Inside, the grand lobby has been turned into a reception area, with a bar at one end of the marble floor and the donated art pieces hung throughout the room. St. Clair is surrounded immediately. He introduces me to all kinds of amazing people, saying, “This is my art consultant, Grace Bennett,” and I feel like Cinderella at the ball. It’s magical.

Finally, St. Clair says, “Let’s take a tour, go say goodbye to my donations.”

I laugh, then realize he’s serious. “But they were just sitting in your vault.”

St. Clair grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and hands me one. “Which is why I’m giving them away to live a better life. But I still want a last look.”

We make it around the room to where St. Clair’s donation is displayed. A small crowd has gathered in front of the three pieces I agonized over but finally chose: a wild and crazy splattering of a Pollock, an abstract Picasso, and an up-and-coming artist named O’Brien who uses neon colors and big sweeping shapes.

People are whispering and there’s an energy surrounding the art that makes me nervous. The paintings I picked don’t fit in with the rest of the art here. All the other pieces are tame and traditional: watercolors, landscapes, lots of florals and delicate brushwork. The typical thing you find in doctors’ waiting rooms – and exactly why I went in a different direction. Now, I’m having second thoughts. If these pieces aren’t appropriate, then it makes St. Clair look bad.

“Do you think there’s a problem?” I ask nervously, my body tensing as we get closer. Before St. Clair can answer, someone sees him and starts clapping. More of the crowd joins in until dozens of people are applauding and clearing a path for us.

“Guess not,” he whispers to me.

A reporter from the Chronicle stands ready with a dictaphone. “Everyone is very impressed by your donations, Mr. St. Clair.”

Agreements and things like, “Wonderful choices, St. Clair!” and “So lively!” float from the several dozen people standing around gazing at the artwork I selected. I love the paintings, so it shouldn’t be surprising that others love them, too. And yet, I’m relieved and grateful.

“Speech!” someone shouts and the crowd quiets down.

“Yes, please,” says the man from the Chronicle. “Can you tell us a little about your donation? It’s by far the most impressive collection to hang in a public building like this. Aren’t you worried about security?”

St. Clair clears his throat and addresses the room. “Actually, my art consultant, Grace Bennett, was the brilliant mind who selected the art here tonight. Please, Grace.” He gestures for me to speak.

What? My mind goes blank. I look at the sea of expectant faces and don’t know what to say. “Um,” I say, beginning to sweat. St. Clair gives me a little nod of encouragement. “Well, my mom was sick a few years ago,” I start slowly, speaking from the heart. “So I spent a lot of time in hospitals—waiting rooms and hallway seats, patient rooms—and the art was always so lifeless. It was supposed to be soothing, I know, but instead, it felt like defeat. I always thought there should be more vibrant colors, more movement in the art to lift people’s spirits,” I go on, and suddenly I can’t stop the words flowing out of me. “To remind them about the beauty in the world when they’re facing their most difficult challenges. I know I would have liked pieces like this hanging on the hospital walls I had to be in. I hope others feel the same.”

There’s applause, a few nods of understanding, and St. Clair rests a hand on my shoulder. “Great job,” he murmurs. And I can tell from the look in his eye that he means it. “This is why I hired you, you know,” he says as the crowd disperses. “You see art as something that can enrich the everyday, not just something to stay on the wall and be admired from a distance. I’m proud of you.”

His words spark a warm glow. If my feet didn’t hurt so much in these heels I would feel like I’m floating on air. I didn’t let him down at my first task – and I might make a difference to the people who will be using this hospital wing. It feels great, and I know my mom would be proud of me, too.

“Grace!”

I freeze, recognizing that voice. In an instant, my warm glow fades. Lydia Forbes, my former boss from hell, strides up, tailed by the snooty intern at Carringer’s, Chelsea.

“Hello, Lydia,” I say politely. “How are you?”

Lydia gushes. “I’m good, but you two look amazing! I just love the pieces you chose, Grace.”

What?

I’m too stunned to speak. St. Clair says, “Yes, she has quite the eye. I’m thrilled she agreed to work for me.”

“Congratulations,” Lydia says to me. Then to St. Clair, “You know, with all the hullabaloo at Carringer’s, I may be in the market for other opportunities myself. If you know of any openings…”

I forcibly clench my jaw to keep it from dropping to the floor. St. Clair’s multi-million dollar painting gets stolen from Carringer’s on Lydia’s watch, and now she’s turning around and asking him for a job? But St. Clair is smooth, as usual. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, moving out of her reach. “But I believe Grace has filled the last spot on my team of experts.”

Chelsea starts to roll her eyes but stops herself when she sees me looking. “I’m so happy for you!” she says instead, clearly lying out of her ass. “It’s just so hard to believe how far you’ve come so fast! It seems like only yesterday you were scrubbing floors.”

I gulp the last of my champagne. “That’s because you’ve never seen what hard work will get you.”

St. Clair stifles a laugh. “Shall we take a look at the other donations?” he says to me, holding out his arm. I take it.

“Let’s.”

“It was nice to see you, ladies,” he tosses back over his shoulder as we go.

We move off. A waiter passes with a tray of canapes and I remember that the last time I was at an event like this, it was me carrying the tray of appetizers, sweating over orders handed down to me by Lydia. Chelsea’s right, I’ve come a long way. I can’t keep the smile off my face.

“What’s so funny?” a male voice asks out of nowhere. We turn.

It’s Nick Lennox, the Interpol agent who was investigating the Carringer’s theft.

St .Clair extends a hand politely. “Lennox. I wouldn’t have expected to see you here. Nobody making off with any paintings, I hope.”

“Not yet, at least. But I’m keeping my eyes open.” Nick shakes his hand. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, and looks like he’d rather be in jeans than a tux. “Miss Bennett,” he nods to me. “I heard about your change in employment.”

“Thanks,” I say, even though I’m not sure it’s a compliment.

St. Clair nabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and hands it to Lennox. “Any leads in the search for my painting?” he asks. The thief made off with a priceless piece that St. Clair had just purchased at auction, but there hasn’t been any word yet about catching the thief.

“No leads just yet. Whoever he is, our man is thorough.” Lennox gives St. Clair a measured look. He’s probably hoping St. Clair won’t be angry or impatient they haven’t caught the perpetrator yet.

“Or woman,” I pipe up. They both turn, surprised. “We don’t know that it’s a man,” I shrug. “You said so yourself, there aren’t any leads.”

St. Clair chuckles. “She’s got you there.”

Lennox pauses. “No, this is a man. Someone with too much time on their hands, with an incredible ego, who’s used to getting his own way.”

“So he’s a pro,” St. Clair says. “That doesn’t bode well for me or my painting.”

“No,” Lennox says slowly. “It doesn’t bode well for you at all.”

There’s a weird tension in the air, and I wonder if the two of them have any history. Maybe Lennox isn’t too pleased about chasing down all these works of art for their rich owners. Either way, I don’t want to be stuck in the middle of something.