The Art of Stealing Hearts

(Love & Art Book One)

By Stella London

Copyright © 2015 Stella London

Cover art/design by: Perfect Pear Creative

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 1

My mom taught me that art is everywhere; you just have to look. “Keep your eyes open, Grace, and you can always find the beauty,” she said, filling our small apartments with gorgeous paintings and bright colors, pointing out shapes and compositions as we walked city streets. Her love of art inspired mine, but right now my heart and head are pounding under the stress of running late, so it’s hard for me to notice anything pretty about the traffic literally standing between me and the chance of a lifetime.

“Um, excuse me?” I pipe up from the back seat of the immobile taxi cab, anxiously looking at the driver slumped in his seat. He ignores me.

I check my watch again: 8:41 am. Crap! I bite my lip to keep from yelling. Crapcrapcrap. I’m supposed to be at Carringer’s Auction House in nineteen—make that eighteen—minutes. First BART was late, and now I’m spending the last of this week’s tips to be trapped in this smelly cab, sweating under my best business outfit. My only business outfit.

After a year of dropping off resumes and talking up gallery owners and museum directors, I’d nearly given up hope of finding a job in the art world until last week when the best auction house in San Francisco called me. Carringer’s deals in the most sought-after and highly-valued art and antiquities in the world: French Impressionist paintings, Chinese ceramics, Native American head masks, Greek sculptures…I get chills just imagining the masterpieces that flow in and out of those vaults. If I’m late to this interview, the first opportunity I’ve had in months might slip away and I’ll be serving spaghetti and meatballs at my waitress gig until I permanently smell like marinara and am too old to remember the specials.

“Sir?” This time I rap insistently on the plexiglass separating me from the driver. He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “I’m super late. Is there a short cut or something you could use?”

The minute hand on the watch my mother gave me jerks forward again and we’ve gone less than a block. Why aren’t we moving?! As if the obvious answer wasn’t right outside my window, honking and spewing fumes and inching along like snails on their way into the financial district’s high rise office buildings.

The driver just laughs at me. “What do you think?”

I think you smell like someone Febreezed over a cigar shop. But it’s the number one rule of waitressing: rudeness never pays. “How much further is Gold Street?”

The cabbie shrugs. It’s 8:43.

“Is it close enough to walk?” I press him.

“Sure,” he says. “Everywhere is close enough to walk to eventually.”

Screw this. There is no possible way for me to arrive looking cool and collected as planned anyway since my makeup probably already looks like a Jackson Pollock, and I’m not going to let some stupid traffic keep me from my dream. “Here,” I say, tossing a pile of ones onto the front seat and scooting out the door. “I’ll take my chances.”

The cab driver rolls his eyes. “Maybe ten blocks,” he says. I inhale a deep breath of crisp ocean air, steady my purse on my shoulder, and start jogging.

Immediately, my sensible yet stylish heels feel like vice grips on my toes. My feet are used to day-long shifts in sneakers, and it’s hard to run in a skirt, but I can’t give up. My carefully blow-dried hair is getting wind-whipped and frizzy, and my bangs are sticking to the sweat beading on my forehead.

“Sorry! ‘Scuse me! Coming through, please!” It’s like running an obstacle course in heels.

I dodge through the crowd, trying not to think about the frazzled and sloppy impression I’m going to make. In the meantime, I force myself to focus on the beauty of this city: the long shadows of the tallest buildings, the modern architecture, the sunlight reflected and refracted off a thousand windows, the blue sky beyond. I love San Francisco, even though right now it is not loving me back.

One. More. Block. So. Close. I can almost see the brass carvings and scrolled handles on the thick auction house doors as I cross Gold Street and round the corner…and smash right into the muscular chest of a man coming from the crosswalk.

I shriek at the same time he says, “Whoa, there,” like he’s a cowboy, except he’s as posh and polished as can be. He holds his coffee cup out in front of him like a bomb and I see the brown liquid dripping down his blue tie and white shirt.

“Oh my God!” I grab some clean tissues out of my bag. “Here, let me help,” I say, reaching for his tie, but he’s already shaking it out. Luckily, most of the drink seems to be splattered on the concrete.

“It’s fine,” he says, catching my hand. “There was too much sugar in that latte anyway.” He looks at me as our fingers touch, his eyes flecked with shifting shades of blue like Van Gogh’s night sky and just as mesmerizing. I want to paint them, but then I remember my priorities.

“I’m sorry about the spill, but I really have to go.” I check my watch. “I’m running late for an important meeting.” I start to turn away, feeling guilty, but his voice stops me.

“So this is a run-by coffee-ing, then?” He has an accent. British. Sexy.

I turn back, unable to keep from checking him out again. He has a mouth that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo, perfectly shaped lips that smile at me and highlight the sharp cheekbones as sculpted as the famous David’s. It’s like his face belongs in a museum. Whoa, there. “Should I call the police?” he asks.

I smile despite my hurry, sure that my face is turning strawberry red. I’d love to stay and flirt with this gorgeous man, but there’s no time. “Look,” I say, backing away. “If you give me your card, I’ll happily pay for the cleaning bill, but I really do have to run.”

He falls in step beside me like we’re old friends. “Oh, no,” he says, loosening his tie as he easily matches my sprint. “Don’t you worry about this old thing. I’ve been meaning to donate it.” He tosses it in a trash can as we speed down the sidewalk and I can’t help but notice the triangle of smooth chest showing now that he’s unbuttoned his collar.

“It mostly missed my shirt, which is good because the public tends to frown on shirtless businessmen.”

I imagine him shirtless and almost walk into a mailbox.

“That was a joke,” he says, smiling.

Over the smell of salty sea air and car exhaust I catch the fresh, soapy clean scent of him. “Oh,” I say, avoiding a pothole, and thinking that no one would frown at that body. “Funny.”

“This meeting must be a big deal,” he says. “If you’re too distracted to converse with a handsome man.”

“It really is,” I say, separating from him just long enough to weave around a woman walking a poodle. “Life-changing actually. It’s a job interview at Carringer’s.”