Read Online The Art of Stealing Forever by Stella London - Free Book Online

hand her a tissue from the
box on the counter. “It’s
his dog! He forced me to get him one even though I knew it was a bad
idea and then he treats it terribly, and makes me take care of the
poor thing.”
She
blows her nose again and wipes her eyes. “I
feel so bad for Wall Street.”
I
raise my eyebrows and she rolls her eyes. “I
know. That’s
his name. He’s
a purebred.”
    I
start laughing and then she starts laughing and then we’re
both having a giggle fit right there in the bathroom of a posh club
where we don’t
really belong. We are both here only because we work for (and/or
date) rich men who can afford to belong to places like this.
    “Thanks,”
she
says, when our laughter dies away. “I
needed that.”
    “I’m
sorry he’s
such a jerk. Why do you put up with it?”
I ask, but I think I already know. It wasn’t
that long ago that I was in a similar position: desperate to get my
foot in the right door, taking any paid work I could, hoping to make
my way up the ranks if I just stuck it out long enough.
    “I
hope this job will lead to something else, but if I resign, everyone
will just think I couldn’t
handle it,”
she
says, sad but determined. “I’ve
got to grin and bear it.”
    She
sounds like a true Brit, with a stiff upper lip attitude. But I also
understand her drive—just
a few months ago, that was me. My boss at Carringer’s
was not as bad as Crawford, but she was no walk in the park. Those of
us who are not born lucky have to work a little harder, take a little
more crap.
    “I
get it,” I
say, and I do. But I also now want to teach Crawford a lesson even
more. For Natalie. And for Wall Street. I lean in. “But
I also know karma is a bitch and he’ll
get what he deserves eventually.”
    She
looks hopeful. “You
think?”
    I
smile. Oh,
I know .
“I
do. And it might even be sooner than you expect.”
     
    I
leave Natalie to finish composing herself—she
came prepared with make-up since she says she often ends up crying at
work—and
I force myself not to stomp over to Crawford and deck him in his fat
chin right now. I remind myself that St. Clair is clever, and I
should leave the subterfuge up to him. He’s
been at this game longer than I have.
    I
rejoin him at the bar. He’s
with a group of people now, and Crawford is lurking nearby. St. Clair
winks at me as I approach.
    “As
I was saying, this loan I’m
making for the Chervelle Foundation will be the talk of the art
scene—no
one else is going to come close!”
He
elaborates a little with his charm, building up the donation without
giving many specifics, just talking a little louder and louder until
Crawford takes the bait.
    “What
is this about, St. Clair?”
he booms, parting the crowd like the red sea.
    St.
Clair gives a casual shrug. “I
was just talking about my new acquisition.”
    Crawford
snorts. “What,
did you buy another Picasso?”
    “Actually,
it’s
the Portrait
of a Princess by Sergio Graziano.”
    A
few people make small gasps, and I understand why: it’s
a famous impressionist painting that’s
rarely been exhibited. Crawford is skeptical. “That
painting has never been for sale.”
    St.
Clair smiles coolly. “It
was, though, and I bought it. Too bad you didn’t
know it was available. I suppose they only bothered contacting
serious buyers.”
He
emphasizes the word ‘serious’
and
I can see the vein in Crawford’s
forehead pulsing.
    St.
Clair continues, “I’m
loaning it to the Chervelle Foundation for their big charity exhibit
in Paris. It’s
their biggest donation, of course. The press is having a field day,
all the headlines are already written.”
He
looks Crawford in the eye. “It’s
a pity you don’t
have anything that could match it. I suppose this puts me on top of
our little rivalry, old friend. I hope you’ll
be able to make the opening.”
St.
Clair smiles, but the challenge is there and Crawford rises to it.
    “As
it happens,”
he
muses, “I have been looking for a place to