“I think I would have noticed if he’d vanished,” I manage a weak joke.

As if on cue, St. Clair adds, “We’ve been pretty involved in each other’s company. You know how it is in the honeymoon phase. We just can’t keep our hands off each other.”

I blush, something I can’t fake, and hope that covers the guilt I am also not faking.

Lennox looks annoyed now. “I’d like to take a look around, if that’s alright with you.”

The way he says it makes it clear it’s not really a question, but St. Clair is unfazed. “Of course,” he says, stepping forward to better fill the space between Lennox and the house, “if you’ll just show me that search warrant.”

Lennox’s poker face fades for a second into surprise and then he regains his cool. “An innocent man would have nothing to hide.”

St. Clair rallies back, “Weren’t you the one who told me no one is innocent?”

“Not all of us are guilty of breaking the law,” Lennox scoffs.

“Which is why I know you would rather wait until a search warrant makes looking around my home a little more legal.” St. Clair yawns. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we really should get some sleep.”

Lennox hooks his thumbs through his belt loops and rocks back on his boot heels while he considers. He eyes St. Clair with his scrutinizing stare and gives me a once-over, too. I try to smile for effect, but I know I’m still too nervous for it to look completely normal.

St. Clair sighs, impatient. “Is there anything else?”

Lennox gazes around the room like he might be able to pick up some invisible clue, and then slowly shakes his head. “Not tonight.” He opens the door and stands in the doorway, his tall dark frame backlit by street lamps outside. “Thank you for your time.”

“By all means,” St. Clair says, his hand on the door edge, ready to close it. I resist the urge to push the officer off the threshold and out of our faces.

“See you again soon,” Lennox says ominously as he exits. St. Clair slowly closes the door, but his muscles are so tight I can tell it’s taking all his will power not to slam it.

We stand silent and tense, wait for them to drive away. Slowly, the engines start again and the lights recede, until we’re left in darkness again.

Alone.

I inhale a deep breath, my anger starting to return. “You better start explaining. Now.”

“Why don’t we talk while we shower?” St. Clair asks.

What? I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind when he leans in close and whispers, “Lennox may have planted bugs, or is trying to listen from outside. We need to go somewhere we can’t be overheard.”

Bugs, surveillance. I feel a chill. I really am in over my head.

Upstairs in his luxurious bathroom, the shower running full force, we slip off our robes and step into the steamy tiled space. St. Clair pulls me close, and my skin prickles at the heat of our contact, my body not yet betrayed even though my mind and heart are as suspicious as Lennox. My instinct is to lean into St. Clair, relax against the strength of his chest and pretend that tonight never happened. But I can’t.

He betrayed me, and there’s no going back.

“Okay, talk,” I demand, tears stinging my eyes in the spray. “I trusted you, I lied for you, and now, if you ever cared about me at all, you’ll tell me the truth. Everything.”

He takes a deep breath, and his handsome face flickers with an expression I’ve never seen before. Trepidation – and relief.

“He’s right. Lennox. The man behind all the heists, and the gallery theft. It’s me.”

“What?” I reel back in shock, speechless, barely comprehending his words.

St. Clair exhales, like it’s a secret he’s been carrying too long. He looks at me, his blue eyes filled with a new kind of hope. “But you have to believe me, I never wanted to lie to you, Grace. All of this, you and me, it’s real. It’s the realest thing I’ve ever known.”

I shake my head. “How can I believe you? You just said that everything you’ve ever told me has been a lie!”

“Shh,” he hushes me. “Please, Grace, let me explain.”

“What is there to explain?” I demand, furious now. “You steal from people, St. Clair. God, why? You’re the richest man I know. You could buy any one of those paintings without breaking a sweat.”

“It’s not like that. I don’t take them for me.” He reaches for me but I pull away.

“But you do take them. And for who, then?” I stare at him, confused.

“Whoever they belong to. People who don’t have a legal claim, who have been shut out of the system, who have no other way. I bring the art back to the rightful owners.”

“Like who?” I ask, not understanding, but still wanting him to make this right.

“Families who lost everything in wars,” St. Clair explains. “Art that was looted by the Nazis, or stolen in the first place. People’s lives were taken, everything that mattered. There are hundreds of masterpieces that were illegally seized, hanging in galleries now, or being traded at auction. I don’t see it as stealing. I see it as justice. These families lost their most prized possessions—if I can return their family history, their priceless heirlooms that were taken from them illegally in the first place, is that so wrong?”

“Yes,” I tell him, fighting the bile rising in my throat. “It is. Charles, if you cared about justice, you’d hire lawyers, you’d fight them in court. But instead you sneak around in the middle of the night and steal them. You’re a criminal. And you do it because you love the thrill. The challenge. God, Lennox was right about you.”

I turn away from him, but St. Clair grabs my arm.

“No, Grace, please listen to me.”

“I have been listening! But I need better answers,” I say. “What was tonight about? What big injustice were you righting with this theft?”

He straightens up, his chin taking on a self-righteous tilt. “That piece belongs to a Russian family. It was taken by KGB agents, and then gifted to one of their wealthy supporters. I’ve been following this case for years, after I saw an article about the family in the newspaper.” His energy lifts, his face becoming animated. “It’s been a hard piece to acquire, with the security at the other museums, so when I heard it had been transferred here…” he trails off, looking at me. “What?”

“Look at you,” I almost laugh. “This isn’t about justice, or playing Robin Hood. You love the game, outsmarting the cops and insurance investigators. Tonight, I was terrified we’d get caught. The alarms, the police, I’ve been going out of my mind with worry, but this…this is fun for you.”

“I never meant for you to get caught up in this.” St. Clair’s expression turns plaintive. “I’m so sorry for putting you through it all.”

“So, what?” I ask, as fury rises in me. “You were just going to keep on lying to me? Pretending? Using me?”

“No, Grace—”

“Because that’s what you’ve been doing since the start.” I have to fight back tears. “At Carringer’s. You were casing the place, weren’t you? And I was just an easy distraction.”

“No. That’s not true.” St. Clair puts his hands on my bare shoulders, holding me. Begging me. “I meant every word I ever said to you.”

“You’re a liar and a thief,” I whisper, looking up into the dark pools of his eyes.

“Grace. I love you.”

I stare at him, saying the words I’ve dreamed of hearing him say. The water runs off his damp hair in rivulets, over the handsome planes of his face: those cut-glass cheekbones, those sensuous, wicked lips. And then I realize, I don’t even know this man anymore. If I ever did.

“It’s not enough,” I whisper. “What am I supposed to do now?” I wish I didn’t know the truth. My mom always said there was truth in beauty, but this feels so ugly I’m afraid nothing will ever seem beautiful again.

“Please, don’t go to Lennox,” he asks, sounding desperate. “Take some time, think about it. I swear, I’ll never lie to you again. I love you,” he whispers again and leans in to kiss me.