Free The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) by Stella London Page A

along the brush bristles in amazement. I can’t
believe all this is mine. I ruminate on what St. Clair said about
passion never disappearing, and remember what my mom told me about
creativity, that it never comes when you try to force it.
    Still,
I’m
nervous after all this time. So I decide to take the pressure off: I
pour out some paint and just play around for a while, making lines in
random colors, trying different pressures and mediums. I don’t
even notice as the day passes until the light is fading from the
windows, and I realize I’ve
had fun. No-pressure painting, just like back in the old days, before
there were outcomes attached to my work. Free. And I have St. Clair
to thank for that.
     
    I’m
walking on cloud nine on my way back to my flat. I feel like even if
I don’t
paint a masterpiece anytime soon, today was the first time I put
brush to canvas in years, and that is amazing. As I approach my
street, I try to think of a way I can show my appreciation to St.
Clair. He’s
the man who seems to have everything, but I’m
sure I can think of some little token to thank him for everything
he’s
done.
    “Hello,
Miss Bennett.”
    I
look up. A man is waiting, leaning against the railing in front of my
apartment. I recognize him as Nick Lennox, the Interpol agent who’s
been investigating the art thefts back home in the States.
    I’m
surprised to see him here. “Hi,
umm, is everything okay?”
    “Just
dandy.” Nick
looks around. “Nice
neighborhood. Not bad for an auction house intern.”
    I
tense a little at the tone. “Art
consultant,” I
correct him. I get out my keys. “Is
there anything I can help you with?”
    “I
hope so.” Nick
smiles at me. “Can
we go somewhere to talk?”
    “We
are talking.”
    He
smiles but it doesn’t
reach his eyes. “More
privately.”
    Instead
of inviting him in, I nod to the small park at the end of the block.
“After
you.”
    We
walk together in silence, but my mind is racing. Finally, I ask. “Has
there been a break in the Carringer’s
case? New leads?”
    “You
could say that.” We
reach a small bench, and he gestures for me to sit. “I’m
coming to you because I need your help.”
    Really?
“My
help? With what? I already told you everything I know about the
Carringer’s
heist. I don’t
know anything.”
    “And
if you did? Would you assist the investigation?”
Lennox looks
at me dead on.
    “Of
course,” I
frown. “I
want to see the thief caught.”
    “Good
answer.” He
smiles at me. “I
know who stole the painting from Carringer’s,
who’s
behind all the thefts, and it turns out you’re
in a unique position to assist in proving his guilt.”
    I’m
still confused. “How?
And…who?”
    “It
was St. Clair.” Lennox
tells me, not taking his eyes from my face. “He’s
the thief.”
    I
burst out laughing.
    Lennox
just waits, his eyes still studying me.
    He’s
serious?
    “There’s
no way!” I
protest. “St.
Clair doesn’t
need to steal anything. He bought the painting! He could buy anything
he wants!”
    “I
never said he was in it for the money.”
    “Then
what?” I’m
still reeling. This doesn’t
add up. St. Clair isn’t
a thief, he cares about wrong and right, and on top of all that, he
has no motive. “You’re
not making any sense.”
    “Aren’t
I?” Lennox
challenges. “You
know our friend: St. Clair thrives off risk, adrenaline. He enjoys
breaking the rules, and he doesn’t
care about the consequences. He’s
rich, idle, and has a God complex. I think he fits the profile
perfectly. It’s
not just the Carringer’s
job, there’s
a whole string of international robberies over the past few years.
The Brussels gold heist last year. The Alberti diamonds in Monaco.
Rio de Janeiro – I
could go on.”
    “Don’t.”
My voice is
cold. I know that St. Clair is an adventure junkie, but making out in
a public fountain and picnicking in a no-food zone at a museum hardly
seem like precursors to multi-million dollar art