A couple strolls by arm in arm, snuggled up in each other and oblivious to the world, and despite everything, I wish St. Clair was here with me right now. I wish he were here to watch the way the sunlight’s reflection shimmers on the dark water’s surface, to enjoy the cool air on our skin, to walk along this river holding hands. He is the person I most want to ask for advice about this whole situation, the person I most want to spend time with, no matter what I’m doing.

It hits me then: why I didn’t come clean to Lennox about my suspicions, or take his deal to investigate St. Clair and find evidence.

After everything, I still want to protect St. Clair. To be with him – and show him the same faith and belief he’s shown in me.

I can’t help it. I’ve fallen in love with him.

CHAPTER 13

I spend the next three days feeling like a spy, torn between what Lennox told me and my own growing feelings for St. Clair. I try to distract myself from the battle my brain is waging against my heart with some solid time in the art studio, but even with all the easels and brushes and paints I could ever want at my fingertips, my work feels forced. After filling a few canvases with abstract color studies (all of which are blue, and look a lot like the shade of St. Clair’s eyes), I give up and start spending my free time walking around the neighborhood, lost in thought.

Part of me wants to call Nona, ask for advice, admit that I’m in way over my head. But when I left the di Fiores, I was full of excitement and anticipation about this trip. The last thing I want is for them to worry about me from all the way in San Francisco, or worse—be disappointed in my decision to come here, my decision to jump into things with Charles so fast. In the end I decide to wait things out for now—I’m not ready to make a move until I know more.

In the meantime I watch St. Clair for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary, but I see nothing that raises any red flags. If anything, he’s more perfect than ever: planning little sightseeing trips around the city for me, surprising me with a romantic dinner or bouquet of roses, being more open and affectionate than I’ve ever seen before.

He’s the sweet, charming, sexy, funny guy I fell in love with…and yet Lennox’s certainty and the things I saw still have me questioning St. Clair’s motives. How well do I really know him? If I keep getting closer, keep risking my heart, what happens if I’m wrong?

Can I be in love with a man who might be a criminal?

“Ready?” St. Clair lifts a tuxedoed arm for me to take as I step out of the cab. It’s the night of the big showcase exhibition at the London College of Art. I can hear muted laughter and conversation and jazzy music from inside the party, but I’m nervous. The artists I selected tonight will reflect on St. Clair. He’s the patron after all, and I don’t want to let him down.

I inhale and exhale, following a tip from my mom for stressful situations, and smile at him. “Ready.”

Together, we step into the grand main room of the gallery at the college. Tonight, it showcases the student art pieces I selected. Canvases, sculpture, and mixed media pieces sit or stand or hang from or on dazzling displays around the room, and I’m proud of the diversity of the art.

St. Clair whispers, “No one has shouted in outrage at any of the choices, so that’s a good sign.” He’s teasing, I can tell.

“Maybe they’re being polite, and waiting until after the canapés before they riot.”

St. Clair chuckles, and leads me into the crowd. It’s a well-dressed mix of London society and prominent art-world people. “I can see the headlines now: Scandal at the school of art!”

“Stop!” I swat at him playfully with my beaded clutch. “I’m nervous enough!”

He squeezes my hand and tilts his head down to plant the lightest of kisses on my cheek. “You have nothing to be nervous about. Just relax and enjoy the fruits of all your labors. They’re going to love it.”

We circulate through the room, checking out the full size final projects of the students. Some I hadn’t seen in all their full sized glory, like the twelve foot sculpture of Goliath, foot raised, about to squish a terrified three foot David, his slingshot discarded on the ground, or the mixed media installation that includes a piece of a toilet. I look around, still nervous, but everyone seems to be enjoying the art and having a good time.

No riots yet.

“Congratulations,” St. Clair says to each student artist as we stop and study their work. He introduces me to all of them, and talks about their pieces in depth. It’s clear he studied all the files I gave him, and now he asks great questions, engaging them to talk about their passion.

I love this part. It’s so fun to see the artists in their element, explaining their aesthetic choices, their ideas and the process of bringing those ideas to life. It makes me want to get back in the saddle, to paint something worth showing, worth talking about. I want to feel that passionate about creating again.

St. Clair makes sure to shake each student’s hand before we move on, and he puts everyone, including me, at ease. He’s charismatic and gorgeous, as usual, and women find ways to touch him all night, patting his shoulder or arm, commenting on his suit, his hair.

One woman is so bold she says a variation of the same line as the others, “Your suit looks so luscious. What’s it made of?” except she slides her hand along the top of his thigh to find out. He manages to keep a straight face and discreetly remove her hand while thanking her for her admiration.

“We should move along,” I say smoothly, pulling him away. Once we’re out of earshot, we both giggle.

“And I thought you Brits were so reserved,” I laugh.

He smirks. “Clearly, she can’t resist the goods.”

“Modest, much?” I hit his arm lightly, but he grabs my hand, and looks into my eyes.

“You know I’m taken,” he says in a low voice, and the intensity in his gaze takes my breath away. “I only have eyes for you.”

My heart takes flight. I stare at him, overwhelmed – and guilty as sin for the secrets I’m hiding from him.

“Mr. St. Clair?” We’re interrupted by the college president. St. Clair drops my hand. “We’re ready to welcome everyone, if you’d like to follow me. We’re all looking forward to your remarks.”

“Of course.”

We move to the stage area at the back of the room. The president introduces him as an important donor to the school and the benefactor for tonight’s event. St. Clair steps up to the podium to a round of thundering applause. I look around, seeing the respect and admiration on people’s faces. I think of St. Clair growing up in that cold house with nothing but criticism. If only his father could see how much his son is appreciated.

“Thank you,” St. Clair starts as the applause dies down. “This is a very special night for me, a cause that’s dear to my heart.” His eyes find mind and he holds my gaze while he pauses, then goes back to glancing at the crowd.

“I know what it’s like to have a dream—to want something so much you can taste it, but not quite touch it. And it’s opportunities like this showcase that will propel these artists into the realm where dreams become possibilities. So my hope for all the students here tonight—whether you are in the showcase or not—is to follow your passion. Don’t be afraid to take a few risks, maybe break a few hearts”—there are chuckles—“but be true to yourself. It’s a much bigger risk to try to be someone else. Art is about authenticity, and only you know your heart.”

His eyes meet mine for a moment again, and then he looks away. “I’m so pleased to have a small hand in supporting the future of authentic expression, of creativity, and of these young artists here tonight. May all these futures be fruitful. Thank you very much.”