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 label: 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.

Stealing Crawford’s painting.

We get dressed together for the big night: black pants and black jackets. I feel like Trinity in the Matrix movies: ready for action.

“You’re such a cute little cat burglar,” St. Clair jokes. He’s poring over a bunch of blueprints and maps that are spread out on the table, double-checking his plan.

I trust him to plan the heist, but I am nervous. Especially about being caught on tape. After the other night and Lennox banging on the door, I want to be sure there won’t be any evidence. “How are we getting past the security cameras?” I ask. “They see everything.”

St. Clair grins. “No need to worry about the cameras. I have a software program that will intercept the security feed and loop the same footage. They won’t see us coming or going.”

I smile. “You say the sweetest things.”

He chuckles and gestures for me to come over. “Look,” he says, pointing at a map of the gallery. “This is where the paintings will be, the staging room where they keep them after unpacking.” He traces his finger along a line. “This is the night guard route, but tonight there’s a big soccer match on, so they’ll be distracted. I’m guessing they’ll only patrol during the intervals and half-time, if at all. Galleries like this don’t see much action late at night, and they won’t be expecting prowlers.”

“You think of everything,” I say, shaking my head.

“This ain’t my first rodeo,” he winks. He’s totally relaxed and confident as he packs a small bag and slings it over his chest.

But it is mine. I can only trust that St. Clair’s expertise and luck hold out.

We park a few blocks away from the gallery on a quiet street. The night has turned smoky black, the city’s lights trapped in the low lying clouds that also obscure the stars now. St. Clair opens his door and climbs out. He leans back through the open window and kisses my cheek. “Stay here, keep your head down, and be ready to drive on my signal.”

Oh, hell no. “What? I’m coming with you.”

He frowns. “It’s too dangerous, Grace. I can’t risk anything happening to you.”

“Then why did you let me come?” I ask, strangely hurt. “I’ve been in on this from the start. It was my idea!”

St. Clair looks torn. “What if you get caught? Your whole life’s at stake.”

I stand firm. “It’s my risk to take. And I want to take it.”