He pretends to preen. “Now she sees my brilliance!”

I laugh and elbow him lightly. “Okay, so where? How?”

He gives me a mysterious smile. “I’ll think of something. Now, though, I have to be getting to a meeting.” He pulls me in for a kiss. “You okay to get home?”

“Of course,” I say. “I love exploring this city.”

I kiss him again, deeper, not caring who else is around. His mouth meets mine and it’s still the knee-weakening, foot popping, butterflies in my stomach spark as the very first time. He trails a kiss to the side of my neck and my pulse speeds up, heat rising up my chest. “Hold that thought,” he whispers, sending shivers down my body as he grins and walks away.

I inhale his scent. “Oh, I will,” I say and I watch his tight ass as he jogs down the street.

I’m still feeling the imprint of his lips as I stroll back along the street. The bakeries and cafés blur, and soon I lose track of my direction. I’m still so caught up in the shivering excitement of St. Clair’s touch – and the intoxicating risk of our plans — that I barely notice the man who falls into step beside me until he says, “Hello, Grace.”

I jolt. It’s Nick Lennox, strolling along next to me. My heart stops. How long has he been watching us?

“Anything I can help you with today, Agent?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“You’re quite a ways from home.”

“A whole ocean away, in fact,” I quip.

He smiles. “You’re clever, like your boyfriend. But that will only take you so far.” He rubs his chin and the perpetual stubble that lives there. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here, Grace?”

“I’m exploring this great city,” I shoot back. “That’s not a crime.”

“No, but obstructing an investigation is. This is not a joke, Grace. You could go to jail.”

My nerves tremor, but I keep walking. “For taking a midday stroll?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Lennox moves in front of me, blocking my path. He looks at me sternly. “You’re a good girl, Grace, but you’re playing with fire, risking your entire future. I don’t want to see you taking the fall for him. You wouldn’t last a week in jail.”

He’s trying to scare me and it’s working. My palms are starting to sweat and my heart is racing in my chest. But I try to stay calm.

He’s bluffing right now, it’s all he’s got. If he had any real evidence against St. Clair, he would have gotten that search warrant and arrested him by now. “But only guilty people go to prison, right?” I insist. “And I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Lennox snorts. “Breaking and entering, accessory to grand theft, or hell, maybe you’re in on the whole thing.” He leans in close. “Even if you just know more than you’re telling me, I can make sure that you do time. Is that worth it for a boyfriend? Especially a player like St. Clair?”

“Are you done with your vague ominous threats yet?” I shoot back. “Because I’ve heard them all before, and I’d like to get to lunch sometime soon.” A month ago his line might have sent me into all kinds of worry about St. Clair’s commitment to me, but not now. I know where I stand in his life, and we’ve both made our choices.

Lennox scowls. “Don’t say I didn’t try and help you.” He stands aside. “You had your chance to make a deal, and bring him to justice. Now, if he goes down, you will too. I’ll see to that.”

I hurry away, his words still echoing in my mind.

CHAPTER 7

I decide not to tell St. Clair about my run-in with Lennox, it would only make him more annoyed with the Interpol agent and maybe make him reconsider going after Crawford. Now that I’m set on bringing that asshole to justice, making him pay whatever way we can, I don’t want St. Clair getting distracted.

I try to busy myself with work and a few hours of painting in my studio for the next few days. I even manage a call home to the di Fiores, but when Nona starts asking how St. Clair is treating me, and what we’ve been up to here in London, I make up an excuse about needing to get back to work and hang up. I know I can never explain this side of my life to her, and I don’t want anyone worrying about me while I’m so far away. I miss San Francisco and my little Italian family, but I’m not ready to go back yet. Not until justice is served.

Meanwhile, Charles does whatever it is that high-profile financiers-slash-art thieves do, until finally one evening he greets me at his apartment with a satisfied smile.

“Fancy a night on the town?” he asks.

I can tell he’s excited about something, and he’s full of playful energy as he pulls me in for a kiss. “Anywhere in particular?” I ask.

“I was thinking the Bellingham,” he says, his hands roving over my body and making my pulse kick. He nips at my neck. “It’s a private supper club. Crawford’s regular stomping ground.”

“So you’ve figured it out?” I pull away, excited. He laughs.

“Maybe.” St. Clair grins. “I have a plan, we just need to see if he bites.”

“What do I need to do?”

“You just be your gorgeous self,” he says, and then leans in to murmur in my ear. “And perhaps don’t wear any underwear…”

I blink. “Your plan for revenge on Crawford involves me not wearing any panties?”

He smirks. “No, but my plan to ravish you later does.”

My stomach skips. His hands move around between my thighs, caressing me through my work dress. I shiver, and press against him, feeling his strong body against me in a wall of muscle. St. Clair’s breath is hot in my ear for a moment as his hands skim up, teasing over my breasts and stomach. I want to strip right here and show him just how ready for him I am, but St. Clair steps back.

“Later,” he vows, his eyes dark with lust. “First, Crawford.”

“Whatever you need. For your plan to work,” I reply, a little breathless. I can’t wait for the night to get underway.

We arrive at the Bellingham in time for dinner, the valet greeting us outside and sweeping us in through the discreet gilded entrance. Inside, it’s old world England, with a wood-paneled whiskey bar and a grand formal dining room. We linger in the bar amongst the posh regulars, St. Clair greeting a few acquaintances, but I can tell his attention is focused on the door, until finally, Crawford arrives in with his assistant Natalie in tow. No dog this time, and I hope the poor thing didn’t get shipped off like the horse.

“Here they are,” I whisper to St. Clair, feeling my heart race. He hasn’t told me the big plan yet, and I’m excited to see it unfold.

“Patience,” he whispers, then smoothly starts a conversation with the couple beside us about the stock market, and their kids.

I watch Crawford. He sets up in a corner booth, while Natalie scurries off to the bar to fetch him a drink. She returns hesitantly with a glass of something, and Crawford takes one sip – then spits it out, splashing her blouse. She takes a small step back as he starts up his usual verbal abuse.

I tense. St. Clair’s hand is on my waist, calming me, but my blood still boils to watch him belittle her in front of everyone. Finally Natalie slips away, red-faced as she ducks into the crowd, heading for the ladies’ room.

“Excuse me,” I tell St. Clair’s friends. “Just going to freshen up.”

I find Natalie in the restroom, sniffling and trying to rinse off her shirt. She glances at me when the door opens. First she looks embarrassed, but I give her a sympathetic smile.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She wipes at her eyes again and then seems to recognize me. “You were at the Ascot Day with St. Clair,” she says, her voice still shaky with tears.

“Yeah. I’m his art consultant. And girlfriend.” I blush and then hold out my hand. “Grace.”

She shakes it. “Natalie.” She blows her nose.

“You work for Spencer Crawford?”

“Yes, the tosspot.” She flushes. “Sorry. I just have to make up names for him in my head since I can’t say anything back to his face.”