“The country, sure. The proximity to my family, not so much.” Our wine arrives and the server pours an inch for St. Clair to smell and taste, and once approved, he disappears again as St. Clair fills our glasses. “Have you taken a look at those student portfolios yet?”

“I thought I was supposed to take it easy today?” I tease.

He chuckles, but I can tell this matters to him. “Of course. It’s just that the Grace Bennett I know wouldn’t be able to help herself from peeking.”

“I did take a peek,” I admit. “And I really like what I saw so far. But I’m still feeling a little heady with all this sudden power. The pressure is a bit much.”

He tips his glass toward me. “The cream always rises to the top, Grace. Talent needs time to mature, like a fine wine, and it may not be one person’s time to shine now, but that doesn’t mean they won’t eventually.” He nods. “You just pick the work that speaks to you, that shows the most promise.”

“What about people whose confidence gets shot and they give up?”

He looks at me carefully before speaking, knowing me well enough by now to realize I’m talking about myself, too.

“Failure can knock you down, or it can drive you to succeed, to push harder. It’s all in how you look at it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “When I first took over my father’s company, I made a colossal mistake. I won’t bore you with the details, but it cost the company millions in a failed deal, and then millions more when we lost that client.” He winces. “It still hurts to talk about.”

“I throw a fit when I lose a twenty,” I say, and he laughs.

“This was a lot of twenties. But in the end, it was the thing that made me stronger and better. I was no longer cocky, and started triple checking every move I made, and it gave me the determination I needed to prove to those finance assholes that I deserved this job for more than just my name.”

I’m impressed. “Not everyone in your position would work as hard as you.”

“I never wanted to trade on my background. I wanted to make my own reputation.”

He’s not like the Chelseas of the world—he could have been just another spoiled trust fund kid, but he chose a different path. It’s one of the things I like about him. “You’ve done a fabulous job.”

“I can always do more. That’s why I’m helping with this graduation ceremony, giving back to these students. I want to help support a new generation of artists achieve their dreams.”

“You’re like a Renaissance patron of the arts. A modern day Medici.” I frown. “But hopefully you aren’t vying for political power.”

St. Clair laughs, his eyes sparkling with delight. “I love your sexy art references.”

“You’d be the first,” I smile, thinking of all the bad first dates I’ve been on. “I was on a blind date once, and the guy said he loved Monet: the guy’s last album was killer!”

St. Clair laughs as our waiters arrive with plates of food. Filet mignon with chanterelle mushrooms and roasted fingerling potatoes, endive and pear salad with candied pecans and shaved parmesan, and fresh-baked bread for each of us.

“This looks amazing,” I say, my mouth watering. “I eat so much Italian food—this is a treat!” I freeze with my knife halfway through my steak. “Don’t tell Giovanni or Fred I said that!”

“Cross my heart,” he grins. “This is my comfort food—simple, classic, good ingredients. This is one of my favorite restaurants in London.”

The food is delicious and we eat happily, talking in between mouthfuls a bit more about the student exhibition and the sights of the city. It’s a lovely meal, and I’m feeling peaceful and content as we leave the table.

St. Clair takes my hand as we leave, and I can feel his pulse in his fingers, a little spark of heat as we exit through the lobby. The maître d’ says goodnight and we are almost out the door when I feel St. Clair tense up. An upper-crust-and-he-wants-everyone-to know-it-type guy in a flashy suit has just entered with what I assume is a trophy girl on his arm, with shiny dark hair and scantily clothed.

The tall, red-haired man sees him. “St. Clair!” the man bellows as he swaggers over, almost dragging his girlfriend who’s in heels too high to take normal steps. He claps St. Clair on the shoulder. “Good to see you, mate.”

I wouldn’t like him, even if St. Clair wasn’t rigid as steel beside me. The guy has ruddy cheeks and a smug, sneering expression permanently fixed on his face.

St. Clair doesn’t speak. St. Clair, speechless?

The man says to me, “Spencer Crawford.” He doesn’t offer his hand or introduce his date. “Have you sufficiently licked your wounds since the showdown at the Soho Auction House?”

St. Clair glares at Crawford. “I never sweat the small things, Crawford.” His tone is icy, so different from the playful St. Clair I’m used to. “I don’t suppose you managed to find the title deed for that Armande painting?”

“I won that fair and square,” Crawford says, smirking. He leans in close. “For such a loser, you’re not very good at it.” He lets out a harsh laugh, but St. Clair doesn’t join in.

“Let’s get some fresh air,” St. Clair says as he turns to me, ignoring Crawford completely.

“Good idea,” I agree.

Out in the brisk night, the stars are obscured by low clouds, but the party still continues in the bars and clubs. St. Clair walks in silence beside me for a block before I ask, “What happened in there? Who is that guy?”

“Nobody worth mentioning.”

“Come on,” I urge him. “You guys obviously have a history.”

St. Clair sighs. “Spencer Crawford was a prep school bully who picked on the weak and took pleasure in it. As an adult, he’s graduated to the role of corporate raider.”

I try to lighten the mood. “Like Indiana Jones?”

St. Clair smiles at my joke, but not enough to snap him out of his momentary darkness. “He only cares about profits and trophies, bottom lines and status symbols. He’s more like Prince John, stealing from the poor and underrepresented to provide for the rich.”

I remember what he told me about the Durer painting being looted by the Nazis. “Are you more like Robin Hood?”

He gives a bitter laugh. “Sometimes I wish I could be.”

“The Armande painting Crawford mentioned—is that Pierre Armande?” I ask, naming a famous impressionist painter.

He nods. “Yes. It’s his last known work, the famous Garden of the Valley. It used to belong to my mother, a family heirloom that was passed down through generations, kept through poverty and smuggled out during wars. Priceless. And my father lost it to that asshole.”

“What happened?”

St. Clair swallows, like he’s been carrying this burden for years, and I guess he has. “My father has a gambling problem,” he admits quietly. “A big one, and got into a lot of debt a few years ago that he kept secret from the rest of us. Crawford, opportunist extraordinaire, bought my dad’s debt and then demanded the Armande in payment.”

“What a jackass,” I blurt angrily.

St. Clair nods. “My dad, too. And it gets worse. Mom was sick, so Dad ferreted the painting out in the middle of the night without the title deeds or official sale papers. Crawford never should have accepted it.”

I can’t believe it. “Can’t you sue him and get it back?”

St. Clair pauses. “I considered it. But a court case would draw attention to my father’s illegal dealings.” He sighs again. “I was in the US when all this happened and when I found out, I offered Crawford ten times what he paid for it, but he just loves having it to lord over me. I should have been there, I could have prevented this.” He sounds angry, not at Crawford, but himself.

“It sounds like you did everything you could,” I say gently.

“It’s not enough,” he says sharply, and then softens. “Grace, I’m so sorry. I’m being incredibly rude, spilling all my dark family secrets.”

“You’re not. I love that you tried so hard to get your family heirloom back. You care about what’s right, and not many guys think that way.”