Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, repeats over and over in my head. Good advice but I’m having a hard time listening. The next thought is slightly more comforting: St. Clair will figure something out.

But what if he doesn’t? Or what if we both get caught?

“Grace!” St. Clair yells from my earpiece. “Grace, hello, are you there?”

I’m ashamed of my mistake and terrified, but I find my voice. “I’m here.”

“Thank God.” I hear the relief in his voice. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I’m trapped in the display room with the paintings.”

“What? How? I didn’t hear an alarm.”

“It didn’t sound,” I say, fighting to keep the tremble out of my voice. “But the security grille fell. I can’t get out.” I feel the tears starting to well up behind my eyes.

How could I have been so stupid?

St. Clair’s answer is quick. “Don’t panic, Grace. I’m coming for you right now.”

“No, don’t,” I protest. “You have to get out of here before the guards come.”

Silence.

“Charles? Please, just go! Take Crawford’s painting and get out of here while you can.”

My earpiece remains silent. Maybe he’s already gone.

Tears fall as I stand there feeling useless and stupid. If my mom could see me now, what would she say? What would Nona say? That I let my heart override my head. And now I’m going to be arrested, my whole life forever altered.

I hear footsteps in the outer gallery and fight back a sob. The guards. Of course they would have been alerted to the alarm.

I turn with my hands up, bracing myself, but instead of an angry guard, it’s St. Clair.

“I told you to go,” I protest.

“And there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you.” St. Clair smiles, but underneath it he looks fierce. He tests the bars, then moves around, checking the wall for hinges or a security panel with a release button.

“Please, someone will come,” I beg him, as the lights keep flashing red. “This is my fault, all of it. I was the one who talked you into going after Crawford. You can’t go down because I messed up.”

St. Clair doesn’t stop. “We’re in this together,” he vows. “Do you hear me, Grace? I’m not leaving you. Ever.”

I catch my breath, overwhelmed. He means it. He would stay here and get carted off to jail, all because of me.

Any last doubts or insecurities I had about him evaporate.

He’s willing to risk it all for me.

St. Clair levers open the security panel on the wall, and plugs in his device. He works furiously at the keypad, trying a dozen different things, and all the while, I’m waiting for the thunder of angry footsteps, and the guards to come charging in.

“Got it,” he breathes.

Suddenly, the lights stop flashing. The grille begins to rise.

Relief and gratitude flood through me. I gape. “What did you do?”

“Everything I could. The alarm system must have been faulty – the alert never transmitted along the system. That’s why the alarms didn’t sound.”

A lucky break. God, I can’t believe it. St. Clair ducks under the rising metal bars and sweeps me into a fierce embrace. I cling to him, so glad to have him here with me. A man who would sacrifice his own safety for mine. He didn’t give up on me.

He didn’t walk away.

St. Clair kisses me passionately, then pulls back. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

I let him lead me towards the exit, then I remember. “The painting!”

“Never mind that.” St. Clair shakes his head, but I stand firm.

“I have the fake one, right here.” I pick it up from the top of the crate. “We can’t have this whole night be for nothing.”

To come so close, and leave empty-handed…I know I should want to put as much distance as possible between myself and this building, but there’s a stubborn streak, demanding that we get what we came for.

St. Clair’s jaw flexes, and his eyes flash, but he nods, quickly closing the crate back up so it looks untouched, and then dragging me out of the room. This time, I have to run to keep up. I can feel the tension radiating from his body, and I have a sinking feeling it’s because of me.

He’s disappointed, and probably angry. I nearly got us caught.

St. Clair swipes us into the storage room again, and swiftly switches out the paintings. He doesn’t even look at me, just goes about his task with total focus: freeing Crawford’s original from the frame, and substituting his own forgery in its place. In a few moments, it’s done: the paintings traded, and nobody will be the wiser.

He rolls the original painting under his arm. “We’re out of time,” he growls at me. “Hurry.”

I follow him out the way we came, ducking past the booth where the guards are now yelling at the TV screens, the volume blaring, everyone totally captivated by the game. A few more steps, and then there’s the door: freedom.

St. Clair yanks me through it, and down the alleyway, until we disappear into the shadows.

My heartbeat just about returns to normal by the time we drop the painting at a safe house and make it back to his apartment. The terror has faded, and in its place is a rush of triumph and elation so wild I feel invincible.

If this is the adrenalin rush he gets from pulling off a heist, I can understand it now.

“We did it!” I whoop, when we’re safely inside, and nobody can see my grin. “Oh my God, I can’t believe we actually did it.”

St. Clair crosses to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a whiskey. He gulps it down in one swallow, then slams the glass on the table.

My elation tremors. He looks furious, and I realize just how badly I screwed up. I risked everything, put both our lives on the line with my clumsy, amateur mistake.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I know I messed up, and you probably hate me right now, but we made it out okay, and that’s the most important thing. You were right, I never should have come—”

“But you did.” He shoots me a look that stops me cold. “And whose fault was that?”

My heart plummets even more. “I know, I talked you into it. It was a mistake.” He turns away and I edge closer. “Look at me. Please?”

St. Clair turns, and I can see the fury on his face.

I shrink back. “I should go,” I murmur miserably. “I’ll go back to England, or America, whatever you want. I’m sorry.”

“Will you stop saying that?” St. Clair explodes. “You have nothing to be sorry about. This whole debacle is my fault!”

I pause, not understanding. “Charles—”

“I can’t believe I put you in danger like that.” St. Clair paces, his face stormy. “I knew it was too dangerous, but I was arrogant, I thought it would be a breeze. And then, when I saw you there behind those bars…fuck, Grace, I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t take better care of you. I put our whole future on the line, and for what?”

So this is what it’s about? He’s angry at himself. He blames himself for what happened.

My heart swells. “Don’t.” I tell him, placing a quieting hand on his arm.

“I’m not a child or a fifties housewife, Charles. I don’t need your permission to take action, and I knew what I was getting into, I knew the risks involved. I chose to come along. I am responsible for me.”

“No, but—”

“Listen,” I insist. “This was my idea from the start. You can’t wrap me in tissue paper and keep me safe from the world. I have to be willing to face the consequences of my actions, and I am.”

St. Clair doesn’t look convinced. “I won’t do that again,” he warns me. “I know you want to be a part of this life, but I meant it, I’m quitting it all, and I’ll never steal another thing if that’s what it takes to keep you out of danger.”

I slip my arms around him and rest my head against his chest. “I think I’m done with the heist lifestyle,” I admit. “My nerves aren’t up to it.”

He laughs, a low rumble against my ear. “You could have fooled me. You seemed so calm.”