“Hello, Miss Bennett.”

I look up. A man is waiting, leaning against the railing in front of my apartment. I recognize him as Nick Lennox, the Interpol agent who’s been investigating the art thefts back home in the States.

I’m surprised to see him here. “Hi, umm, is everything okay?”

“Just dandy.” Nick looks around. “Nice neighborhood. Not bad for an auction house intern.”

I tense a little at the tone. “Art consultant,” I correct him. I get out my keys. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I hope so.” Nick smiles at me. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

“We are talking.”

He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “More privately.”

Instead of inviting him in, I nod to the small park at the end of the block. “After you.”

We walk together in silence, but my mind is racing. Finally, I ask. “Has there been a break in the Carringer’s case? New leads?”

“You could say that.” We reach a small bench, and he gestures for me to sit. “I’m coming to you because I need your help.”

Really? “My help? With what? I already told you everything I know about the Carringer’s heist. I don’t know anything.”

“And if you did? Would you assist the investigation?” Lennox looks at me dead on.

“Of course,” I frown. “I want to see the thief caught.”

“Good answer.” He smiles at me. “I know who stole the painting from Carringer’s, who’s behind all the thefts, and it turns out you’re in a unique position to assist in proving his guilt.”

I’m still confused. “How? And…who?”

“It was St. Clair.” Lennox tells me, not taking his eyes from my face. “He’s the thief.”

I burst out laughing.

Lennox just waits, his eyes still studying me.

He’s serious?

“There’s no way!” I protest. “St. Clair doesn’t need to steal anything. He bought the painting! He could buy anything he wants!”

“I never said he was in it for the money.”

“Then what?” I’m still reeling. This doesn’t add up. St. Clair isn’t a thief, he cares about wrong and right, and on top of all that, he has no motive. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Aren’t I?” Lennox challenges. “You know our friend: St. Clair thrives off risk, adrenaline. He enjoys breaking the rules, and he doesn’t care about the consequences. He’s rich, idle, and has a God complex. I think he fits the profile perfectly. It’s not just the Carringer’s job, there’s a whole string of international robberies over the past few years. The Brussels gold heist last year. The Alberti diamonds in Monaco. Rio de Janeiro – I could go on.”

“Don’t.” My voice is cold. I know that St. Clair is an adventure junkie, but making out in a public fountain and picnicking in a no-food zone at a museum hardly seem like precursors to multi-million dollar art theft.

I get to my feet. “I’ve heard enough. You have no reason to accuse him. If you really think it’s St. Clair, why haven’t you arrested him yet?”

Lennox’s expression slips. “I don’t have any proof—”

“Ha!”

“Yet. But I will.”

“You’re reaching. The reason you haven’t found any proof is because there isn’t any.” I shake my head, remembering what Paige told me. “I know the case is getting colder. Are you really this desperate?”

His eyes narrow. “I’m not wrong, Grace. You can help me get the evidence—”

“Not a chance,” I snap, turning to walk away. But Lennox takes my arm and pulls me back.

“He’s guilty, Grace. And a criminal. And eventually I’m going to catch him. It’d be a shame to see you go down too.” He holds out his card. “I hope you’ll reconsider.”

I can’t believe he’s threatening me. I don’t take the card. “You’re the criminal, smearing his good name.”

He leans in, makes his face look concerned. “He’s not so perfect, you know.” Lennox slips his card into my purse. “St. Clair’s got you fooled. You don’t know him at all.”

“Yes, I do! And you don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s a good man. The best,” I shoot back fiercely.

“Maybe,” Lennox replies. “But on the other hand, maybe he’s too good to be true.” His words strike me, and I can tell from his smirk that he knows it. “Think about it. And when you realize what a fool he’s made of you, come find me. Because I won’t stop until I bring him down.”

He releases me, nods, and then strides away, leaving me alone in the park with the first seeds of doubt beginning to grow in my mind.

CHAPTER 9

“You okay?” St. Clair asks as he pours me a glass of Sauvignon Blanc to go with the fish sizzling on the stovetop.

“I’m fine,” I say, for the tenth time this week when he’s caught me in a moment of doubt, a moment of wondering if Lennox could be right, which always turns into a moment of guilt because St. Clair has been so affectionate and wonderful the last few days: cooking me dinner, walking me home, kissing me goodnight— passionate and tender—and not expecting more.

“You seem distracted.”

Maybe because an Interpol agent informed me that you are a major criminal last week, I think but then he reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, his beautiful blue eyes concerned, and I feel bad for even giving the accusations a second thought.

Lennox is on the edge, out of leads, and probably facing a lot of pressure from the agency—there’s no way his suspicions could be true.

“Just thinking about the student art pieces.” I force myself to smile.

“Any good ones? From what I saw, it’s going to be a tough choice.” He flips the filets in their garlic butter sauce and checks on the broccoli roasting in the oven, his biceps flexing in his gray T-shirt. I think I like him best like this: after hours, out of that suit, his hair messy and falling into his face. My breath catches a little in my throat.

“It really is,” I agree. “There’s a lot riding on my choice for them, and I don’t know which way to go with some of the artists.”

“You follow your heart, of course,” St. Clair says and I wonder if he can read my mind.

“Is that how you make your business decisions?”

“Most of the time. Heart, or gut,” St. Clair shrugs. “You can weigh the options over and again, but at the end of the day, every choice is a risk. Our heads just get in the way sometimes.”

"You make it sound so easy.”

He grins. “Don’t you know by now that anything easy isn’t very interesting? But I prefer to make my decisions on instinct, the thrill of the deal.”

As he plates our food, I flash back to what Lennox said about St. Clair enjoying the thrill of the heist. Reckless, he called him. Idle rich. St. Clair has never been idle, but now I wonder about that rebellious streak…

“How are things going with work?” I ask, to get my mind off the subject. “Is the trip working out the way you wanted?”

“Yes, and no.” St. Clair gives a rueful smile as we sit at his dining table. “It’s been good having face-to-face meetings with some business associates, but being over here in England has certain… drawbacks.”

“Like what?” I take a bite of my food, and of course, it’s amazing.

“Like a summons from my father.” St. Clair sighs. “I have to go visit my parents this weekend.”

“You make it sound like you’re visiting the Grim Reaper.”

“Not far off.” He picks at his food. “Though the Grim Reaper would probably be more excited to see me.”

I know his father got into gambling debt, that he was harsh with St. Clair, even when he was a child. And right now it’s plain to see the relationship hasn’t improved. “I could go with you,” I offer.

“Really?” He looks surprised. “You don’t have to. It’ll be a bore.”

“I want to,” I say and mean it. “I’d love to see where you grew up.”

He looks surprised, but happy. “Well, if you’re sure… It would help,” he adds with a small smile. “My parents are a stickler for manners. At least with a guest in the house, they’ll have to be civil.”