“Maybe…” I feel the tingle of desire pulling at me, remembering his hands, his tongue… I sigh. “I tried to keep things professional, I really did.”
“Oh, I’m not blaming you. In fact, I’d be mad if you weren’t hittin’ that.” Paige stirs her coffee. “Tell me everything.”
“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” I grin.
“Traitor.” Paige sticks her tongue out at me. “I need to live vicariously through you. All I do is work these days.” She lets out a weary sigh.
“It’s still that busy at the insurance company?” I ask. “Any new leads?”
“Not a one. Usually this is where we’d cut the check and move on, but the authorities won’t let it go. That Lennox guy is persistent. And intense. And kind of hot…” Paige bites her lip. “What do you think?”
“He’s… cute, I guess.” I feel guilty again hiding so much from her, but I need to learn exactly what Lennox is telling people about St. Clair. “Has he given you any suspects?” I ask carefully.
“Not really. Just that he thinks it’s someone who’s in it for the thrill, not someone who needs the cash.” Paige smooths her hair down. “Is St. Clair still upset about his missing masterpiece? He didn’t lose any money, right?”
“No, Carringer’s lost the money,” I say absently. St. Clair would never do this for the money, Lennox is right about that. He has more than enough. But it still doesn’t make sense: I can’t see St. Clair risking everything just for a passing thrill.
Or maybe I’m wrong, and I don’t really know him at all.
“Grace?”
I snap back. Paige is rolling her eyes. “I did it again, didn’t I? I’m sorry for spacing.”
“It’s a good thing I love you so much.” She winks.
“Love you too.” My guilt grows. I hate keeping secrets, especially from my best friend. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”
After lunch I head back to St. Clair’s office—my office—and try to focus on work. I flip through the final art pieces I’ve chosen for the London College of Art show —a mix of classically talented artists and daring original works—and feel good about my picks. I think the show will be a success. I’m trying to have confidence in my gut and follow the path my instincts want to travel, even if it means a rocky road. I know a few older members of the board may be surprised by some of my choices, but I also know these are the students who deserve to be shown.
With my choices finally made, I turn my attention back to my main job, and the incredible European pieces I can see in person now to add to St. Clair’s collection. I call Maisie, back in San Francisco, and ask for his schedule so we can set up some viewing appointments. My spirits lift just thinking about it.
“You’re all set,” she says down the line. “I’ve given you permissions on his calendar, everything should be in there.”
“Thank you – and good morning,” I add, remembering the time difference.
I click open his calendar on my computer and pull up my spreadsheet of the upcoming art openings and gallery galas, when artists are booked in town or rumored to be giving private showings in a remote location. It’s been fun researching, making calls and being on the cutting edge of the international art scene.
I click through, trying to figure out his complicated calendar. There are different color codes for travel, business meetings, personal appointments – and it goes back for years, too.
I pause. All his past travel and appointments are right here in the schedule. If Lennox is right, then those dates would match the other heists. I could check right now, but somehow that feels like a betrayal. Like I’m saying the accusations could be true.
I sit there, torn. The information I need is right at my fingertips, yet I just can’t bring myself to check. What if Lennox is right?
But what if he’s wrong – and you can prove it, a voice argues. If St. Clair’s schedule doesn’t fit with the heists, then that’s all the evidence I need to put Lennox’s crazy theories aside and move on.
I can’t go on like this, suspecting but not sure. I need an answer.
My heart racing, I click through to last year. Lennox mentioned a heist in Belgium, and a quick Google search brings up the details of the crime. May 18th, Brussels. Gold bars stolen from a vault, no suspects, no witnesses.
I turn back to St. Clair’s schedule, my fingers dancing over the keys, but I waver. Is this crossing the line? What about trust, giving him the benefit of the doubt?
That’s exactly why I need to do this—to give him the benefit of the doubt and prove once and for all that he couldn’t possibly have done what Lennox thinks.
My pulse races. I check St. Clair’s calendar.
May 10th to 20th - Belgium. New investor meetings, touring a tech facility, meeting local business leaders.
Brussels.
My heart sinks, but I try to ignore it. This could be a coincidence.
I check the other dates. A diamond theft in Monaco. Rare art stolen in Rio. And every time, St. Clair’s travel plans match the heists. He was right there in the country when they all went down, with the perfect cover every time.
I stare at the screen in disbelief. My heart is still telling me this is wrong, some mistake, but the evidence doesn’t lie.
It all matches up. St. Clair, and the heists. They’re connected.
I feel a pain shoot through my chest.
How could I have been so naïve? To think that I believed in St. Clair, and the whole time he was lying to my face.
It’s all lies.
I don’t know what to do. I reach into my purse and find Nick Lennox’s card.
My hands are shaking as I dial his number. He answers on the first ring. “Grace, I was hoping you would call. What can I do for you?”
I swallow back my tears. “I think we need to talk.”
CHAPTER 12
I don’t sleep all night, tossing and turning for hours, and when I do manage to catch a wink, I dream of St. Clair. But instead of my usual sexy dreams, these are more like nightmares: chasing him down a long road, calling out his name, but he never turns around. I wake up feeling lost and full of dread. No amount of concealer can cover my under-eye circles, but I have to go into the office and pretend that everything is normal, at least until I figure out what the hell I can do next.
I set a meeting with Lennox at one, and the minutes tick by painfully slow. I try to concentrate on my work as usual: setting St. Clair’s schedule and making calls to arrange upcoming viewings, but all I can think about is everything I’ve discovered. The travel plans, the dates of the other heists… All the evidence points to St. Clair being a criminal, but the one thing I can’t understand is, why?
Why steal things he can easily afford? Why risk a lifetime in prison just for…what? I don’t buy Lennox’s “in it for the thrill” motivation. St. Clair enjoys risk, yes, but always for a purpose. What could he possibly want with those paintings he couldn’t show off or enjoy?
“Staring at a great piece of art?” St. Clair pops his head into my office. I jump, and slam my laptop shut. He’s smiling at me, totally relaxed. “You’re so cute when you’re focused.”
I force myself to smile. “Uh…hi,” I stutter. “Just quadruple checking my list for the student art show.” My hands are shaking so I put them in my lap. I hate lying like this.
He smiles. “I’m sure they’re the perfect choices.”
There he goes, being so supportive again. It only makes me feel worse for planning on turning him in, for suspecting him in the first place. God, and what if I’m wrong?
“I just dropped by to see if I could take you to lunch. You free?” He flashes his pearly whites and his dimples at me like a one-two punch and my heart does a little flip flop in my chest. I want to say yes so badly.