The Art of Stealing Forever (14 page)

One
step at a time.

I
approach the ticket counter. “One
ticket to Alsace,”
I
speak loudly, so anyone nearby can hear, even though the tracker in
my phone will lead them straight to me. I take my ticket to the
train, walking slowly, then climb on board the train.

I
head down the narrow corridor and find an empty compartment. My phone
chirps with a text from St. Clair.
Everything
okay?

All
according to plan
,
I write back.

The
engine starts, and the train slowly moves out of the station. I sit
back, watching from the windows as the Paris city streets make way
for rolling countryside. It’s
beautiful, and the passing landscape reminds me of all the movies my
mom and I watched with characters taking trains or planes or hot air
balloons to their next adventures in faraway lands. Look at me now,
doing just that, going on a quest to help someone I love, to places
I’ve
always wanted to visit. The circumstances may not be exactly what I
dreamed of, but I’m
here, and the fantasy can’t
compare to the reality of love, of a connection like St. Clair and I
have. And the future we’re
going to build together. Fields of yellow daisies stretch out in a
vista worthy of a painting outside my window, white puffy clouds
drifting lazily above in the blue sky.

I
can’t
believe that just a month ago I was rushing to make that first intern
interview at the auction house- and ran straight into St. Clair. I
had no idea then what awaited me.

Us.

It’s
easy to feel like he swept me off my feet, but even though St. Clair
offered me the chance of a lifetime, I was the one who decided to
take it. And every new day has taken me further from that nervous,
timid girl back in San Francisco, toward…what?
I’ve
changed, I can feel it, I’m
more confident now; braver. Happier. I like to think if my mom was
here, she’d
be proud of me for growing. If there’s
one thing I’ve
learned from all of this, it’s
that I can no longer wait for fate to give me what I want.

I
look at the sky, at the cotton ball clouds, and wonder for the
millionth time since my mom died if she can see me, really see me.
Would she approve of this plan, of what I’m
doing in the name of justice, and love? Would she understand?

She
would if she could see my heart, and that’s
one part of me I know she always understood. She used to tell me, “If
you’re
happy, I’m
happy,”
except
she really meant it. She did everything she could to make me smile.

“I’m
happy, Mom,”
I
whisper to the heavens. “I
hope you are, too.”

I
arrive at the station right on schedule, and make sure to carry the
tube obviously as I drag my case out and hail another cab. I give the
driver an address in the countryside. As we head away from the crowd
at the train station, adrenaline starts coursing through me. This is
it. The last step.

Don’t
blow it now.

About
twenty minutes outside of town, the cab turns off the main road down
a winding country lane. The trees turn manicured, spaced evenly to
create a grand driveway. As we crest a hill, a sprawling estate comes
into view. A stone mansion sits behind a low brick wall and at least
three other stone buildings and a wooden barn are scattered behind on
acres and acres of green hillside dotted with trees.

“Wow,”
I
breathe. It’s
elegant, tasteful –
and
considering the owner, I’m
surprised.

The
tires crunch on the gravel in the driveway. The cab deposits me
outside the grand front door, and then drives away. I wipe my palms
on my skirt and silently count to three.

Breathe,
Grace
.

A
few steps to the door and I ring the bell.

“Yes?”
A
barking voice calls. “I
told you, I’m
not interested in your local bloody milk—”

The
door swings open, and I come face to face with the owner of the
estate.

Spencer
Crawford.

He
looks surprised to see me. “I
know you,”
he
sneers. “You’re
St. Clair’s
latest bit of alright. Weren’t
you arrested?”

I
clear my throat. “Grace
Bennett. And they let me go.”

“So?
What’s
all this about?”
Crawford
looks around. “Is
St. Clair here?”

“No.
But may I have a moment of your time? This won’t
take long,”
I
add.

Crawford
pauses, then shrugs. “Make
it quick. I have some friends due tonight. And they like to party, if
you know what I mean.”

I
try not to shudder as I step toward the door –
holding
the painting tube outstretched. But before I can set foot inside, the
shriek of sirens comes screaming up the drive. A fleet of police cars
careen toward us, lights flashing and horns blaring.

Right
on cue.

“What
the hell…”
Crawford
swears and steps outside, covering his ears.

More
sirens approach, their alarms making the air vibrate with screeching,
and above us, a helicopter circles the estate.

Whoa,
a helicopter?

“Don’t
move!” a
voice yells through a megaphone. “You
are surrounded. Put your hands above your head and remain where you
are.”

We
both raise our hands to the sky, wide-eyed. I don’t
have to fake my fear or shock here—this
is quite a turn out. It’s
crazy: cops everywhere, the noise from the chopper, and even the
sound of barking as a group of police search dogs are let out of the
back of a van. At last, the chaos seems to calm, and a familiar voice
comes striding out of the crowd.

Lennox.

Crawford
sees him, too. “What
the hell do you think you’re
doing here?!”
he
bellows. “This
is private property!”

“And
I have a badge and probable cause,”
Lennox
says, flashing his Interpol ID. “Now
where is St. Clair?”

Crawford
stutters. “St.
Clair? I don’t
understand.”

“He’s
not here,”
I
say, innocently. “Is
there something you’re
looking for?”

Lennox
glares at me. “Grace,
I’m
done playing games with you. If St. Clair isn’t
here, you’ll
go to jail yourself.”

He
snatches the painting tube out from under my arm faster than I can
react. “All
I need is this evidence,”
he
says, opening the tube. He pulls out the canvas and unrolls it. Then
his face changes.

“What
is
this
?”
he
demands.

“Not
what you were expecting, detective?”
I smile sweetly.

“Is
someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?”
Crawford
butts in.

“This
isn’t
the Armande.”
Lennox
scowls. He turns to yell at his team. “Search
the house!”

Men
push past us, heading inside with the police dogs. Lennox turns back
to me. “Where’s
the painting you stole?”

“I
don’t
know what you’re
talking about. That painting—an
O’Brien
from St. Clair’s
own private collection, by the way—is
supposed to be a gift for Mr. Crawford.”
I
turn to the man I loathe and smile. “Mr.
St. Clair sympathized with your loss, having just lost one of his own
paintings to a heist as well, and wanted to offer you a little
consolation. St. Clair isn’t
the monster you think he is,”
I
tell Lennox pointedly. “Maybe
you can see now that you misjudged him.”

Dogs
start barking from inside. Lennox snaps his head around, and charges
into the house.

I
follow, with Crawford hot on my heels. “What
the hell?”
Crawford
is still complaining angrily. “Be
careful! Those are antiques!”

The
dogs cluster around a door, barking wildly.

“What’s
behind there?”
Lennox
demands.

“That’s
the wine cellar,”
Crawford
blusters. “I
keep a priceless collection, you mustn’t
disturb the bottles—”

Lennox
kicks open the door.

Crawford
is livid, his face red. “Expect
a lawsuit tomorrow! You, this whole department!”
He
gestures wildly and shouts at Lennox’s
back. “Dumb
dogs!” He
moves to kick the still barking dogs but one of the husky German
Shepherds lunges at him, snapping his teeth.

“Owww!”

Crawford
reels back, scurrying outside. “Where
is my assistant? Natalie? Natalie!”
he
bellows.

She
comes around the corner from one of the guest cottages. “You
yelled?” she
asks.

“Who
are these people?”
he
demands. “Get
me my lawyers, right now!”

“Good
idea,”
Lennox’s
voice comes. He steps out of the house –
holding
the Armande painting. “You’re
going to need them.”

Crawford
looks confused. “Where
did that come from? I thought you said it had been stolen.”

“That’s
what we thought.”
Lennox
fixes him with a suspicious glare. “Trying
to run an insurance scam, Mr. Crawford?”

Lennox
calls to the other officers, “I
want an evidence team in that cellar. I spotted at least half a dozen
stolen paintings down there. And search the rest of the house. I
believe we’ve
found our thief.”

“This
is ridiculous!”
Crawford
explodes. “I’ll
have your badge for this! Natalie!”

She
stands there calmly. “I
had no idea,”
she
says. “Agent
Lennox, should I get the keys to the rest of the property? There are
some outbuildings and garages. I can show your men the way.”

“Thank
you, that would be very helpful.”

Natalie
catches my eye for a moment, and we share a secret grin. It wasn’t
hard to recruit her to our cause: she’s
seen first-hand the damage Crawford has done. She was more than
willing to give us access to the estate, so St. Clair could sneak in
and plant the incriminating stolen art early this morning.

“Get
this area marked off for the crime unit.”
Lennox
carefully places the Armande in a painting tube. “It
looks like my search is over. Spencer Crawford, you’re
under arrest.”

He
pulls out a pair of handcuffs and slaps them on Crawford’s
wrists. As he sputters and yells and threatens all the cops,
including Lennox, he feebly struggles like he might run away, before
he’s
placed in the back of a police car. “You
won’t
get away with this!”
are
the last words he roars before the door is shut.

Another
car races up the drive and screeches to a stop beside us. St. Clair
rushes out, and sweeps me into a hug. “Are
you okay?” he
demands.

“I’m
fine,” I
laugh, pulling away. “You’re
late. You missed all the action.”

St.
Clair looks around at Crawford in the back of a police car,
handcuffed, and at Lennox standing not too far away, watching us with
an unreadable expression.

“Seems
you finally found the real culprit, Lennox,”
St.
Clair says. “Congratulations.
This is a career-making bust.”

Lennox
closes the short distance between us. “Seems
that way,”
he
says, the suspicion still in his voice. “But
you know as well as I do that things are not always as they seem.”

“The
evidence never lies, right, detective?”
I say.
“Like
I said, you were chasing the wrong guy.”

Lennox
cocks his head to the side and considers, looking at me and St. Clair
standing close together, his arm around my waist, protective, both of
us straight faced and unblinking under the weight of his stare. He
finally nods. “You’re
right. I apologize.”
He
appraises us one last time, his mind working through something he
decides not to say.

He
turns on his heel and heads back inside –
to
the cellar full of valuable incriminating evidence.

Crawford’s
car leaves his own driveway with several cop escorts as many more
uniforms patrol the ground, setting up police tape, taking photos and
doing whatever else cops do at a crime scene, but I’m
not worried. The proof is in the paintings, and they are all sitting
in Crawford’s
estate.

St.
Clair squeezes my hip, pulls me a little closer. He kisses me, full
of victory. “We
did it!”

We
did it.
I almost can’t
believe it. If Lennox weren’t
here, I think I would jump for joy as high as I possibly could, but
instead I nuzzle into St. Clair’s
neck and sigh with contentment. The risk paid off –
and
now we’re
free. No more looking over our shoulders, no more waiting for Lennox
to pounce and snatch St. Clair away from me or send us both to jail.

There’s
nothing standing in our way now. Our happily-ever-after can finally
begin.

“Where
do you want to go now?”
Charles
asks, taking my hand as we stroll back to his car.

“I
don’t
know…”
I
tease. “Didn’t
you say something about the Caribbean?”

I
feel like I must be dreaming.

A
sparkling turquoise sea fills my vision, swirling like paints on a
living canvas I could watch for hours. White crests of waves crash
gently on sugary smooth sand just a few feet in front of me, sending
cool sprays of saltwater into the air, pleasantly misting my warm
skin. If I couldn’t
wiggle my toes and feel the soft sand between them, or smell the
coconut scent of my tanning oil, I could easily believe I’d
slipped into a fantasy.

Especially
when St. Clair, shirtless and sexy with his perfect abs and sculpted
shoulders, appears at my elbow with a fruity drink complete with a
tiny, festive umbrella.

“Have
I died and gone to heaven?”
I
ask him, running my fingers down his chest and tugging playfully at
the waist of his swim trunks.

His
eyebrows shoot up. “It
seemed like you went to heaven last night…”
He
bends his head to kiss my belly button above my bikini bottoms. Heat
not at all related to the Jamaican sunshine rushes between my legs.

“Mmm,”
I
say, pulling his face to meet mine. “I
didn’t
hear any complaints from you.”
His
luscious lips are salty from the air and sweet from the cocktails and
he sinks into the kiss, leaning into my body, our sweaty skin
sticking together as our mouths explore each other. I wonder if we’ll
ever get tired of each other’s
bodies, but I only want him more with every touch, every night of
passion, and he seems to feel the same.