The Art of Stealing Forever
(Stealing Hearts Book Three)
By Stella London
Copyright © 2015 Stella London
Cover art/design by: Perfect Pear Creative
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
CHAPTER 1
I blink back tears. Alarms are echoing off the stone walls of the alleyway, piercing the London night. In front of me stands Charles St. Clair: billionaire art collector, my new boss – and the man I’ve fallen in love with.
“Please, Grace,” he urges me, tugging at my hand. “We have to get out of here.”
My eyes go to the narrow tube under his arm, the kind used to transport paintings.
Stolen paintings.
The sirens screaming from the art gallery down the street are too loud for me to think, but one thing I do know: St. Clair has been lying to me all along.
“Lennox was right, wasn’t he?” I demand, my heart breaking. “You’re behind all the heists – in America, and here too. You’re the thief.”
St. Clair looks up, stricken, as lights appear in apartment windows above the alley, casting out squares of ugly yellow light. “Grace, there’s no time. We have to go.”
I shake my head. “Tell me you didn’t set off these alarms, that there’s nothing in that tube you’re carrying!” I feel like my ear drums will burst from the shrill cry of the sirens, but I need him to make sense of all of this. “Please,” I beg him. “Tell me it’s not you.” I stare into those blue eyes that I adore, waiting for the magic words that will explain all my suspicions away.
But none come.
St. Clair shakes his head sadly. He can’t deny it because it’s true.
“No,” I whisper, feeling like someone just punched me in the gut.
He takes my hand again. “Just trust me to get us out of here, okay? You can hate me all you want once we’re safe.” I can hear the pleading in his voice, the worry, though I’m sure it’s more for his own ass than mine.
Reality hits me hard. The alarms mean security will be on their way: police, and Lord knows what else. And I’m standing right here with the culprit. An accessory to his crimes.
I finally stop resisting and let St. Clair pull me down the alley, away from the gallery. He shoves the brown painting tube into his coat, hiding it from view as he walks briskly. “Where are we going?” I ask, trying to make my mind work faster, come up with my own plan so I don’t have to rely on him.
“Just stay calm.” He squeezes my clammy hand and I want to kick him for thinking that’s going to comfort me right now.
“’Stay calm?’” I hiss under my breath. “We are running away from a robbery in the middle of the night with the stolen artwork!”
He continues to drag me down a maze of streets and alleys, turning every block until I’m disoriented and totally lost. It’s hard to watch my feet on the uneven cobblestones at this pace in the dark, and I have to jog to keep up with his long legs.
“Don’t run,” he warns me, looking around. “It looks suspicious.”
“Then slow down!” I say, flustered and irritated.
St. Clair takes a breath. “Sorry,” he says softly, slowing his pace.
We’re further from the gallery now, almost out of earshot of the alarms. I start to relax, then suddenly three cop cars fly by, red lights flashing, tires squealing around corners.
I panic all over again. St. Clair ducks us into the shadow of a building and moves his face in close to mine so we’re invisible to the road. Without warning he kisses me, his warm lips a shock after the cool night air. More police sirens scream at us as they pass and St. Clair presses his mouth into mine, parts his lips enough to let his teeth bite at my lower lip. My knees go weak and despite my brain’s protests, my body responds, melting against him.
When the sirens have passed, St. Clair steps away. “I don’t think they saw us,” he says, watching the street. I realize with a start that the kiss was just a cover.
Was I ever anything more than that to him?
“We should move.” He puts a casual arm around my shoulders as we step back out onto the street. “Thank you,” he says as we stroll along nonchalantly like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. Except so many things are wrong right now I can’t even count them. “For trusting me.”
“I haven’t decided anything yet,” I say and I mean it. I haven’t had time to process any of this, my heart is still racing with panic and terror. All I want is to get safely home, away from the sirens and police. Then, maybe I can figure out what the hell I’m doing next.
St. Clair guides us along the dark London streets. We walk at a normal pace, though there are only a few people out at this hour. The gallery sirens seem to have stopped, or at least we can’t hear them from here. I know we have to go slow, but my muscles are itching to run full out, to somehow escape all the way home to my apartment in San Francisco where things were normal, legal.
Oh my God, but what if they weren’t?
My mind races with fresh anxiety. St. Clair had to have been planning the Carringer’s theft before I even met him, so that means he’s been lying to me the whole time!
Even worse than lying, what if Lennox was right? What if he was using me from the start?
A chill runs through my body. I have to stop to catch my breath.
“Are you okay?” St. Clair asks, but the concern in his face just makes me angrier.
“What do you think?”
St. Clair looks chastened. “Not far to go,” he says. “We’ll be safe soon.”
And yet I wonder if I’ll ever be.
We walk another ten minutes or so to his townhouse. As soon as he’s latched the door behind us, I turn on St. Clair. “What the hell just happened?”
“Shh,” he warns me, and leads me upstairs. I follow, my heart racing. All this time, he’s been lying to me, fooling everyone. I thought he cared about me.
I thought he loved me.
St. Clair enters the bedroom and makes straight for a bookcase on the far wall. He pulls on a book and a compartment on the other side pops open, near the floor, revealing a safe.
My jaw drops. “Who are you, James Bond?”
He kneels down to punch in a few numbers on the keypad, and the door to the safe unlocks. He stashes the brown painting tube inside and shuts the door, hiding the whole contraption from view again. Only then does he seem to relax, bowing his head for a moment and exhaling a long breath before standing up. He has the nerve to smile at me, his dimples flashing like we just got away with breaking the rules.
But I’m not relieved or relaxed. Not at all.
I fold my arms and stare at him. “I want answers. Now. And no more lies.”
“Grace, I never wanted to lie—” He takes a step toward me but I hold up my hand.