like it’s
the most natural thing in the world. “Your
attention to detail.”

Oh
my God, I am tongue tied. All I can think about are the details I’m
noticing right now: the tingle of his fingers on my skin, the
excitement of his asking for my advice, the validation. And, oh yes,
the line of his abs under his shirt.

“So
what do you say?” he
asks. “You
feel like taking a ride with me?”

My
heart does little flips in my chest, but I manage to keep my voice
from sounding like a Muppet. “Yes.
I’d
love to.”

Heading
across the Golden Gate Bridge in the passenger seat of Charles’
luxury car,
I’m
blown away again by this city’s
beauty. Tufts of fog and low clouds drift by the thick orange cables
and metal towers. When I was a kid and saw it from the ground, it so
often looked like it was floating, which is kind of how I feel now.
Light-headed, nervous, and dreamy.

“It’s
so gorgeous here,” I
say. “I
want to paint this bridge someday from up there.”
I point to
the Marin Headland hills above the bridge on the north side, rocky
outcrops covered in sage. “The
perfect angle.”

“Let’s
do it,” he
says, glancing at me. “I’ll
have to steal you away another day.”

“This
might be enough playing hooky for me for a while.”

“Not
much of a rule-breaker, are you?” he
jokes. “No
secret history of skinny dipping or sneaking out your windows?”

“Not
unless you count almost failing school as rule-breaking,”
I say,
thinking of my C average, my struggles to pay attention. “I
behaved, I just never stopped sketching.”

Sailboats
take advantage of the bay’s
winds below and dozens of tourists brave the blustery day to enjoy
the amazing views of the city from the bridge.

“Like
this,” I
say, gesturing to the whole world of life and art right outside. “How
can I not want to capture this?”
Couples kiss
and kids ride bikes, and it’s
a perfect portrait of San Francisco.

When
I look back at him, Charles is staring at me. “What?”
I ask,
self-conscious.

“Nothing,”
he gives a
secret smile. “I
just like the way you look at the world, that’s
all. So many people never take the time to see what’s
right in front of them, but you see the beauty in everything.”

I
flush. “I
got that from my mom,” I
confide. “She
was the most observant person I’ve
ever known.” I
watch him, curious. “How
about your parents?”

“I
spent most of my childhood in boarding school in England.”

I
make a face—I
can’t
help it—and
he laughs. “It
wasn’t
all bad. Not what you’re
probably thinking. I learned discipline and independence and loyalty,
but I did miss my family, my home.”

“I’m
sure they missed you, too,” I
say, imagining what it would have been like to be away from home for
most of the year, away from my mom. “Are
you close to them now?”

He
hesitates. “Well,
we get on fine, but in my family, even if you hated your cousin, you
would smile and offer them the last roll at the family dinner table
because that’s
just good manners.”

I
laugh quietly. “Sorry,”
I say.
“That’s
not funny. It’s
sort of sad.”

“It
is indeed both, and that’s
the way it is. Old British families, you know? Tradition and
upholding the family name are paramount.”
We cross the
bridge into Marin County, lush green hills on both sides, layered
with moss and dripping from the mist. I don’t
know if I should say something. His whole life feels so foreign to
me. “After
we lost Robert…” St.
Clair pauses. “He
was older, the heir apparent. Suddenly, all the family pressure
landed on me.”

I
don’t
know what to say, so I reach over and squeeze his knee. “I
bet they’re
so proud of you now, with all your international success.”

“I’m
not so sure,” St.
Clair’s
tone is light, but I see the shadow on his face. “They’ve
never once said anything about it.”

“It’s
just the stiff upper lip of Britain, right?”
I say, hoping
he doesn’t
take that the wrong way. “I
mean, isn’t
that, like, a thing? You Brits don’t
know how to show affection?”

Charles
looks at me, his eyes sending little sparks through my blood. “I
beg to differ.”

I
feel heat spreading low in my belly and I look away before he can see
the desire he’s
ignited written all over my face. He turns back to the road and I
watch his profile, the perfectly shaped features. I remember our
kiss, the charge that passed between us, and how badly I want that
spark against my skin again.

“So,”
I say, hoping
my voice doesn’t
sound like I’ve
just been picturing his lips on mine, his skin on mine…
Stop
it, Grace!
“Where
are we heading?”

“The
artwork is at an estate in Napa,” he
replies. “An
original Manet was apparently unearthed in the cellar of this house
when its owner died a few weeks ago. The family is looking to sell
it.”

“You’re
kidding!” I
exclaim. “A
find like that…”

“I
know,” he
says, the same awe in his voice. “If
it’s
real. My associates are here to verify its authenticity, but I never
buy anything sight unseen.”

The
lazy hills have turned into vineyards, and a few farms with cows and
horses roaming in the fields. Huge puffy clouds drift across a bright
blue sky, hawks and crows soaring in great looping arcs. He turns off
the highway, and the road leads us into a grove of oak trees with an
expanse of vineyard beyond, all the green leaves turning gently in
the breeze. At the end of the driveway sits a huge stone estate, the
size of four normal houses with a stone tower on one side.

St.
Clair pulls up beside another car. “Excellent,
they’re
already here.”

Inside,
the house looks like it hasn’t
been redecorated since it was built over two hundred years ago. Two
older men are waiting in the foyer.

“Gentlemen,
thanks for making the trip. Grace, this is Mr. Pemberly, and Mr.
Coates. Grace Bennett is a friend of mine,”
he explains,
and the men shake my hand politely.

Pemberly
has an actual monocle tucked into his front pocket instead of a
handkerchief. “How
nice of you to join us, Miss Bennett.”

“It’s
an honor to be here,” I
reply, stifling a grin at his old fashioned fanciness.

We
walk past a grand staircase as we move into the drawing room. Floor
to ceiling bookshelves line the room, and several plush armchairs
face a gigantic hearth. A writing desk sits in the corner, with an
ink bottle and quill resting next to a piece of paper like someone
was writing a letter and never came back.