He looks at me like he’s sizing up how hard I’ll fight. “Fine,” he relents and hands me a small ear piece and a microphone from his bag. “Put these on so we can communicate.” He slips an earpiece over his ear and I do the same, and then we slide quietly out of the car into the night.

“Just be casual,” St. Clair whispers as we walk along shadowed walls on the way to the gallery. “The trick is, not to be noticed at all.”

I follow St. Clair’s finely shaped figure, walking along like we’re on our way somewhere, slowing to listen when he cocks his head.

We circle around to a street at the back entrance of the gallery. This is the loading dock we saw from the inside today, now totally silent and dark.

St. Clair puts out his arm, stopping me. “Wait.”

He pulls a hi-tech device from his pocket, the size of a cellphone, and taps the screen. “This will intercept the security cameras. See?” The screen shows black and white footage at weird angles – hallways and doors, from inside the building. And, the empty street ahead of us.

“Now, we just loop what the cameras are seeing…” St. Clair taps some keys. I don’t see anything change: the alleyway is still on the security feed.

“Okay, come on.” He takes my hand, and starts towards the building, but I pull back.

“How do you know it’ll work?” I ask, panicked. “What if something goes wrong?”

“I’ve done this before,” he reassures me. “It’ll work. But if you want to wait in the car…”

I pull it together. “No, I’m still in.”

My heart is pounding a million miles a minute as we walk out of the shadows toward the doors. St. Clair shows me the screen again: the cameras are still showing the looped feed. To anyone watching from inside, we’re completely invisible.

I take a deep breath, trying to relax.

St. Clair’s done this, probably a dozen times before. I need to trust him.

The irony hits me. The thing that made me not trust him is the one thing I need now more than ever. His skills as a thief, his quick mind and ability to get out of any scrape.

We quickly move to the smaller door that’s right next to the large loading garage door. There is an access panel for a security pass, and luckily we have one of those. I feel proud of my distraction today as St. Clair swipes the card and a little green light blinks. He raises his eyebrows and pushes the door. It opens. We’re in.

Inside, the building is dark, just a few security lights glowing along the walls. We slip down the hall quiet as mice, moving slowly in the dark. We’re halfway to the main exhibition hall when suddenly, footsteps sound in the hallway.

I freeze, my blood running cold, but St. Clair doesn’t bat an eye. He pulls me back and presses our bodies to the wall in a split second, with cat-like reflexes.

“Shhh,” he whispers in my ear. “Relax.”

I force myself to breathe quietly, until the flashlight passes by a few feet ahead, in the cross-connecting corridor. As the footsteps fade, St. Clair motions for me to stay.

“I’m going to check out the guard booth,” he whispers. “You sit tight, wait for me to call you on your earpiece. Okay?”

My stomach drops at the thought of being left here alone, but I force myself to nod.

“Be right back.”

He creeps after the guard, following him around the corner and out of sight. The seconds stretch, unbearably long standing here alone in the dark. My heart is beating so loudly, I swear anyone could hear from across the building.

What are you doing, Grace?

I ignore the doubts and try to focus on my breathing until finally, St. Clair’s voice crackles in my earpiece and makes me jump. “The guard booth is at the end of the next hallway,” he murmurs. “They’re watching the game, so come to me slowly. Stay low, you can crawl under the counter and stay out of sight.”

Oh God. This is it.

I don’t want to move, but I can’t stay here all night, so I swallow my fear and head over. I edge around the corner, my eyes darting around anxiously. Just as St. Clair said, at the end of the hallway there’s a large glass window into the security booth. Inside, two guards are watching the match on a small TV. As I get closer, I can hear them talking in French, occasionally grumbling at the screen or calling in excitement.

St. Clair is waiting in the shadows just beyond the booth. He beckons. I have to go right past them.

I brace myself, then bend double, and stay crouched close to the ground as I scurry the final few feet past the window, my heart pounding in my ears the whole time.

They don’t turn.

Thank God.

I join St. Clair by the next doorway. He nods at me and swipes the security card again, and then we enter the storage room where all the crates are waiting around like boulders. We spot Crawford’s crate and ease off the lid. St. Clair uses his gloved fingers to carefully lift the painting out of the crate. “It’s gorgeous,” I whisper.

“I used to love to stare at it when I was a child.” He admires the brushstrokes, the oils on the canvas seeming to shine. “I can’t wait to get it back where it belongs.”

I look around for St. Clair’s crate with the forgery we need to swap in for the real Armande. “Where’s your crate?” I ask. He searches the room with his eyes and frowns.

“I don’t see it,” he says.

Crap! “We need that,” I say, beginning to panic. “What are we going to do?”

“Stay calm,” St. Clair says. “That’s rule number one.”

I try to think rationally. We have just a few minutes before the soccer match breaks, or one of the guards decides to take a look around. There are dozens of places the painting crate could be, and hardly any time to check them all. “You check the back rooms then, and I’ll look in the gallery space. It has to be here somewhere,” I whisper.

St. Clair looks reluctant. “I don’t want to separate…”

I don’t either, but we don’t have time. “What other option do we have?”

He looks torn, but concedes. “Okay, but if you hear anything, call me right away.”

He heads back into the storage areas, and I turn back to the gallery. It’s a dark maze of interconnected rooms. I creep around, trying to stay in the shadows and low to the ground. Even knowing the cameras aren’t tracking me, I’m still nervous, my heart racing every time my feet make the slightest noise. I creep around from room to room until I see it: St. Clair’s painting.

“I found it!” I call him on the earpiece. “It’s in the Martinique room, they’ve already hung it.”

“Is the crate there?”

I cast my eyes around the room, studying the shapes in the shadows. “Yes, it’s in the corner.”

“Good work.” I hear him let out a breath of relief. “On my way.”

I move over to the crate, checking for the secret compartment where St. Clair hid the forgery. Every second that ticks past, my panic grows. The guards could come soon, they could find St. Clair before he gets to me. We need to swap the paintings and get gone – now.

I have a buzzing feeling in my gut that something is about to go wrong. Stay calm, Grace. Don’t panic.

I run my hands over the inside of the crate, checking for a lever or catch. There.

I pull it open, and find the rolled-up canvas tucked inside. I lift it free, and turn to check the door—

And the canvas roll in my arms brushes up against a painting on the wall.

Oh. Shit.

Red lights start flashing in the ceiling. It must have triggered some alarm. My heart stops. I freeze, but it’s too late. A metal security grille comes down from the ceiling, banging onto the floor like a prison door that’s just been slammed – barring my exit.

I’m trapped.

CHAPTER 10

I rattle the heavy grille, but it doesn’t shift. Pounds of metal stand between me and freedom.