I look around, trying to see the scene not as a new consultant or intern, but as St. Clair would see it: as a thief would see it. First I notice that St. Clair was right—there is definitely less security here. I see a couple of guys in guard uniforms, but they’re bustling around, talking to people, not posted on watch. Lots of people are coming and going—workers, maintenance men, gallery docents, curators like Marie, art restorers, and all types of other employees. And there are multiple entrance and exit points for sneaking in and escaping.
Compared to the vaults, this is a breeze.
Another storage crate is being unloaded from a truck onto the dock. ‘Crawford’ is printed on a label on the side. Marie sees me looking at the crate. “And another big donation coming in at the same time!” She turns to St. Clair. “We just can’t thank you enough for recruiting Spencer Crawford to help with the exhibit as well.”
St. Clair smiles, modest. “This is an important cause. I want to see it do well.”
“We never expected such a generous loan from two of the art world’s biggest names!” she gushes. “Truly, it’s an honor.”
“I’m happy to do it,” he says.
Marie clears some space on the closest table and directs two workers to roll the crate with St. Clair’s painting a little closer. They lift the painting from the crate with care, like they’re holding a baby, and set it carefully on the table.
“Beautiful,” Marie breathes. “I hadn’t seen it in person yet.”
“Indeed,” St. Clair says. “I can’t wait to see it hanging tonight.”
Marie calls someone else over, and they begin talking in rapid-fire French. I’m sure St. Clair’s brain is tracking all the little details he’ll need to pull off the heist, and I know the things I noticed are just the beginning.
“See that?” St. Clair whispers, nodding to another table. I follow his gaze. There’s a jacket slung over the back of a chair – with a security badge dangling from the pocket.
I nod.
“I need a distraction,” St. Clair whispers. “Can you make that happen?”
I nod, but my mind goes blank. What do I do?
“My apologies,” Marie says, turning back to me. “Now, are we all set here?”
St. Clair gives me a look. Time’s running out. I have to think fast.
I look around and see a bottle of restorer’s chemicals on the table – right beside St. Clair’s painting. I recognize the labeclass="underline" it’s a gentle water-based cleaning fluid that can be used on even the most delicate canvas.
In other words, it’s totally harmless.
“What’s that?” I ask loudly, pointing to the painting. “That dark smudge?”
“What?” Marie’s head whips around.
“There, in the corner.” I lean in, clumsily knocking the bottles over – spilling cleaning fluid all over the painting.
“Oh my God!” I yell as the liquid spills over the canvas. “I’m so sorry!”
Marie gasps. “Merde! No!”
Our cries draw attention. Everyone turns to look. “George!” she calls in panic. “The fix-it kit!” A small man runs over with a small bag in hand.
“Out of the way,” he barks.
“I’m so sorry!” I apologize again loudly. “Can I help?”
Marie and George busy themselves over the canvas until George realizes that the bottles that spilled are harmless. “It’s fine,” he says, glaring at me.
“Oh, thank goodness! I can’t believe I did that,” I say, playing the part as best I can. “I’m not usually so clumsy!”
Marie says, “I’m so sorry, Mr. St. Clair. We don’t usually leave open bottles of chemicals lying around. We will get this into the secure storage room right away to keep it from…” she glances at me, “to keep it safe.”
St. Clair is charming, as always. “No harm done. Thank you for being so quick to assist.”
“It’s a priceless piece of art,” she says. “We will do everything we can to ensure its pristine condition.”
“I’m sure you will,” he says.
I manage to keep it together until we’re back in a cab, speeding away from the gallery. Then I lean in and whisper, “Did you get it?”
“Yes, security code swiped.” He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Good job on the distraction, by the way.”
“Really?” My heart skips with pride.
“Already a pro,” he nods. “But tonight is when the real fun starts. We’ll come back and deal with Crawford’s piece before the opening.”
“But won’t everyone know it’s gone? The police will be all over the gallery. And once Lennox knows we were there…” I gulp.
St. Clair smiles. “Don’t worry, I had a replacement painted. I packed it into the back of the crate we used to transport my painting – it’s right there waiting in the storage area. We’ll swap that with the real one tonight and no one will be the wiser.”
I glance through the plexiglass divider up at the cab driver, who doesn’t pay us any mind. Even if his English is impeccable, he still wouldn’t know what we’re talking about. I relax into St. Clair’s shoulder. “Nice work, Robin Hood.”
He puts his arm around me. “Would Maid Marian like to have dinner with Robin this evening?”
I smile. “Only if he doesn’t dine and dash.” St. Clair laughs, his full out genuine laugh that I love so much. “There’s a place I know just up a few blocks. You’ll love it. Trust me.”
We arrive at a tiny hole in the wall on the second floor of a small building where the maître’d knows St. Clair by name and seats us at a window table overlooking the Seine. It’s gorgeous, with dusk settling over the city, the blue-black sky just lighting up with the twinkle of white stars, and across the river, the Eiffel Tower.
I’m so thrilled I actually clap. “The Eiffel Tower!” I take in its perfectly structured form, the tapered metal tower illuminated with golden lights shining brightly against the dark inkiness of the sky. “I’ve wanted to see this my entire life,” I say, feeling a little lost for words. “Ever since I saw a painting of it in a gallery with my mom.”
St. Clair smiles. “I thought you might like this place.”
The waiter brings us two glasses and a bottle of pinot. St. Clair pours us each some wine and raises his glass. “To you, Grace Bennett.”
“To me?” I ask, surprised. “For what?”
He shakes his head, and a serious look comes over his face. “I told you, I’ve always had to keep this part of me a secret.” He gazes at me with a look I’ve never seen in his eyes before—pure honesty. There’s no teasing or the easy charm he’s so good at turning on. This is him being real and I feel the connection between us so strongly, like magnets tuned to each other’s frequency.
“I can’t tell you how good it feels to not have to hide anymore, to be able to share this side of me with you—to let you see all of me, not just the public face I show to the world.” He takes my hand. “You’ve made me so happy, Grace.”
I squeeze his hand. “You’ve made me happy, too. Showed me what life can be like when you live to the fullest. Thank you.”
I realize how lucky I am, to know the joy of finding a person who delights in the same things as you, who understands you fully, down to your soul.
St. Clair lifts his glass. “To us.”
“To adventure,” I say.
“To tonight,” St. Clair winks just like he did the day we met, as we clink our glasses and toast to our future.
CHAPTER 9
The apartment St. Clair rented for us is gorgeous: full of French antiques, with amazing high ceilings, cream curtains, and duck egg blue walls. But for once, I’m not focused on the art adorning the walls, or the incredible views of the city. No, tonight my stomach is tangled up with nerves for what’s ahead.