The Art of Stealing Forever (12 page)

“I’ll
get the tickets booked.”
He
grins. “I
know of this little five-star place, tucked away in St Kitts. Very
private…very
sexy,” he
murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle at my ear.

I
feel shivers. This is for real: me, and him, and whatever adventure
we want. I can’t
believe it, but it’s
not just a dream anymore.

For
a moment, we’re
suspended in our own private world. Then I hear a commotion, coming
from across the gallery. St. Clair and I both look up and see a
bustle of security guards walking through the room, spreading out
into the corners and across the space at various points. My heart
starts to beat faster.

Something
is wrong.

St.
Clair tenses, and I know he feels it too. “I
think that’s
our cue to leave,”
he
says casually. He starts to lead me through the crowd, strolling
toward the door that leads into the hallways, where the storage rooms
will provide us with easy exits.

I
gulp, and try to act calm. My stomach tangles up in knots, and my
mind races. What do they know? Have they found out about the forgery?

“Going
somewhere?”
A
voice makes St. Clair stop short.

It’s
Lennox, arms folded, blocking our path.

“Just
trying to get a moment alone with my lovely date,”
St.
Clair says pleasantly, sounding casual. “What
brings you across the pond then, agent? Here to get a little culture?
It’s
a lovely exhibition.”

“Yes,
it is.”
Lennox
holds his stare. “Except
for one of the pieces. Word is, it’s
a fake.”

My
heart stops.

St.
Clair arches an eyebrow, still cool. “Really?
What a shame. Still, you never know. All kinds of folks out there,
trying to pass things off as the real deal.”

“In
this case, the owner seems rather rattled by the revelation.”
Lennox
nods to where Crawford is blustering with some police officers,
red-faced and furious.

“And
I thought you never took people at their word,”
St.
Clair shoots back. Lennox snorts, then turns to me for the first
time.

“I
warned you, Grace.”
He almost sounds regretful.

I
freeze, my palms starting to sweat. “What
are you talking about?”

“Someone
was seen leaving the gallery last night. Someone who matches your
description.”
He
pulls out his handcuffs and my jaw drops. This can’t
be happening.

“Now
wait a minute, there’s
clearly been some mistake—”
St. Clair tries to block him, but Lennox just nods at a couple of
police officers, and they pull St. Clair out of the way.

“Don’t
say anything, Grace,”
St.
Clair calls, struggling. “I
promise, this is just a bluff. It’s
going to be okay.”

But
his voice melts away under the rush of blood pounding in my ears. I
can feel everyone watching, the whispers and gasps of scandal.

Lennox
moves in and spins me around. I feel the cold, hard sting of metal as
he slaps on the handcuffs and locks them shut. “Grace
Bennett, you’re
under arrest.”

I
spend the night shivering on the edge of a cot in a French police
cell, still wearing my fancy formal dress. I can’t
sleep a wink, and by morning, I’m
exhausted, hungry –
and
scared to death. I’ve
spent hours trying not to panic, going over every detail of our
heist. I’ve
run through what evidence they might have a million times and come up
with way too many ideas. DNA traces, hair strands, eyewitnesses,
security footage from cameras we might have missed…

I
hug my arms around myself and try to be brave. St. Clair said it was
just a bluff, and I wish I could believe him. But if he’s
wrong…my
whole future is on the line. Even if I don’t
spend the rest of my life in jail, I’ll
never be able to work in the art world again. And Nona will be so
disappointed. My mom would be disappointed. The thought makes me
sick.

The
sun’s
early light is filtering in through my barred window by the time a
police officer with a jangling set of keys comes to collect me.

“Is
a lawyer here?”
I
leap up eagerly. St. Clair wouldn’t
have left me here alone, and I know he’s
got to be moving heaven and earth –
and
a few international treaties too –
to
get me out. “Can
I make my phone call now?”

But
the guard just mumbles something in French, and leads me out. I
follow him down several long hallways, wincing at my stiff muscles
from spending the night shivering on that cot. Eventually, he opens
the door to what must be an interview room and nods for me to go
inside.

“I
need to make a phone call,”
I
protest. “I
have rights, you know.”

The
door slams shut behind me. I’m
left alone.

I
exhale. At least this room is a bit warmer than the cell downstairs,
and the plastic chair more comfortable. I sit down, waiting for
Lennox, or a lawyer, or even a detective to come and question me, but
the seconds tick past.

I
try to think logically. What should I say to them? What if I can’t
keep my story straight? With every passing minute, I feel my resolve
slip, imagining a life behind bars, with no parole.

Stop
it, Grace.

I
take a few deep breaths and try to stay calm. This is exactly what
they want: me freaking out and ready to spill my guts. Haven’t
I seen it enough on cop shows on TV? Leave the suspect to stew until
finally someone walks in and offers them a deal. But if they think
the alone time is going to make me crack, they’re
wrong. When your mom has cancer, you spend a lot of time waiting for
answers.

Right
on cue, the door finally opens, and Lennox walks in.

“Sorry
about the wait,”
he
says, juggling two steaming Styrofoam cups and a bakery box in his
hands. “I
got called away. How are you doing? Hungry?”

He
places the food down in front of me. Fresh croissants and pain au
chocolat, smelling amazing. And is that…?

“Coffee,”
he
says, nudging the cup closer to me. “And
not from a vending machine either. The French know how to brew a
proper latte, I’ll
give them that.”

He
notices me shivering in my silk dress. “Here,
take my jacket. You may as well get comfortable, we could be here a
while.”

He
drapes his jacket around my bare shoulders, then settles in the chair
on the opposite side of the table.

“Mmm,
I need this,”
he
sighs, taking a long gulp of coffee, and tearing off a corner of
croissant. “I’ve
been up all night with the evidence logs. You guys were thorough,
I’ll
give you that, but nobody leaves a crime scene completely clean.”

He
leans back, eating. Casual, friendly –
and
totally unlike the stubborn agent I thought I knew.

He’s
playing good cop. I narrow my eyes and press my lips together.

At
this moment I want nothing more than to tell him where to shove his
pastries, but the smell is too good, and I haven’t
had a meal since yesterday. My stomach lets out a loud rumble, and I
reach for the croissant. The buttery pastry melts in my mouth, and I
inhale the whole thing in three bites. I gulp half the coffee, too,
and begin to feel like a person again. I’m
about to thank him when I remember who put me here.

“Better?”
he
asks.

I
nod, and carefully sip my coffee, deciding to keep quiet and see
where this goes.

Lennox
finishes his pastry before leaning back and giving me a friendly
look. “Here’s
the thing, Grace. I don’t
care about you right now. I’m
after bigger fish, and you know that, so it’s
time to come clean. Tell me everything and you can go free.”

I
decide to call his bluff. “What
if I’m
guilty?”

Lennox
snorts. “I
know you just got caught up in St. Clair’s
games. I’ve
interviewed enough witnesses to know that he can be quite persuasive.
Maybe he made you think this was all a game, a fun little adventure.
But it’s
not. These are serious offenses, a serious crime. Do you understand?”

Better
than he can imagine, but I force myself to just keep breathing.
Surely if he has evidence against me, he would be using it by now?

“You’ve
had it out for St. Clair from the start,”
I
say quietly. “We
haven’t
done anything wrong.”

I
hate lying, but this is true, in a way. What we did may have been
technically illegal, but I still believe we did the right thing to
get back at Crawford. That Armande belongs to St. Clair’s
family.

“Oh
no?” Lennox
goes in for the kill. “Then
why are your fingerprints all over the crime scene? It doesn’t
look too good.”

I
freeze, my heart stuttering in panic, but then I remember. “I
was at the gallery for the party, and before then, too. St. Clair and
I had a guided tour, we oversaw the delivery of his exhibit. I must
have touched a dozen things.”

Lennox
scowls. “And
where were you the night before the opening?”

“With
St. Clair.”
I
stand firm; it’s
the truth. I don’t
have to tell him what we were doing. “We
were together all night.”

He
remains unconvinced. “How
convenient.”

The
good cop routine must be wearing thin, because now Lennox glares at
me. “You
know, at first I thought you were a smart girl, Grace. But standing
by a man who will give you up to save his own ass is incredibly
stupid.”

“What
do you mean, give me up?”
I
frown.

“Didn’t
you know?”
Lennox
smirks. “St.
Clair’s
in the other room right now, telling us everything. I wanted to see
if I could cut a deal with you, get you out of this before he sold
you out completely, but I guess it’s
too late now.”

I
stare at him, notice the tension in the hand he’s
clinging to the table with, and suddenly, my fears are gone. He
really is bluffing.

“St.
Clair would never do that,”
I say.

Lennox
leans forward and lowers his voice. “You’re
not the first woman to believe a man’s
lies. You can’t
trust a thief, Grace. They are all liars.”

I
look Lennox in the eye. “He
doesn’t
lie to me.”

Lennox
scrapes back his chair and heads for the door. “Just
ask yourself: are you willing to bet your future on him?”

I
don’t
even need to think it over.

“Always,”
I
vow. Lennox snorts, and then he’s
gone.

I’m
stuck waiting in the interview room another hour, so I figure I may
as well finish off those croissants. Now that my panic has passed,
I’m
feeling better. Lennox really is clutching at straws here. Still, it
makes me wonder: will he ever give up?

He’s
followed St. Clair halfway across the world, stalked him at every
turn…even
if St. Clair never pulled another heist, and reformed to live as a
good, law-abiding citizen, Lennox would be right there behind us,
lurking, waiting for some reason to pounce.

Just
how far will he go to bring St. Clair down?

Eventually,
the door opens. It’s
Lennox again. He doesn’t
look happy.

Another
man pushes past him, small and French. “I’m
so sorry for the delay, mademoiselle,”
he
gushes. “Please,
come this way.”

“Where
are you taking me?”
I ask.

“Wherever
you wish. You’re
free to go,”
he
explains.

I
look at Lennox, but he’s
scowling at the floor. Clearly, he’s
been overruled.

I
stand and lift my chin, perking up already. “Finally.”

“Again,
I’m
so sorry for the inconvenience.”
The
short man glares at Lennox, then ushers me out to the front lobby of
the police station. I can hear a familiar voice as we get closer—it’s
St. Clair, sounding furious.

“…I’ll
be lodging a formal complaint. This is unacceptable—”

“Monsieur
St. Clair.”
The
Frenchman rushes forward, raising his hands in apology.
“Please,
there’s
no need to shout. Your friend is safe and well, and free to go.”

St.
Clair sees me, and rushes to pull me into his arms. He holds me
tightly, and I lean into his chest.
“I’m
so sorry,” he
whispers.

“It’s
fine.” I
pull away. “Everything’s
okay.” I
look around at all the cops, and people, and reporters jostling by
the doors. “I
just want to get out of here.”

“Right
away.”

“I
wouldn’t
go too far,”
Lennox
says, planting himself in front of us. “I
still need to reach you for questioning.”

St.
Clair looks like he wants to land a swift right hook on the agent’s
face, but I’m
too tired to deal with anything more. The events of the past 24 hours
hit hard, and I have to hold on to St. Clair tightly to keep from
falling over.

“Please,”
I
whisper, “No
more fighting. Just take me home.”

“Of
course.”

He
wraps a protective arm around me, and leads me through the chaos.

As
soon as I get back to the apartment, all I want is to soak in a long,
hot bath.

“I’ll
go get you some tea,”
St.
Clair says, looking at me with concern. I don’t
blame him. My reflection in the mirror is a total mess: bedraggled
hair and dark shadows under my eyes.

“Tea
sounds good.”
I
give him a tired smile. He heads downstairs, and I run the hot water
into the huge clawfoot tub, emptying in a whole bottle of fancy
lavender bubble bath. As the tub fills I strip out of the gown that I
loved so much, now grayed with prison dirt and stained with tears and
who knows what else. The sweet smelling steam fills the room, and I
sink down into the bubbles and let the soapy suds wash away the last
twelve hours.

I’m
floating and half-dozing when St. Clair returns with a tray. “There’s
cake too,”
he
adds. I laugh, thinking of the croissants I’ve
already eaten today.