“Yes, eventually, but I was thinking of a detour first.” St. Clair pulls me closer, pressing me near to his statuesque body. “How does the Caribbean sound? You and me and a white sand beach? Clothing optional,” he winks.

“It sounds like heaven,” I sigh. But the look on his face tells me he’s serious. “Wait. Really?”

“I’ll get the tickets booked.” He grins. “I know of this little five-star place, tucked away in St Kitts. Very private…very sexy,” he murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle at my ear.

I feel shivers. This is for real: me, and him, and whatever adventure we want. I can’t believe it, but it’s not just a dream anymore.

For a moment, we’re suspended in our own private world. Then I hear a commotion, coming from across the gallery. St. Clair and I both look up and see a bustle of security guards walking through the room, spreading out into the corners and across the space at various points. My heart starts to beat faster.

Something is wrong.

St. Clair tenses, and I know he feels it too. “I think that’s our cue to leave,” he says casually. He starts to lead me through the crowd, strolling toward the door that leads into the hallways, where the storage rooms will provide us with easy exits.

I gulp, and try to act calm. My stomach tangles up in knots, and my mind races. What do they know? Have they found out about the forgery?

“Going somewhere?” A voice makes St. Clair stop short.

It’s Lennox, arms folded, blocking our path.

“Just trying to get a moment alone with my lovely date,” St. Clair says pleasantly, sounding casual. “What brings you across the pond then, agent? Here to get a little culture? It’s a lovely exhibition.”

“Yes, it is.” Lennox holds his stare. “Except for one of the pieces. Word is, it’s a fake.”

My heart stops.

St. Clair arches an eyebrow, still cool. “Really? What a shame. Still, you never know. All kinds of folks out there, trying to pass things off as the real deal.”

“In this case, the owner seems rather rattled by the revelation.” Lennox nods to where Crawford is blustering with some police officers, red-faced and furious.

“And I thought you never took people at their word,” St. Clair shoots back. Lennox snorts, then turns to me for the first time.

“I warned you, Grace.” He almost sounds regretful.

I freeze, my palms starting to sweat. “What are you talking about?”

“Someone was seen leaving the gallery last night. Someone who matches your description.” He pulls out his handcuffs and my jaw drops. This can’t be happening.

“Now wait a minute, there’s clearly been some mistake—” St. Clair tries to block him, but Lennox just nods at a couple of police officers, and they pull St. Clair out of the way.

“Don’t say anything, Grace,” St. Clair calls, struggling. “I promise, this is just a bluff. It’s going to be okay.”

But his voice melts away under the rush of blood pounding in my ears. I can feel everyone watching, the whispers and gasps of scandal.

Lennox moves in and spins me around. I feel the cold, hard sting of metal as he slaps on the handcuffs and locks them shut. “Grace Bennett, you’re under arrest.”

CHAPTER 12

I spend the night shivering on the edge of a cot in a French police cell, still wearing my fancy formal dress. I can’t sleep a wink, and by morning, I’m exhausted, hungry – and scared to death. I’ve spent hours trying not to panic, going over every detail of our heist. I’ve run through what evidence they might have a million times and come up with way too many ideas. DNA traces, hair strands, eyewitnesses, security footage from cameras we might have missed…

I hug my arms around myself and try to be brave. St. Clair said it was just a bluff, and I wish I could believe him. But if he’s wrong…my whole future is on the line. Even if I don’t spend the rest of my life in jail, I’ll never be able to work in the art world again. And Nona will be so disappointed. My mom would be disappointed. The thought makes me sick.

The sun’s early light is filtering in through my barred window by the time a police officer with a jangling set of keys comes to collect me.

“Is a lawyer here?” I leap up eagerly. St. Clair wouldn’t have left me here alone, and I know he’s got to be moving heaven and earth – and a few international treaties too – to get me out. “Can I make my phone call now?”

But the guard just mumbles something in French, and leads me out. I follow him down several long hallways, wincing at my stiff muscles from spending the night shivering on that cot. Eventually, he opens the door to what must be an interview room and nods for me to go inside.

“I need to make a phone call,” I protest. “I have rights, you know.”

The door slams shut behind me. I’m left alone.

I exhale. At least this room is a bit warmer than the cell downstairs, and the plastic chair more comfortable. I sit down, waiting for Lennox, or a lawyer, or even a detective to come and question me, but the seconds tick past.

I try to think logically. What should I say to them? What if I can’t keep my story straight? With every passing minute, I feel my resolve slip, imagining a life behind bars, with no parole.

Stop it, Grace.

I take a few deep breaths and try to stay calm. This is exactly what they want: me freaking out and ready to spill my guts. Haven’t I seen it enough on cop shows on TV? Leave the suspect to stew until finally someone walks in and offers them a deal. But if they think the alone time is going to make me crack, they’re wrong. When your mom has cancer, you spend a lot of time waiting for answers.

Right on cue, the door finally opens, and Lennox walks in.

“Sorry about the wait,” he says, juggling two steaming Styrofoam cups and a bakery box in his hands. “I got called away. How are you doing? Hungry?”

He places the food down in front of me. Fresh croissants and pain au chocolat, smelling amazing. And is that…?

“Coffee,” he says, nudging the cup closer to me. “And not from a vending machine either. The French know how to brew a proper latte, I’ll give them that.”

He notices me shivering in my silk dress. “Here, take my jacket. You may as well get comfortable, we could be here a while.”

He drapes his jacket around my bare shoulders, then settles in the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Mmm, I need this,” he sighs, taking a long gulp of coffee, and tearing off a corner of croissant. “I’ve been up all night with the evidence logs. You guys were thorough, I’ll give you that, but nobody leaves a crime scene completely clean.”

He leans back, eating. Casual, friendly – and totally unlike the stubborn agent I thought I knew.

He’s playing good cop. I narrow my eyes and press my lips together.

At this moment I want nothing more than to tell him where to shove his pastries, but the smell is too good, and I haven’t had a meal since yesterday. My stomach lets out a loud rumble, and I reach for the croissant. The buttery pastry melts in my mouth, and I inhale the whole thing in three bites. I gulp half the coffee, too, and begin to feel like a person again. I’m about to thank him when I remember who put me here.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod, and carefully sip my coffee, deciding to keep quiet and see where this goes.

Lennox finishes his pastry before leaning back and giving me a friendly look. “Here’s the thing, Grace. I don’t care about you right now. I’m after bigger fish, and you know that, so it’s time to come clean. Tell me everything and you can go free.”

I decide to call his bluff. “What if I’m guilty?”

Lennox snorts. “I know you just got caught up in St. Clair’s games. I’ve interviewed enough witnesses to know that he can be quite persuasive. Maybe he made you think this was all a game, a fun little adventure. But it’s not. These are serious offenses, a serious crime. Do you understand?”