The Art of Stealing Kisses - Stella London Page 0,31

any time of day, but it still can’t shake my worries loose.

“I was just thinking about work,” I lie. The truth is, I can’t get those blueprints or St. Clair’s phone conversation off my mind. It’s been days since we got back from Sussex, and all I’ve done is go over everything a million times, trying to come up with an innocent explanation that doesn’t involve grand theft and illegal dealings.

Paige studies me carefully. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You can talk to me, you know. Whatever it is.”

“I know.”

But I feel guilty, because I can’t talk to her, not about this. Paige is the one who’s been investigating the theft from Carringer’s, which means if Lennox is right, St. Clair’s been fooling us all. I wish I had more information. What if it’s nothing? Or worse: what if it’s not?

“I’m just feeling the pressure about making this big decision for the art exhibit.” I hate lying to her, but I don’t see another option.

“You’ll do great,” Paige grins. “But I can talk about art all day back at the office. I want to hear about your sexy weekend away.”

I laugh. “Sure, because nightmare family tension really sets the mood.”

“It must have worked, because you look all… glowy.” Paige narrows her eyes. “Please tell me you decided to give this ‘strictly work’ thing up and make hay while the sun shines.”

“Maybe…” I feel the tingle of desire pulling at me, remembering his hands, his tongue… I sigh. “I tried to keep things professional, I really did.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you. In fact, I’d be mad if you weren’t hittin’ that.” Paige stirs her coffee. “Tell me everything.”

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” I grin.

“Traitor.” Paige sticks her tongue out at me. “I need to live vicariously through you. All I do is work these days.” She lets out a weary sigh.

“It’s still that busy at the insurance company?” I ask. “Any new leads?”

“Not a one. Usually this is where we’d cut the check and move on, but the authorities won’t let it go. That Lennox guy is persistent. And intense. And kind of hot…” Paige bites her lip. “What do you think?”

“He’s… cute, I guess.” I feel guilty again hiding so much from her, but I need to learn exactly what Lennox is telling people about St. Clair. “Has he given you any suspects?” I ask carefully.

“Not really. Just that he thinks it’s someone who’s in it for the thrill, not someone who needs the cash.” Paige smooths her hair down. “Is St. Clair still upset about his missing masterpiece? He didn’t lose any money, right?”

“No, Carringer’s lost the money,” I say absently. St. Clair would never do this for the money, Lennox is right about that. He has more than enough. But it still doesn’t make sense: I can’t see St. Clair risking everything just for a passing thrill.

Or maybe I’m wrong, and I don’t really know him at all.

“Grace?”

I snap back. Paige is rolling her eyes. “I did it again, didn’t I? I’m sorry for spacing.”

“It’s a good thing I love you so much.” She winks.

“Love you too.” My guilt grows. I hate keeping secrets, especially from my best friend. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”

After lunch I head back to St. Clair’s office—my office—and try to focus on work. I flip through the final art pieces I’ve chosen for the London College of Art show —a mix of classically talented artists and daring original works—and feel good about my picks. I think the show will be a success. I’m trying to have confidence in my gut and follow the path my instincts want to travel, even if it means a rocky road. I know a few older members of the board may be surprised by some of my choices, but I also know these are the students who deserve to be shown.

With my choices finally made, I turn my attention back to my main job, and the incredible European pieces I can see in person now to add to St. Clair’s collection. I call Maisie, back in San Francisco, and ask for his schedule so we can set up some viewing appointments. My spirits lift just thinking about it.

“You’re all set,” she says down the line. “I’ve given you permissions on his calendar, everything should be in there.”

“Thank you – and good morning,” I add, remembering the time difference.

I click open his calendar on my computer and pull up my spreadsheet of the upcoming art openings