The Art of Stealing Kisses - Stella London Page 0,12

adds with a rueful smile. “I didn’t last long. As soon as I was old enough, I left to make it on my own.”

I smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “And how’s that working out for you?”

He smiles, too. “Not too bad right now.”

We eat in silence for a few moments, munching on chips and enjoying the light tinkling of the fountain in the courtyard right outside, the cool sea air on our skin. St. Clair has a lock of hair sticking out over his eyes and I want so badly to reach out and touch it, brush my finger down those sculpted cheeks and bring his lips to mine…

Keep it professional, remember? I turn away to look around at the art, an eclectic mix. St. Clair sat us in front of a Durer piece, a detailed depiction of a rabbit. It sounds simple, like child’s play, but it’s actually so dense it’s like looking under a microscope, every detail perfect.

St. Clair sees me staring. “You like what you see?”

“I love Durer’s work, especially these quieter, less famous pieces,” I say. “The fur actually looks like real fur.” I’m in awe.

“Do you know the provenance of this piece?”

“Will you fire me if I admit I don’t?”

He laughs. “It’s disputed, actually. This piece is rumored to have been looted by the Nazis, taken from a Jewish family in Paris.”

“How did it end up here?”

“Years of changing hands and finally a wealthy Russian family decided to donate it.”

My brow creases. “Why not give it back to the original owners, then?”

He leans back and rubs his chin. “That’s the horrible part. During the war, title deeds were often lost, or destroyed, and billions of dollars’ worth of priceless art was stolen from their rightful owners. Some of the surviving families have tried to get their property back, but without the deeds, there’s no way to prove it.”

“That’s so sad,” I say, feeling a pang. “Those families lost so much. The least they can do is have their art returned.”

“I absolutely agree.” St. Clair nods. “How about you, Grace? How is your art coming along?”

I start a little, and he looks confused. “You did study to be a painter, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I was never good enough to really go anywhere with it.” I wave my hands in dismissal. “And I haven’t painted in forever.”

“Why not?”

I wince, thinking of the ache that builds in my heart every time I pick up a brush. “Since my mom died, I just haven’t felt that spark. It’s too hard.”

“Have you tried?” he pushes lightly.

I shrug. “I still sketch, but every time I’m faced with a blank canvas, the brushes that belonged to my mom…I just freeze.” I busy my hands with clearing up the remnants of my sandwich, self-conscious about admitting something so personal.

He reaches out and takes my hands. “You’ll paint again, Grace. True passion like your mother’s, like yours, never disappears completely.”

I look at him. “Are you sure?” I whisper, desperate for his words to be true.

He rubs his thumb across my palm. “Give it time. When you’re ready, the muse will return. Trust me.”

I swallow back the tears of emotion suddenly welling in my throat. “Thanks.”

His phone buzzes, ruining the moment. He checks the screen. “I’ll be right back,” he says, stepping out into the hallway.

I clean up our lunch scraps and put them in the trash near the guard, who barely looks at me. I guess St. Clair really does do this all the time. I wander the hall studying the art, the color and shadow. I study the rabbit’s nose up close—it really is incredible—and realize how much I want to get back into my own art. I’ve missed it. I need it, I think.

Artistic expression is a part of who I am, and I’m glad St. Clair is reminding me of that.

The next morning I’m on the phone waiting to speak to the manager of a reclusive artist for an appointment that I’ve been trying to get for days and Maisie is chattering nonstop about some robbery.

“They don’t know who did it, or how. It’s all very mysterious,” Maisie says, dropping a pile of papers on my desk. I nod absently, thinking about how much I want an exclusive deal with this artist. “It’s all over the papers, especially after the Carringer’s fiasco.”

“There does seem to be a spree, doesn’t there?” I say, wondering why there’s this sudden interest in art from the criminal community.

“It’s like Ocean’s Eleven!” Maisie giggles just