We both raise our hands to the sky, wide-eyed. I don’t have to fake my fear or shock here—this is quite a turn out. It’s crazy: cops everywhere, the noise from the chopper, and even the sound of barking as a group of police search dogs are let out of the back of a van. At last, the chaos seems to calm, and a familiar voice comes striding out of the crowd.

Lennox.

Crawford sees him, too. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?!” he bellows. “This is private property!”

“And I have a badge and probable cause,” Lennox says, flashing his Interpol ID. “Now where is St. Clair?”

Crawford stutters. “St. Clair? I don’t understand.”

“He’s not here,” I say, innocently. “Is there something you’re looking for?”

Lennox glares at me. “Grace, I’m done playing games with you. If St. Clair isn’t here, you’ll go to jail yourself.”

He snatches the painting tube out from under my arm faster than I can react. “All I need is this evidence,” he says, opening the tube. He pulls out the canvas and unrolls it. Then his face changes.

“What is this?” he demands.

“Not what you were expecting, detective?” I smile sweetly.

“Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?” Crawford butts in.

“This isn’t the Armande.” Lennox scowls. He turns to yell at his team. “Search the house!”

Men push past us, heading inside with the police dogs. Lennox turns back to me. “Where’s the painting you stole?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That painting—an O’Brien from St. Clair’s own private collection, by the way—is supposed to be a gift for Mr. Crawford.” I turn to the man I loathe and smile. “Mr. St. Clair sympathized with your loss, having just lost one of his own paintings to a heist as well, and wanted to offer you a little consolation. St. Clair isn’t the monster you think he is,” I tell Lennox pointedly. “Maybe you can see now that you misjudged him.”

Dogs start barking from inside. Lennox snaps his head around, and charges into the house.

I follow, with Crawford hot on my heels. “What the hell?” Crawford is still complaining angrily. “Be careful! Those are antiques!”

The dogs cluster around a door, barking wildly.

“What’s behind there?” Lennox demands.

“That’s the wine cellar,” Crawford blusters. “I keep a priceless collection, you mustn’t disturb the bottles—”

Lennox kicks open the door.

Crawford is livid, his face red. “Expect a lawsuit tomorrow! You, this whole department!” He gestures wildly and shouts at Lennox’s back. “Dumb dogs!” He moves to kick the still barking dogs but one of the husky German Shepherds lunges at him, snapping his teeth.

“Owww!”

Crawford reels back, scurrying outside. “Where is my assistant? Natalie? Natalie!” he bellows.

She comes around the corner from one of the guest cottages. “You yelled?” she asks.

“Who are these people?” he demands. “Get me my lawyers, right now!”

“Good idea,” Lennox’s voice comes. He steps out of the house – holding the Armande painting. “You’re going to need them.”

Crawford looks confused. “Where did that come from? I thought you said it had been stolen.”

“That’s what we thought.” Lennox fixes him with a suspicious glare. “Trying to run an insurance scam, Mr. Crawford?”

Lennox calls to the other officers, “I want an evidence team in that cellar. I spotted at least half a dozen stolen paintings down there. And search the rest of the house. I believe we’ve found our thief.”

“This is ridiculous!” Crawford explodes. “I’ll have your badge for this! Natalie!”

She stands there calmly. “I had no idea,” she says. “Agent Lennox, should I get the keys to the rest of the property? There are some outbuildings and garages. I can show your men the way.”

“Thank you, that would be very helpful.”

Natalie catches my eye for a moment, and we share a secret grin. It wasn’t hard to recruit her to our cause: she’s seen first-hand the damage Crawford has done. She was more than willing to give us access to the estate, so St. Clair could sneak in and plant the incriminating stolen art early this morning.

“Get this area marked off for the crime unit.” Lennox carefully places the Armande in a painting tube. “It looks like my search is over. Spencer Crawford, you’re under arrest.”

He pulls out a pair of handcuffs and slaps them on Crawford’s wrists. As he sputters and yells and threatens all the cops, including Lennox, he feebly struggles like he might run away, before he’s placed in the back of a police car. “You won’t get away with this!” are the last words he roars before the door is shut.

Another car races up the drive and screeches to a stop beside us. St. Clair rushes out, and sweeps me into a hug. “Are you okay?” he demands.

“I’m fine,” I laugh, pulling away. “You’re late. You missed all the action.”

St. Clair looks around at Crawford in the back of a police car, handcuffed, and at Lennox standing not too far away, watching us with an unreadable expression.

“Seems you finally found the real culprit, Lennox,” St. Clair says. “Congratulations. This is a career-making bust.”

Lennox closes the short distance between us. “Seems that way,” he says, the suspicion still in his voice. “But you know as well as I do that things are not always as they seem.”

“The evidence never lies, right, detective?” I say. “Like I said, you were chasing the wrong guy.”

Lennox cocks his head to the side and considers, looking at me and St. Clair standing close together, his arm around my waist, protective, both of us straight faced and unblinking under the weight of his stare. He finally nods. “You’re right. I apologize.” He appraises us one last time, his mind working through something he decides not to say.

He turns on his heel and heads back inside – to the cellar full of valuable incriminating evidence.

Crawford’s car leaves his own driveway with several cop escorts as many more uniforms patrol the ground, setting up police tape, taking photos and doing whatever else cops do at a crime scene, but I’m not worried. The proof is in the paintings, and they are all sitting in Crawford’s estate.

St. Clair squeezes my hip, pulls me a little closer. He kisses me, full of victory. “We did it!”

We did it. I almost can’t believe it. If Lennox weren’t here, I think I would jump for joy as high as I possibly could, but instead I nuzzle into St. Clair’s neck and sigh with contentment. The risk paid off – and now we’re free. No more looking over our shoulders, no more waiting for Lennox to pounce and snatch St. Clair away from me or send us both to jail.

There’s nothing standing in our way now. Our happily-ever-after can finally begin.

“Where do you want to go now?” Charles asks, taking my hand as we stroll back to his car.

“I don’t know…” I tease. “Didn’t you say something about the Caribbean?”

EPILOGUE

I feel like I must be dreaming.

A sparkling turquoise sea fills my vision, swirling like paints on a living canvas I could watch for hours. White crests of waves crash gently on sugary smooth sand just a few feet in front of me, sending cool sprays of saltwater into the air, pleasantly misting my warm skin. If I couldn’t wiggle my toes and feel the soft sand between them, or smell the coconut scent of my tanning oil, I could easily believe I’d slipped into a fantasy.

Especially when St. Clair, shirtless and sexy with his perfect abs and sculpted shoulders, appears at my elbow with a fruity drink complete with a tiny, festive umbrella.

“Have I died and gone to heaven?” I ask him, running my fingers down his chest and tugging playfully at the waist of his swim trunks.

His eyebrows shoot up. “It seemed like you went to heaven last night…” He bends his head to kiss my belly button above my bikini bottoms. Heat not at all related to the Jamaican sunshine rushes between my legs.