I can tell he wants to say something, but Marie, the gallery director, interrupts.
“Mr. St. Clair!” she greets us, air kissing me on both cheeks. “Welcome. Everyone wants to meet the great man. Do you have a moment to chat with some press?”
“For you, Marie, anything,” he answers graciously. We’re led into the crowd, and just like always, he’s mobbed with well-wishers, business acquaintances, and society friends. It’s a whirlwind, but I’m getting used to it, and can hold my own, too – chatting about his recent acquisitions and our plans for his collection.
I love being by his side. I understand why he has so many fans, there’s something about his energy that makes you feel like you’re at the center of things, where the action is.
There’s a commotion near the bar, and I see Crawford gesturing wildly to the bartender, who does not look amused. That guy just spreads misery wherever he goes; I’m going to be glad to see him get a taste of his own medicine. He gets his drink and then notices the crowd gathered around St. Clair, and with a look of annoyance he shoves his way across the room to get to us.
“Looks like most of the news outlets that matter have already concluded their interviews for the evening,” he says smugly. “I mean, they interviewed me, so there really wasn’t much left to cover, was there?” He laughs. “I wouldn’t feel bad the TV crews didn’t stick around to talk to you,” Crawford goes on. “I’m sure the media recognizes an industry giant and tastemaker like me, a real rags to riches story of moving up through hard work rather than getting Daddy’s company handed to him as an afterthought.”
Anyone who knows St. Clair is well aware of how hard he worked to expand and improve his father’s company, Crawford included. He’s just goading Charles because he thinks he’s won.
He doesn’t realize that the painting on the wall with his name on it is worthless now.
But St. Clair stays cool. “You’re sounding a bit hoarse—you must have done quite a bit of talking in those interviews! Why don’t we let you rest your voice?” He puts his arm around my waist and leads me away.
“I thought I might be having regrets,” I murmur, “But that jerk deserves it.”
I grab us two flutes of champagne as they float by on a silver tray carried by a waiter. The night I bid on the Rubens for Charles, the night I was the server at a fancy art gala like this, seems like a thousand years ago. How far we’ve come, together.
“To us.” I raise my glass and St. Clair does the same. As we clink and drink, I’m happy enough to sing from the rooftops, but I’ll settle for gazing at my work of art boyfriend. “What’s next?” I ask. “The London trip will be wrapping up soon. Will we be heading back to San Francisco?”
“Yes, eventually, but I was thinking of a detour first.” St. Clair pulls me closer, pressing me near to his statuesque body. “How does the Caribbean sound? You and me and a white sand beach? Clothing optional,” he winks.
“It sounds like heaven,” I sigh. But the look on his face tells me he’s serious. “Wait. Really?”
“I’ll get the tickets booked.” He grins. “I know of this little five-star place, tucked away in St Kitts. Very private…very sexy,” he murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle at my ear.
I feel shivers. This is for reaclass="underline" me, and him, and whatever adventure we want. I can’t believe it, but it’s not just a dream anymore.
For a moment, we’re suspended in our own private world. Then I hear a commotion, coming from across the gallery. St. Clair and I both look up and see a bustle of security guards walking through the room, spreading out into the corners and across the space at various points. My heart starts to beat faster.
Something is wrong.
St. Clair tenses, and I know he feels it too. “I think that’s our cue to leave,” he says casually. He starts to lead me through the crowd, strolling toward the door that leads into the hallways, where the storage rooms will provide us with easy exits.
I gulp, and try to act calm. My stomach tangles up in knots, and my mind races. What do they know? Have they found out about the forgery?
“Going somewhere?” A voice makes St. Clair stop short.
It’s Lennox, arms folded, blocking our path.
“Just trying to get a moment alone with my lovely date,” St. Clair says pleasantly, sounding casual. “What brings you across the pond then, agent? Here to get a little culture? It’s a lovely exhibition.”
“Yes, it is.” Lennox holds his stare. “Except for one of the pieces. Word is, it’s a fake.”
My heart stops.
St. Clair arches an eyebrow, still cool. “Really? What a shame. Still, you never know. All kinds of folks out there, trying to pass things off as the real deal.”
“In this case, the owner seems rather rattled by the revelation.” Lennox nods to where Crawford is blustering with some police officers, red-faced and furious.
“And I thought you never took people at their word,” St. Clair shoots back. Lennox snorts, then turns to me for the first time.
“I warned you, Grace.” He almost sounds regretful.
I freeze, my palms starting to sweat. “What are you talking about?”
“Someone was seen leaving the gallery last night. Someone who matches your description.” He pulls out his handcuffs and my jaw drops. This can’t be happening.
“Now wait a minute, there’s clearly been some mistake—” St. Clair tries to block him, but Lennox just nods at a couple of police officers, and they pull St. Clair out of the way.
“Don’t say anything, Grace,” St. Clair calls, struggling. “I promise, this is just a bluff. It’s going to be okay.”
But his voice melts away under the rush of blood pounding in my ears. I can feel everyone watching, the whispers and gasps of scandal.
Lennox moves in and spins me around. I feel the cold, hard sting of metal as he slaps on the handcuffs and locks them shut. “Grace Bennett, you’re under arrest.”
CHAPTER 12
I spend the night shivering on the edge of a cot in a French police cell, still wearing my fancy formal dress. I can’t sleep a wink, and by morning, I’m exhausted, hungry – and scared to death. I’ve spent hours trying not to panic, going over every detail of our heist. I’ve run through what evidence they might have a million times and come up with way too many ideas. DNA traces, hair strands, eyewitnesses, security footage from cameras we might have missed…
I hug my arms around myself and try to be brave. St. Clair said it was just a bluff, and I wish I could believe him. But if he’s wrong…my whole future is on the line. Even if I don’t spend the rest of my life in jail, I’ll never be able to work in the art world again. And Nona will be so disappointed. My mom would be disappointed. The thought makes me sick.
The sun’s early light is filtering in through my barred window by the time a police officer with a jangling set of keys comes to collect me.
“Is a lawyer here?” I leap up eagerly. St. Clair wouldn’t have left me here alone, and I know he’s got to be moving heaven and earth – and a few international treaties too – to get me out. “Can I make my phone call now?”
But the guard just mumbles something in French, and leads me out. I follow him down several long hallways, wincing at my stiff muscles from spending the night shivering on that cot. Eventually, he opens the door to what must be an interview room and nods for me to go inside.
“I need to make a phone call,” I protest. “I have rights, you know.”