My mind races. Lennox hasn’t told me anything I don’t know – and all his evidence so far is circumstantial. A coincidence. It’s certainly not enough for a jury to be convinced. That means he’s not even close to arresting St. Clair.
Why does that make me feel relieved?
“What I’m hearing is a whole lot of theory, and no hard evidence,” I tell him, even though it all seems plenty damning to me.
“That’s where you come in.” He leans in, his brown eyes intense and sharp. “Career criminals like St. Clair are good, smart. Hard to catch. And I’ll tell you something else—I need a break in this case soon or I’ll lose it. That’s the truth. He’ll make a mistake eventually, but by then my bosses will be onto the next thief.”
“Maybe you’ll be able to catch that guy.”
“I’m going to catch this one,” Lennox vows. “You can get close to St. Clair, Grace. I need your help to get the proof we both need.”
“You want me to spy on him?” That’s too far. “I won’t betray him like that.”
“It’s not betrayal! You’d be bringing him to justice.” Lennox looks around to make sure no one heard him.
“But what if he’s innocent?” I still have hope that he is. He has to be.
Lennox smirks, like he knows I’m clutching at straws. “Well, then you won’t find anything, will you? And I’ll have to move on. Everyone wins.”
He’s good. It’s a Catch-22 for me: either tell him to go to hell and then risk getting charged as an accessory to St. Clair’s crimes, or spy on the man I care about in order to prove his innocence.
But I don’t have to play Lennox’s games, I remind myself. I can buy some time, and figure out what I’m really going to do next.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” I say, rising from the chair. “I have to go.”
Lennox sighs. “He’s not innocent, Grace. Trust me, he’s behind these heists.”
That’s the thing, I don’t trust him. I’m not sure if I trust St. Clair fully right now either, but I trust how I feel when we’re together, trust that his sweet caresses are genuine, his generosity not a cover for ulterior motives. “Sometimes instincts are wrong,” I point out.
“They certainly are,” he says as I head for the door.
Outside, I walk along a cobblestone path that winds along the Thames. I watch the grey water lap at the embankment, my mind racing to figure out what to make of this situation.
Is it a mistake to believe in St. Clair? To believe in the man who has made me feel special and safe, who makes me laugh and makes me weak in the knees, the man who believed in me right from the start, even when no one else did? This whole fairy tale job-slash-romance has seemed too good to be true from the get-go, but now that might really be the case.
A couple strolls by arm in arm, snuggled up in each other and oblivious to the world, and despite everything, I wish St. Clair was here with me right now. I wish he were here to watch the way the sunlight’s reflection shimmers on the dark water’s surface, to enjoy the cool air on our skin, to walk along this river holding hands. He is the person I most want to ask for advice about this whole situation, the person I most want to spend time with, no matter what I’m doing.
It hits me then: why I didn’t come clean to Lennox about my suspicions, or take his deal to investigate St. Clair and find evidence.
After everything, I still want to protect St. Clair. To be with him – and show him the same faith and belief he’s shown in me.
I can’t help it. I’ve fallen in love with him.
CHAPTER 13
I spend the next three days feeling like a spy, torn between what Lennox told me and my own growing feelings for St. Clair. I try to distract myself from the battle my brain is waging against my heart with some solid time in the art studio, but even with all the easels and brushes and paints I could ever want at my fingertips, my work feels forced. After filling a few canvases with abstract color studies (all of which are blue, and look a lot like the shade of St. Clair’s eyes), I give up and start spending my free time walking around the neighborhood, lost in thought.
Part of me wants to call Nona, ask for advice, admit that I’m in way over my head. But when I left the di Fiores, I was full of excitement and anticipation about this trip. The last thing I want is for them to worry about me from all the way in San Francisco, or worse—be disappointed in my decision to come here, my decision to jump into things with Charles so fast. In the end I decide to wait things out for now—I’m not ready to make a move until I know more.
In the meantime I watch St. Clair for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary, but I see nothing that raises any red flags. If anything, he’s more perfect than ever: planning little sightseeing trips around the city for me, surprising me with a romantic dinner or bouquet of roses, being more open and affectionate than I’ve ever seen before.
He’s the sweet, charming, sexy, funny guy I fell in love with…and yet Lennox’s certainty and the things I saw still have me questioning St. Clair’s motives. How well do I really know him? If I keep getting closer, keep risking my heart, what happens if I’m wrong?
Can I be in love with a man who might be a criminal?
“Ready?” St. Clair lifts a tuxedoed arm for me to take as I step out of the cab. It’s the night of the big showcase exhibition at the London College of Art. I can hear muted laughter and conversation and jazzy music from inside the party, but I’m nervous. The artists I selected tonight will reflect on St. Clair. He’s the patron after all, and I don’t want to let him down.
I inhale and exhale, following a tip from my mom for stressful situations, and smile at him. “Ready.”
Together, we step into the grand main room of the gallery at the college. Tonight, it showcases the student art pieces I selected. Canvases, sculpture, and mixed media pieces sit or stand or hang from or on dazzling displays around the room, and I’m proud of the diversity of the art.
St. Clair whispers, “No one has shouted in outrage at any of the choices, so that’s a good sign.” He’s teasing, I can tell.
“Maybe they’re being polite, and waiting until after the canapés before they riot.”
St. Clair chuckles, and leads me into the crowd. It’s a well-dressed mix of London society and prominent art-world people. “I can see the headlines now: Scandal at the school of art!”
“Stop!” I swat at him playfully with my beaded clutch. “I’m nervous enough!”
He squeezes my hand and tilts his head down to plant the lightest of kisses on my cheek. “You have nothing to be nervous about. Just relax and enjoy the fruits of all your labors. They’re going to love it.”
We circulate through the room, checking out the full size final projects of the students. Some I hadn’t seen in all their full sized glory, like the twelve foot sculpture of Goliath, foot raised, about to squish a terrified three foot David, his slingshot discarded on the ground, or the mixed media installation that includes a piece of a toilet. I look around, still nervous, but everyone seems to be enjoying the art and having a good time.
No riots yet.
“Congratulations,” St. Clair says to each student artist as we stop and study their work. He introduces me to all of them, and talks about their pieces in depth. It’s clear he studied all the files I gave him, and now he asks great questions, engaging them to talk about their passion.
I love this part. It’s so fun to see the artists in their element, explaining their aesthetic choices, their ideas and the process of bringing those ideas to life. It makes me want to get back in the saddle, to paint something worth showing, worth talking about. I want to feel that passionate about creating again.
St. Clair makes sure to shake each student’s hand before we move on, and he puts everyone, including me, at ease. He’s charismatic and gorgeous, as usual, and women find ways to touch him all night, patting his shoulder or arm, commenting on his suit, his hair.