It was too close. I can’t put myself or St. Clair at risk like that again. I wanted to see into his secret life, join him in a heist and see justice granted where it was due, but I wound up risking both our lives instead.

I may be a world away from the timid, pushover Grace I was just a few months ago, but I’m not a hardened criminal yet. My nerves can’t take the heat.

Except you did, a little voice whispers in my mind. You stayed cool, you escaped unscathed – and you made sure he got the painting, too.

You got away with everything.

I feel an unfamiliar shiver: triumph, and pride too. I may not be lining up to undertake any more heists, but there’s still a part of me that’s proud of what we did accomplish. And tonight, Crawford will be crowing like he’s got the upper hand – with a fake hanging on the wall behind him all along.

Nobody will know the difference. Nobody except me and St. Clair.

I force myself to shake off the weird foreboding feeling, and get ready for the event. St. Clair thoughtfully left me the address of a beauty salon nearby, so I spend the rest of the afternoon getting primped and blow-dried, until I feel like I can fit in with all the glamorous socialites who’ll be in attendance tonight. By the time he meets me at the front door at eight, I’m transformed, sleek and polished in the red silk dress Paige helped me pick out.

“Wow,” the look of lustful admiration in his eyes makes all my effort worthwhile. St. Clair kisses my collarbone, then my neck, then my ear. “You look stunning,” he whispers in my ear before nibbling on the lobe and stirring up a little heat low in my body.

“Mmm,” I sigh happily. “That’s exactly the look I was going for.”

He guides me down to the limo we have waiting, and opens the door for me gallantly.

“You’re not too shabby yourself,” I tease, straightening his bow tie. He changed at the office, and looks like he just stepped off the red carpet, in a dashing tuxedo.

“I try to keep up.”

The gallery is a short drive, one I feel like I know by heart after our midnight adventures. My pulse speeds as we get closer, memories of last night flashing through my mind. St. Clair takes my hand, as if to calm me. “It’s all smooth sailing from now on,” he reassures me. “Tonight we just play our parts and act normal. It’s all about the art.”

“But what if somebody notices?” I quake. “The forgery—”

“They won’t,” he stops me. “And even if they do, nobody will say a word. It would be a huge scandal. Trust me,” he adds with a grin. “I know people who’ve spent years passing off fakes as the real deal, rather than admit they were fooled. Crawford would never admit he could have bought a forgery, back in the day.”

He twines his fingers through mine as if it’s how our hands were always meant to be.

I try to relax as we arrive at the gallery to an actual red carpet laid out along the marble stepped entrance. There are lights everywhere, camera flashes and spotlights on the who’s who of the art world and European society. We exit the limo to a fit of flashes and microphones in our faces. St. Clair is debonair and gracious, thanking the compliment givers and saying that he’s “just doing what I can to support the gallery and the larger world of art I love so much.”

I grin at him as we make it through the barrage of reporters and art fans. I know by the twinkle in his eye he is enjoying this as much as I am. I didn’t expect it, but it’s a rush having such a huge secret shared, just between the two of us. Nobody has any idea that last night I was trapped behind a security grille in this very gallery, and now I feel like I’m standing at the literal top of the world and looking down at the old me, the nobody me, the me who never would have taken this risk. She looks so small now. “This feels amazing.”

He smiles. “You have no idea how much better it is with you by my side.”

I didn’t think I could feel any higher than I already did, but his last words send me up to cloud nine. “My favorite place to be is by your side,” I tell him honestly. “You make me feel in control, like I can choose my own destiny.”

He squeezes my hand as we pass through the main doors. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Grace, you know that.”

“I do now,” I say as I take in the room.

A rainbow of gown colors stands out in contrast to the sea of black tuxes and white shirts, glamourous society people dressed up for the art opening of the season. Since St. Clair is one of tonight’s stars, I know we won’t have much more alone time together, and I want to tell him something. I pull him aside, out of the stream of people, and look up into his eyes.

“After I lost my mom, I think I gave up a little inside,” I confess, “I let other people make my decisions—about what mattered, what I should do. I just let the world happen to me instead of choosing my own path.” I take a deep breath, feeling emotionally exposed, but wanting him to know how much his support has helped me heal. “You helped bring me back to myself. You reminded me that I have to follow the life I want, and decide what that is for myself.” I lean up and kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

I can tell he wants to say something, but Marie, the gallery director, interrupts.

“Mr. St. Clair!” she greets us, air kissing me on both cheeks. “Welcome. Everyone wants to meet the great man. Do you have a moment to chat with some press?”

“For you, Marie, anything,” he answers graciously. We’re led into the crowd, and just like always, he’s mobbed with well-wishers, business acquaintances, and society friends. It’s a whirlwind, but I’m getting used to it, and can hold my own, too – chatting about his recent acquisitions and our plans for his collection.

I love being by his side. I understand why he has so many fans, there’s something about his energy that makes you feel like you’re at the center of things, where the action is.

There’s a commotion near the bar, and I see Crawford gesturing wildly to the bartender, who does not look amused. That guy just spreads misery wherever he goes; I’m going to be glad to see him get a taste of his own medicine. He gets his drink and then notices the crowd gathered around St. Clair, and with a look of annoyance he shoves his way across the room to get to us.

“Looks like most of the news outlets that matter have already concluded their interviews for the evening,” he says smugly. “I mean, they interviewed me, so there really wasn’t much left to cover, was there?” He laughs. “I wouldn’t feel bad the TV crews didn’t stick around to talk to you,” Crawford goes on. “I’m sure the media recognizes an industry giant and tastemaker like me, a real rags to riches story of moving up through hard work rather than getting Daddy’s company handed to him as an afterthought.”

Anyone who knows St. Clair is well aware of how hard he worked to expand and improve his father’s company, Crawford included. He’s just goading Charles because he thinks he’s won.

He doesn’t realize that the painting on the wall with his name on it is worthless now.

But St. Clair stays cool. “You’re sounding a bit hoarse—you must have done quite a bit of talking in those interviews! Why don’t we let you rest your voice?” He puts his arm around my waist and leads me away.

“I thought I might be having regrets,” I murmur, “But that jerk deserves it.”

I grab us two flutes of champagne as they float by on a silver tray carried by a waiter. The night I bid on the Rubens for Charles, the night I was the server at a fancy art gala like this, seems like a thousand years ago. How far we’ve come, together.

“To us.” I raise my glass and St. Clair does the same. As we clink and drink, I’m happy enough to sing from the rooftops, but I’ll settle for gazing at my work of art boyfriend. “What’s next?” I ask. “The London trip will be wrapping up soon. Will we be heading back to San Francisco?”