The Art of Stealing Kisses - Stella London Page 0,3
instincts. I trust you.”
My mind is already spinning with ideas as the driver pulls up to the storage vaults where St. Clair’s overflow art is stored. He has so many pieces, he can’t display it all in his many houses and offices around the globe, so the rest gets stored here in this special climate-controlled vault. I can’t even imagine having enough works of priceless art that you keep most of them hidden out of sight, but I guess I’m in a whole new world now: where I have a private driver and town car transporting me around instead of the bus, and sole discretion about which magnificent paintings are going to be displayed in a major new hospital wing.
Inside, I find it’s kind of like a regular storage unit: if storage units came with plush carpets, chandeliers, and armed guards. The vaults are various sizes, smaller rooms for fine wines and jewelry, bigger rooms for furniture or artwork. A concierge whisks me down a long corridor to St. Clair’s rooms, and enters a complex security code before the doors click open. There’s a hissing noise.
“Air pressure is strictly regulated,” he explains. “All the art is sealed in climate-controlled plexiglass storage shells, so you can browse without compromising the canvas.”
He stands aside, and I step into the suite. This place is like a museum! Racks of paintings are stored all across the room, and I can summon any item by pressing a button and bringing it gliding along the automatic tracks. I glimpse them as I scan the racks: a Klimt in all its golden-toned glory, a Picasso full of bright colors and shapes, a Rothko with its bold strips of color…I want to spend all day here, to study each brushstroke up close, to smell the canvases.
I'm in heaven.
“Will there be anything else?” the concierge asks. “Tea, coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“When you’ve made your selections, simply note down the item numbers, and our transport team will arrange for the paintings to be sent over.” He ducks out of the room.
I feel like a kid in the candy store. It’s like a supermarket dash – but with priceless art, and I can choose whatever I want. My mom would have loved this, too, a secret gallery just for us. We spent our weekends during my childhood taking BART into the city to see the museums and galleries – but not just the big ones, she loved tiny pop-up shows, and hidden spots; graffiti on the walls, and the guys painting portraits for tourists down by the bay. “Good art isn’t always obvious, Gracie,” she said. “The real work takes risks, touches you, opens your heart.”
I don’t even know where to begin with so much to look at, so I start at the beginning: going through each piece in turn and taking notes, so I get an idea of his whole collection. I may be looking for something specific now, but I’ll need to know everything for other exhibitions down the line, and I want to do a great job. I’m lost in the frenetic splatters of a Jackson Pollock when I hear a noise behind me. “It’s one of my favorites, too,” a voice says.
I startle: it’s St. Clair, leaning against the wall, watching me with a smile.
“How long have you been there?” I exclaim.
“Long enough,” he grins. “You look so excited. I’ve never seen someone so happy to be locked down here in this box.”
“It’s not the room, it’s everything inside it! Stalker,” I add, playfully sticking my tongue out.
“Beauty makes me stop and stare every time,” he says and my heart flutters. He steps closer to me, his eyes intent on mine. “I mean the paintings, of course.”
“Of course,” I echo, feeling a pull like a magnet, a need to feel his skin against mine.
He answers me with a kiss. Soft, and light, barely brushing my lips. I melt against him, resting my weight against his muscled chest, savoring his strong hands on my waist and his soft lips exploring mine. His mouth grows more insistent, the kiss deepens, and I hear myself moan as my head tilts back.
I forget that I’m supposed to be working, that St. Clair is my boss, and let myself get consumed by the heat of his kiss.
CHAPTER 2
A few days later, I press the intercom button on my phone. “Maisie, can you email me the proofs of the title cards for each of the Nob Hill Hospital paintings? I want to finalize those