The Art of Stealing Kisses - Stella London Page 0,1

whatever you need. Welcome.”

“Nice to meet you, and it’s Grace, please.”

I follow her into the lobby, and though I was expecting luxury, holy cow is this gorgeous. Two leather couches face each other across a wide glass coffee table topped by a silver vase full of elegant white flowers. A shiny wood bar off to the side holds bottles of water and sodas, glasses, and a bucket of ice. Floor to ceiling windows frame the city below, the white Ferry Building with its peaked clock tower and the sparkling blue waters of the bay beyond.

“Wow.” I stand fixed for a moment, just absorbing the subtle elegance of this place and the dramatic view.

Maisie clears her throat. “Coffee?” She hands me a china cup. “One sugar, two creams, right?”

“Yes, how did you…?” I inhale the rich scent of French roast. My favorite.

“Mr. St. Clair passed along instructions,” Maisie smiles. I smile back—damn, but he’s good. She goes on, “He also said to tell you he’s on a call but he will see you shortly.” She beckons again and we’re off down a hallway, the walls lined with exquisite paintings and sketches, various styles and genres, all fantastic. “I’m to show you to your office.”

“I have my own office?” My heart does a little skip and I refrain from actually skipping down the hall. This day just keeps getting better. At Carringer’s I spent eight hours in windowless rooms, and waitressing at Giovanni’s restaurant, the closest I get to an office is an overturned empty wine crate out back to sit on during my breaks.

“Of course,” Maisie says, glancing back at me with a smile. “St. Clair has been looking for an art consultant for some time. We’re very excited to have you. Here we are.”

She opens a door into a corner office suite bigger than my studio apartment. The same million-dollar view from the lobby shines outside my window, the palm trees, the little white capped wave trails from boats skimming the waters surrounding Alcatraz in the distance. Even the gray Carquinez Bridge looks silver bathed in the golden morning light.

“Wow,” I whisper, my jaw nearly dropping. “Are you sure this is my office? There hasn’t been some mistake?” It’s happened before.

Maisie looks amused. “Mr. St. Clair said you were funny. Let’s get started, shall we?” Maisie walks over to the mahogany desk in the corner of the room and wakes up the computer. My computer. My office!

“St. Clair said to get you anything you need. If you want the name of art dealer he met at a party in Paris three years ago, or a turkey on rye no mayo, just ask and I’ll figure out how to get it. I love my job and my job is making things run smoothly, so whatever it is, I can handle it. Got it?”

She’s good. I nod, a little dazed, still absorbing the room, the fact that I work here. “Now, I want to show you how—”

My eyes halt in their scan of the soft cream walls. “I’m sorry, is that an original Frida Kahlo sketch?”

Maisie stops and smiles instead of looking irritated. “It is,” she says. “St. Clair said you had a good eye.”

“Sorry to interrupt. I just can’t believe I have a famous artist’s work in my office,” I say sheepishly. “It’s so incredible to be this close to talent like that.”

Maisie laughs and I immediately feel like I’ve screwed up, made myself look too eager and inexperienced, and I can’t shake the lingering feeling that I don’t really belong here.

“Did I say something wrong?” I ask, my cheeks warming.

“Oh, no!” she exclaims. “You and St Clair. are just going to get along so well!” Maisie moves the mouse and clicks. “Now, all our files are accessible through the network so if there’s anything you’re looking for you can start here…”

But my eyes have found a new home: the Dali painting from his house in Napa, a surrealist depiction of an elephant crossing a desert. I loved it. And now it’s here.

He remembered.

I think back to where it hung in his kitchen, the kitchen where St. Clair started kissing the back of my neck as he unzipped my dress and didn’t stop kissing me until he’d spread me out on his table and…

“Grace?”

“Oh, sorry,” I croak, my throat dry. I can feel a flush rushing up my cheeks like a giant banner for inappropriate thoughts. “Is it warm in here?” I shake the sensations of St. Clair’s soft hands and