I smooth down my hair and then push open the heavy door of St. Clair’s office. I’m greeted to a view of Charles sitting at his desk—across from the sexy blonde he was chatting up at the gala. She’s leaning over in her chair to give him a view of her cleavage that I can’t help but get an eyeful of myself. They’re both laughing and don’t notice me.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, shocked, my cheeks reddening. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I start to turn around, keeping my eyes on the plush carpet, and run into a potted palm. Idiot! I try to recover my balance and what’s left of my dignity, but St. Clair’s voice stops me.

“Grace, wait.”

I look up to see St. Clair standing, beckoning me closer. “I’d like you to meet Amanda Leighton.” The woman nods at me. “She’s a journalist who is…”

He pauses and my mind fills in the blank with a million gut-wrenching options as I stand there with a smile plastered on my face. …going to be my wife …fucking my brains out later this evening since you said no …your replacement in every way.

Amanda finishes for him. “Stealing all his time, I’m afraid. I’m writing a feature profile for Forbes, about your boss.”

“I tried to get out of it, but she’s very persuasive,” St. Clair grins.

I bet she is.

I still feel awkward, like I interrupted something I shouldn’t have. “I’ll let you get back to your interview, then.”

“No, it’s fine. We were just wrapping up,” he says as Amanda picks up her purse.

“Nice to meet you,” she says to me, with a surprisingly genuine smile. “I was meaning to tell you, I just loved your choices for the hospital wing. So bold.”

“Um, thanks.”

To St. Clair she says, “Pick up your phone if I call for follow up questions, okay? No more phone tag.”

“Done,” he says. She kisses his cheek and then she’s out the door, her perfectly perky ass bouncing as she exits. St. Clair looks at me and smiles his quiet smile, the one the cameras and reporters don’t get to see. “So what can I do for you?”

My stomach flip flops, but I remind myself to be strong, to resist his many, many charms. “This won’t take long, I wanted to talk to you about a—”

“Have you eaten lunch?” he interrupts.

“Not yet, but—”

“I’ve barely seen you since the gala,” he says, reaching for his jacket. “Let’s catch up over sandwiches. It’s lunch hour anyway and I want to hear all about what you’re working on now.”

My heart sinks. So much for keeping things in the office. How can I say no?

St. Clair picks up some food from a deli and then takes me to a small museum nearby that I’ve never seen before: hidden in a townhouse on a side street away from the rest of the office buildings.

“I don’t think we’re allowed—” I start, glancing at the big signs warning us not to bring in food or drink.

“Don't worry about it. There’s no one else here.” St. Clair leads me to a bench in one of the gallery rooms.

“What about the guards?”

“Who, Kevin?” St. Clair winks at the uniformed guard standing silently in the corner. “I do this all the time. It’s one of my favorite lunch spots. Peaceful.”

I study him. “You’re not much for following rules, are you?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He grins.

“What about the consequences?” I ask, thinking of all the times I tried to misbehave, and only got into trouble.

“If you lived your life thinking about the worst that might happen, you’d never leave the house. Sure, I might like to test the limits sometimes, but I’m always smart. Careful.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” I glance at the guard as St. Clair begins to unwrap his sandwich. Kevin barely glances over at us, so I follow St. Clair’s lead, the paper making a crackling noise that echoes off the walls. I feel a little excitement at doing something against the rules and can’t help a little smile. “You’re a bad influence,” I tease.

St Clair laughs. “We’ll make a risk-taker of you yet.”

“Is that how you’ve become so successful?” I ask, curious. “Breaking the rules?”

“Maybe. I just grew up with so many rules and limitations. Everyone at school and in my family wanted people to fit into nice little boxes with easy labels. No one was allowed to be themselves, or stray from the lines.”

I take a bite of my turkey and avocado and wait to see if he’ll say more, but St. Clair seems to be staring off into someplace in his memory. His life is so far removed from mine, it’s fascinating. I may not have had as much time with my mom as I wanted, but she always encouraged me to be myself. “That must have been hard.”

He pauses, and when he answers, his voice is quieter. “It was. Growing up, I knew I was a disappointment to the family. I couldn’t understand why I was just supposed to do what they expected of me. There was so much more in the world I wanted to see, to discover. It was like being given a canvas and a set of oil paints, then being told I could only paint in black and white,” he adds with a rueful smile. “I didn’t last long. As soon as I was old enough, I left to make it on my own.”

I smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “And how’s that working out for you?”

He smiles, too. “Not too bad right now.”

We eat in silence for a few moments, munching on chips and enjoying the light tinkling of the fountain in the courtyard right outside, the cool sea air on our skin. St. Clair has a lock of hair sticking out over his eyes and I want so badly to reach out and touch it, brush my finger down those sculpted cheeks and bring his lips to mine…

Keep it professional, remember? I turn away to look around at the art, an eclectic mix. St. Clair sat us in front of a Durer piece, a detailed depiction of a rabbit. It sounds simple, like child’s play, but it’s actually so dense it’s like looking under a microscope, every detail perfect.

St. Clair sees me staring. “You like what you see?”

“I love Durer’s work, especially these quieter, less famous pieces,” I say. “The fur actually looks like real fur.” I’m in awe.

“Do you know the provenance of this piece?”

“Will you fire me if I admit I don’t?”

He laughs. “It’s disputed, actually. This piece is rumored to have been looted by the Nazis, taken from a Jewish family in Paris.”

“How did it end up here?”

“Years of changing hands and finally a wealthy Russian family decided to donate it.”

My brow creases. “Why not give it back to the original owners, then?”

He leans back and rubs his chin. “That’s the horrible part. During the war, title deeds were often lost, or destroyed, and billions of dollars’ worth of priceless art was stolen from their rightful owners. Some of the surviving families have tried to get their property back, but without the deeds, there’s no way to prove it.”

“That’s so sad,” I say, feeling a pang. “Those families lost so much. The least they can do is have their art returned.”

“I absolutely agree.” St. Clair nods. “How about you, Grace? How is your art coming along?”

I start a little, and he looks confused. “You did study to be a painter, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I was never good enough to really go anywhere with it.” I wave my hands in dismissal. “And I haven’t painted in forever.”

“Why not?”

I wince, thinking of the ache that builds in my heart every time I pick up a brush. “Since my mom died, I just haven’t felt that spark. It’s too hard.”

“Have you tried?” he pushes lightly.

I shrug. “I still sketch, but every time I’m faced with a blank canvas, the brushes that belonged to my mom…I just freeze.” I busy my hands with clearing up the remnants of my sandwich, self-conscious about admitting something so personal.

He reaches out and takes my hands. “You’ll paint again, Grace. True passion like your mother’s, like yours, never disappears completely.”

I look at him. “Are you sure?” I whisper, desperate for his words to be true.