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.”
CHAPTER 9
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.