Read The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) for Free Online

she always encouraged me to be myself.
“That
must have been hard.”
    He
pauses, and when he answers, his voice is quieter. “It
was. Growing up, I knew I was a disappointment to the family. I
couldn’t
understand why I was just supposed to do what they expected of me.
There was so much more in the world I wanted to see, to discover. It
was like being given a canvas and a set of oil paints, then being
told I could only paint in black and white,”
he adds with a rueful smile. “I
didn’t
last long. As soon as I was old enough, I left to make it on my own.”
    I
smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “And
how’s
that working out for you?”
    He
smiles, too. “Not
too bad right now.”
    We
eat in silence for a few moments, munching on chips and enjoying the
light tinkling of the fountain in the courtyard right outside, the
cool sea air on our skin. St. Clair has a lock of hair sticking out
over his eyes and I want so badly to reach out and touch it, brush my
finger down those sculpted cheeks and bring his lips to mine…
    Keep
it professional, remember? I turn away to look around at the art, an
eclectic mix. St. Clair sat us in front of a Durer piece, a detailed
depiction of a rabbit. It sounds simple, like child’s
play, but it’s
actually so dense it’s
like looking under a microscope, every detail perfect.
    St.
Clair sees me staring. “You
like what you see?”
    “I
love Durer’s
work, especially these quieter, less famous pieces,”
I say. “The
fur actually looks like real fur.”
I’m
in awe.
    “Do
you know the provenance of this piece?”
    “Will
you fire me if I admit I don’t?”
    He
laughs. “It’s
disputed, actually. This piece is rumored to have been looted by the
Nazis, taken from a Jewish family in Paris.”
    “How
did it end up here?”
    “Years
of changing hands and finally a wealthy Russian family decided to
donate it.”
    My
brow creases. “Why
not give it back to the original owners, then?”
    He
leans back and rubs his chin. “That’s
the horrible part. During the war, title deeds were often lost, or
destroyed, and billions of dollars’
worth of
priceless art was stolen from their rightful owners. Some of the
surviving families have tried to get their property back, but without
the deeds, there’s
no way to prove it.”
    “That’s
so sad,” I
say, feeling a pang. “Those
families lost so much. The least they can do is have their art
returned.”
    “I
absolutely agree.” St.
Clair nods. “How
about you, Grace? How is your art coming along?”
    I
start a little, and he looks confused. “You
did study to be a painter, didn’t
you?”
    “Yes,
but I was never good enough to really go anywhere with it.”
I wave my hands in dismissal. “And
I haven’t
painted in forever.”
    “Why
not?”
    I
wince, thinking of the ache that builds in my heart every time I pick
up a brush. “Since
my mom died, I just haven’t
felt that spark. It’s
too hard.”
    “Have
you tried?” he
pushes lightly.
    I
shrug. “I
still sketch, but every time I’m
faced with a blank canvas, the brushes that belonged to my mom…I
just freeze.” I
busy my hands with clearing up the remnants of my sandwich,
self-conscious about admitting something so personal.
    He
reaches out and takes my hands. “You’ll
paint again, Grace. True passion like your mother’s,
like yours, never disappears completely.”
    I
look at him. “Are
you sure?”
I whisper, desperate for his words to be true.
    He
rubs his thumb across my palm. “Give
it time. When you’re
ready, the muse will return. Trust me.”
    I
swallow back the tears of emotion suddenly welling in my throat.
“Thanks.”
    His
phone buzzes, ruining the moment. He checks the screen. “I’ll
be right back,” he
says, stepping out into the hallway.
    I
clean up our lunch scraps and put them in the trash near the guard,
who barely looks at me. I guess St. Clair really does do this all the
time. I wander the hall studying the art, the color and shadow.