I’m speechless. “You got this space for me?”
“Do you like it?”
I’m fighting tears. This sweet and thoughtful gesture is more than money. He cares about me and my work. “How can I ever hope to repay you for all of this?” I whisper.
“I want the first Grace Bennett original in my house.” He smiles. “Deal?’
“Deal,” I say, my heart overwhelmed with emotion. He leans down to kiss me, his hands trailing down my cheek to bring my chin up to meet his lips. Our tongues brush each other, our breaths mingling, and it’s electric as always, but there’s more than heat, too; a deeper connection.
“Thank you,” I whisper when we pull apart.
He kisses my forehead. “Thank you, Grace, my lucky charm.” He checks his watch. “Now, I have to get back to some business, but you stay here as long as you like and see what creativity erupts.”
When he leaves I wander the room, lightly touching the paint bottles and running my fingers along the brush bristles in amazement. I can’t believe all this is mine. I ruminate on what St. Clair said about passion never disappearing, and remember what my mom told me about creativity, that it never comes when you try to force it.
Still, I’m nervous after all this time. So I decide to take the pressure off: I pour out some paint and just play around for a while, making lines in random colors, trying different pressures and mediums. I don’t even notice as the day passes until the light is fading from the windows, and I realize I’ve had fun. No-pressure painting, just like back in the old days, before there were outcomes attached to my work. Free. And I have St. Clair to thank for that.
I’m walking on cloud nine on my way back to my flat. I feel like even if I don’t paint a masterpiece anytime soon, today was the first time I put brush to canvas in years, and that is amazing. As I approach my street, I try to think of a way I can show my appreciation to St. Clair. He’s the man who seems to have everything, but I’m sure I can think of some little token to thank him for everything he’s done.
“Hello, Miss Bennett.”
I look up. A man is waiting, leaning against the railing in front of my apartment. I recognize him as Nick Lennox, the Interpol agent who’s been investigating the art thefts back home in the States.
I’m surprised to see him here. “Hi, umm, is everything okay?”
“Just dandy.” Nick looks around. “Nice neighborhood. Not bad for an auction house intern.”
I tense a little at the tone. “Art consultant,” I correct him. I get out my keys. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I hope so.” Nick smiles at me. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”
“We are talking.”
He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “More privately.”
Instead of inviting him in, I nod to the small park at the end of the block. “After you.”
We walk together in silence, but my mind is racing. Finally, I ask. “Has there been a break in the Carringer’s case? New leads?”
“You could say that.” We reach a small bench, and he gestures for me to sit. “I’m coming to you because I need your help.”
Really? “My help? With what? I already told you everything I know about the Carringer’s heist. I don’t know anything.”
“And if you did? Would you assist the investigation?” Lennox looks at me dead on.
“Of course,” I frown. “I want to see the thief caught.”
“Good answer.” He smiles at me. “I know who stole the painting from Carringer’s, who’s behind all the thefts, and it turns out you’re in a unique position to assist in proving his guilt.”
I’m still confused. “How? And…who?”
“It was St. Clair.” Lennox tells me, not taking his eyes from my face. “He’s the thief.”
I burst out laughing.
Lennox just waits, his eyes still studying me.
He’s serious?
“There’s no way!” I protest. “St. Clair doesn’t need to steal anything. He bought the painting! He could buy anything he wants!”
“I never said he was in it for the money.”
“Then what?” I’m still reeling. This doesn’t add up. St. Clair isn’t a thief, he cares about wrong and right, and on top of all that, he has no motive. “You’re not making any sense.”
“Aren’t I?” Lennox challenges. “You know our friend: St. Clair thrives off risk, adrenaline. He enjoys breaking the rules, and he doesn’t care about the consequences. He’s rich, idle, and has a God complex. I think he fits the profile perfectly. It’s not just the Carringer’s job, there’s a whole string of international robberies over the past few years. The Brussels gold heist last year. The Alberti diamonds in Monaco. Rio de Janeiro – I could go on.”
“Don’t.” My voice is cold. I know that St. Clair is an adventure junkie, but making out in a public fountain and picnicking in a no-food zone at a museum hardly seem like precursors to multi-million dollar art theft.
I get to my feet. “I’ve heard enough. You have no reason to accuse him. If you really think it’s St. Clair, why haven’t you arrested him yet?”
Lennox’s expression slips. “I don’t have any proof—”
“Ha!”
“Yet. But I will.”
“You’re reaching. The reason you haven’t found any proof is because there isn’t any.” I shake my head, remembering what Paige told me. “I know the case is getting colder. Are you really this desperate?”
His eyes narrow. “I’m not wrong, Grace. You can help me get the evidence—”
“Not a chance,” I snap, turning to walk away. But Lennox takes my arm and pulls me back.
“He’s guilty, Grace. And a criminal. And eventually I’m going to catch him. It’d be a shame to see you go down too.” He holds out his card. “I hope you’ll reconsider.”
I can’t believe he’s threatening me. I don’t take the card. “You’re the criminal, smearing his good name.”
He leans in, makes his face look concerned. “He’s not so perfect, you know.” Lennox slips his card into my purse. “St. Clair’s got you fooled. You don’t know him at all.”
“Yes, I do! And you don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s a good man. The best,” I shoot back fiercely.
“Maybe,” Lennox replies. “But on the other hand, maybe he’s too good to be true.” His words strike me, and I can tell from his smirk that he knows it. “Think about it. And when you realize what a fool he’s made of you, come find me. Because I won’t stop until I bring him down.”
He releases me, nods, and then strides away, leaving me alone in the park with the first seeds of doubt beginning to grow in my mind.
CHAPTER 9
“You okay?” St. Clair asks as he pours me a glass of Sauvignon Blanc to go with the fish sizzling on the stovetop.
“I’m fine,” I say, for the tenth time this week when he’s caught me in a moment of doubt, a moment of wondering if Lennox could be right, which always turns into a moment of guilt because St. Clair has been so affectionate and wonderful the last few days: cooking me dinner, walking me home, kissing me goodnight— passionate and tender—and not expecting more.
“You seem distracted.”
Maybe because an Interpol agent informed me that you are a major criminal last week, I think but then he reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, his beautiful blue eyes concerned, and I feel bad for even giving the accusations a second thought.
Lennox is on the edge, out of leads, and probably facing a lot of pressure from the agency—there’s no way his suspicions could be true.
“Just thinking about the student art pieces.” I force myself to smile.
“Any good ones? From what I saw, it’s going to be a tough choice.” He flips the filets in their garlic butter sauce and checks on the broccoli roasting in the oven, his biceps flexing in his gray T-shirt. I think I like him best like this: after hours, out of that suit, his hair messy and falling into his face. My breath catches a little in my throat.