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‘Oh fuck.’ His arms drop to his sides, the dresses hanging.
‘You must know there’s a camera in the corridor.’
‘I asked Percy to wipe them. He must have got side-tracked.’
‘Probably because you asked him to break into my apartment with you.’
‘Are you going to hold that against me forever?’
‘Yes,’ I retort simply, looking around and spotting a camera in the corner. ‘Make sure you delete the last half hour.’
‘Stupid dog.’ The door flies open and Winston bolts in. ‘Oh!’ Mrs Potts takes in the scene, her head swinging from me to Becker a few times. ‘There is someone in here, then.’
I don’t go bright red. I don’t know why. Maybe because shame is something I’m getting used to. Or maybe I’m becoming as cocky as my gorgeous boyfriend. ‘Just leaving.’ I bowl past Mrs Potts, abandoning Becker to face her alone as he fights his way into his T-shirt.
Chapter 17
I take it upon myself to leave work early so I can meet Lucy. I need to escape the magical world of The Haven, just to remind myself that there’s a real world beyond the walls of Becker’s dangerously idyllic sanctuary. Lucy doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve packed some things and I’m getting ready at her place for our night out tonight.
I look down at my phone as I sit on the wall outside the glass building that houses TC&E Accountants where Lucy works, seeing the text from Becker that arrived a few minutes after I left. I didn’t open it. I can’t reply within five minutes if I don’t know what it says. Now it’s been thirty minutes since my phone chimed, six times longer than my allotted time, according to his NDA, and I have another message. My phone pings again. Make that another two. On a smile, I open the first message.
I miss you already. What time are you home?
Home. Is that what it is now? I scroll to the next message.
You’ve just breached your contract. Strike 2.
I roll my eyes insolently, moving to the next.
You’re walking a very thin line, princess.
I recoil in disgust. ‘I’m barely walking at all, thanks to you.’ My bum cheeks sing their agreement as I exit the screen, casting my mind back to the library, when I confessed my knowledge of the secret book and the map. Three strikes and I’m out? The map. The piece of art with a story amid the beautiful design. The missing piece. The key to Becker’s mission.
I pull up Google. And I stare at the search bar, fighting the urge. This is becoming a habit. My fingers work mindlessly, typing in ‘Head of a Faun’ and I scroll the results. Of course, the results are limited and tell me nothing I don’t already know. What did you expect, Eleanor? Directions to the missing piece? A diagram of where it can be found? My shoulders slump, my mind wanders, and not for the first time, I sense the frustration Becker must feel over the mystery of the lost piece of the map and the sculpture. Where would one even begin to look for it? God, to have confirmation that Michelangelo really did destroy it himself. That would be the perfect outcome. But, also, what a travesty that would be. Old Mr Hunt’s words come back to me. Getting your hands on something that is thought lost in history gives you a rush like nothing else. I smile. I bet.
Stop it, Eleanor!
I toss my phone into my bag and jump a little when some feet appear in my downcast vision, just a few inches from mine – feet graced with black shoes that need a good polish, the leather riddled with scuffs.
I glance up, wary, and recoil a little, taken aback by the sheer size of the man looming above me. He’s as tall as he is wide, suited but scruffy, and his face is crabby, his thinning hair slicked back with too much wax. Or it could be grease. I can’t be sure.
He smiles at me, and I try to force one in return but fail miserably. I must look as bewildered and cautious as I feel. ‘Hello,’ he says politely, his voice gruff and deep, like he smokes forty a day.
‘Hi.’ I find myself withdrawing, leaning back a little on the wall. I want to stand; I feel threatened sitting under his towering, overweight frame, but I’ll never get to my feet without having to brush past him, and something tells me he knows that.
‘Eleanor Cole?’
My worry intensifies. How does he know my name? ‘You are?’ I don’t confirm who I am, since I have no idea who this is and why he’s here.
‘Stan Price.’ He reaches into his inside pocket and pulls something out, flashing it at me. A badge. ‘NCA.’
I just about manage to hold onto my heavy jaw to stop it hitting the pavement. NCA? National Crime Agency?
‘You are Eleanor Cole?’ he goes on, moving to the side, my eyes following him.
‘Yes, is this about the stolen O’Keeffe?’
He smiles. ‘No, actually. A colleague is dealing with that case.’
‘Oh.’ Then what on earth could this be about? Naturally, my mind goes straight to the fake sculpture, which is bad because if it doesn’t thrill me, it makes me anxious. And now I’m anxious. ‘So, how can I help you?’ I’m at a loss where my even tone is coming from, because on the inside I’m stressed. All I can see is Head of a Faun and Becker with sculpting tools in his hands. And then that vision changes. Becker with handcuffs on his wrists.
‘You work for the Hunt Corporation, yes?’ He lowers himself next to me on the wall, never letting his eyes leave mine. I feel like he’s assessing me, gauging my persona and disposition.
‘Yes,’ I answer short, sweet and quickly, fighting not to show a shred of my nerves. I’m so fucking nervous. ‘I’m sorry, what’s this about?’
Stan Price smiles. I’m not sure if it’s genuine or forced. ‘We’re investigating some suspicious activity in the art world,’ he says, and every muscle in my body stiffens, though I fight with all my might to hide it. ‘I wondered if you may be able to help.’ His eyebrows raise expectantly.
‘You’re investigating suspicious activity, but not the stolen O’Keeffe?’ My nerves are becoming more frayed by the second. Fuck, I don’t know how the frigging hell to handle this. All I can see is the evil, almost amused face of Head of a Faun.
‘Yes, like I said.’
I breathe in discreetly. ‘If I can help, I will.’ I give him a friendly smile, forced as shit. ‘What am I helping with?’ I’m pretty sure this isn’t standard questioning practice, though pointing that out might make me look as guilty as I am. Don’t give him a thing!
He smiles. ‘Can you tell me if this person is familiar to you?’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out, and I frown, looking at the photograph he presents. I can feel Price watching me closely, searching for any hint of a reaction.
‘She’s not familiar,’ I lie, and I stun myself with how easily I do. I’ve seen this woman before, and I’ve seen her in The Haven. Not physically, but I got a brief glimpse of her picture before old Mr H repositioned his newspaper on Becker’s desk to cover the blue file. Her harsh black bob on her old pale skin is unmistakable. ‘Sorry I can’t help.’ I look up at Price, and he watches me quietly for a few moments, slowly replacing the photo in his inside pocket.
Then he smiles, but, again, I can’t figure out if it’s sincere or not. ‘Never mind.’
‘Who is she?’ I ask, unable to hold back.
‘Lady Winchester.’
‘Lady?’
‘Yes, a lady.’
‘Why would you think I’d know her?’
‘You work for the Hunt Corporation – the most renowned and exclusive company in the business. Let’s just say that Lady Winchester likes to dabble in the trade. I just wondered if maybe you’d come across her.’
The blue file. That’s all I can see now. Not red like every other file at The Haven. It was blue, standing out from the rest. Why? ‘Maybe you should talk to my—’ I just hold my tongue before I blurt out boyfriend. ‘Boss,’ I finish coolly. ‘I haven’t been at the Hunt Corporation for long.�
�� Frighteningly, I know exactly what I’m doing. Price won’t be asking Becker anything, and he has no intention to, either. That’s why he’s here asking me. He’s sussing me out. Again, why? I don’t know, but I’m shocking myself, giving off a cool, innocent persona, when on the inside I’m in all kinds of chaos. I’ve lied, and it was instinctive and natural for me to do so.
‘Maybe I’ll do that.’ Price smiles again, this one definitely insincere.
‘What are you investigating?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ He hands me a card, and I take it. ‘Should you happen to think of anything that you think might assist me in my inquiries, give me a call.’
‘But I don’t know what you’re investigating, so how will I know if there’s anything I can help with?’ I’m being smart, and it’s coming oh so naturally. My sinful saint is rubbing off on me.
‘Your relationship with Becker Hunt . . .’ He fades off for effect.
‘Relationship?’ I question. ‘He’s my boss.’
Price nods slowly, eyeing me with too much interest. ‘Good day, Miss Cole.’ He stands and backs away slowly.
Good Lord, I just lied to the police, and I did it without any hesitation. I really am drowning in Becker’s world, and, oddly, I don’t feel any regret. After all, I made my decision when he turned up in Helston and brought me back. I’m in his corrupt maze, and I’m not planning on finding my way out. I love him. So I will protect him. Does he need protecting? What the hell is going on?
‘Good day, Mr Pr—’
‘Actually.’ He stops. ‘Since I have you here, what was Mr Hunt doing at Sotheby’s on the day of the theft?’
While he has me? Cornered, he means. And I have every confidence that he knows exactly why Becker was at Sotheby’s that day. ‘Becker purchased the O’Keeffe in an auction. There was a mix up with the transaction. I was there, too.’ I’m sure he also knows that. ‘We were on our way from Parsonson’s when I received their email. We were passing, so I stopped in to deal with it.’
‘And did you?’
I frown.
‘Deal with it,’ he goes on.
‘You mean pay for it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, no.’ I laugh. ‘It was discovered missing before I completed the transaction online.’
‘Oh, well that was a stroke of luck.’
I regard him carefully. What is he suggesting? ‘Have you spoken to Mr Wilson?’
‘Brent Wilson?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like I said, my colleague is dealing with the case.’
‘Well, perhaps you could tell your colleague to speak to Mr Wilson.’ I smile and get to my feet, seeing Lucy in the distance breaching the exit of her building. Normal. Just act normal.
‘Good day, Mr Price.’ I skirt past him, and quickly head towards my friend. I register her expression and my smile falters. She looks like a colossal zit, angry, red and throbbing. Following her filthy stare, I spot a tall, leggy blonde sashaying across the street.
‘Printer-room girl?’ I ask, casting my eyes back to Lucy.
‘Eleanor!’ She snaps out of her mood and rushes over, her arms held wide open. ‘What are you doing here?’ She crashes into me, knocking me back a few paces. ‘I thought you were picking me up in a taxi.’
‘Thought I’d get ready at yours.’
Breaking away, she holds me at arm’s length, looking me up and down. ‘You okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say on a laugh, glimpsing over my shoulder, finding no trace of Price. But it doesn’t ease me. He must have followed me here. Am I being watched?
‘You sure?’
I return my attention to Lucy, slapping a huge smile on my face. ‘So sure.’ I link arms with her, getting us on our way, forcing myself not to scan the street for Price.
‘How’s Mr Magnificent?’ she asks.
‘He’s magnificent.’
‘Officially moved in?’
I frown to myself, feeling Lucy’s hard, teasing stare on my profile. That’s not been discussed, I’m just there. Home. That’s what he asked. When will I be home? We step into the road and weave around the back of a few stationary cars. ‘Are you missing me?’ I ask, throwing her a sideways grin.
‘Yes, actually,’ she grumbles. ‘How is it going?’
‘I love him so much.’ I blurt out of nowhere, and she pulls me to a stop, looking at me like I’m a nutter. I don’t know why I felt the need to say that. Maybe my hidden stress after my encounter with Price has got me analysing exactly what the hell I’m doing.
‘I know you do,’ she says softly, almost sympathetically. ‘But do you trust him?’ It’s a sensible question that any good friend would ask. Especially since we’re talking about Becker Hunt – the modern-day Casanova. A man who has never been committed to anyone. Hell, a man who can’t even say the word without developing a nervous twitch. A man who’s never surrendered his heart and has never accepted another’s. A man who’s had more women than Ivana Trump has shoes. A man who . . .
‘Yes.’ My answer is sure and assertive. Others would probably think I’m fucking crazy. But I do trust him, and that reason is actually very simple. Becker trusts me. It’s evident in all of his actions, the things he’s shared, the way he looks at me. He trusts me with his secrets, but most significantly, he trusts me with his heart. It’s fragile. He’s given me a rare and precious gift. I’m keeping it, I’ll protect it, and I’ll love it like I’ve never loved anything before. Fiercely. Passionately. For ever. ‘With my life,’ I tag on the end, to wipe any element of doubt from Lucy’s mind.
‘Wow. Should I buy a hat?’
‘Jesus, no.’ I laugh nervously on behalf of Becker. If commitment makes him twitchy, I expect marriage would have him spontaneously combust.
‘I can’t believe a word you say. I remember quite clearly you calling Mr Magnificent, aka your new boyfriend, a tosser, a wanker, a twat—’
‘He’s still all of those things.’ I nudge her in the side. ‘And it just makes me love him more.’
‘And does he love you?’
‘Oh, he loves me,’ I say, smiling. ‘More than his treasure, which means I’m worth fucking millions.’
Lucy chuckles as we descend the steps of the Tube station. ‘Come on. Let’s get ready and drink wine. I need to get you when I can, since he’s taking you away from me.’
‘He’s not taking me away from anything.’ I say, reclaiming my arm and holding on to the handrail. That’s not true. He’s taking me away from my conscience and my senses.
I glance at my apartment door momentarily while Lucy finds her keys. I feel no sentimental pull towards my little home. I feel nothing. I thought perhaps my lack of missing it was simply because of all the distractions at The Haven. I was wrong. I never want to step foot in there again. I shudder as Lucy pushes her door open, and I get my phone from my bag. ‘I need to call Becker,’ I say, dialling as she heads straight to the bathroom.
‘To check in?’ she calls over her shoulder, sarcasm tinging the edges of her question. No, I’m calling to pick his brain on Price.
‘So, she’s alive,’ he says when he answers as I drop to the couch. ‘How’s your arse?’
His question prompts me to wriggle a little, instantly feeling the burn. ‘Sore.’
‘Good.’
Lucy’s head pops out from behind the door. ‘What’s sore?’
I wave a hand dismissively at her and return to Becker, hearing the sound of a sweet laugh from down the line. And it wasn’t Becker’s sweet chuckle. It was a woman’s. ‘Where are you?’
‘At this exact moment in time?’
‘Yes, at this exact moment in time,’ I press, listening carefully for any more background noise.
‘Well.’ He coughs. ‘At this exact moment in time, I have a lady’s hand resting on my inside thig
h.’
I’m standing fast. ‘Whose hand?’
‘Henrietta.’
‘Who the hell is Henrietta?’
He laughs lightly. I don’t know why. Let me tell him that a man has his hand on my inside thigh. See how he reacts. ‘She’s my seamstress, princess, and currently measuring my inside thigh.’
Mental images of Becker’s sturdy, thick, strong thighs invade my mind. And a woman holding a tape measure there. ‘I might learn how to sew.’
He laughs, a heavy, full-on burst of amusement. ‘I only have thighs for you.’
‘Oh, you’re hilarious,’ I breathe, but on the inside I’m laughing along with him. ‘I hope you have your trousers on.’
‘Actually, it’s very hard to measure a thigh with too much material in the way.’
‘Is that what she tells you?’ I ask, sitting back down and relaxing a little with our playful banter.
‘Thanks, Hen,’ Becker says, and then I hear the sound of footsteps, followed by a closing door. ‘You’re jealous.’ There’s laughter in his tone, and definitely satisfaction.
‘Yes, I am.’ I openly admit, no shame or holding back. ‘I want to be touching those thighs right now.’
‘But you need girl time,’ he reminds me, cocky as can be.
I roll my eyes to myself. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Seems you also need some Becker time.’
Now I’m full-on scowling down the line. I’m not playing his game. ‘I had plenty of Becker time yesterday in the showing room. And last night. And this morning.’ I shift on the sofa, getting a cool, hard reminder of what Becker time entails.
‘Don’t pretend you wouldn’t bend over for me if I was there,’ he says with totally warranted confidence. ‘Have a good night, princess.’
‘Wait!’ I blurt out. I’ve been so caught up in his playful banter, I’ve totally forgotten why I called him in the first place. ‘Someone from the NCA stopped me outside Lucy’s office.’
I don’t like the lengthy silence that follows.
‘Becker?’
‘Who?’ He’s not happy.
‘Price. Stan Price.’ I give him his answer without delay. ‘Showed me a picture of a woman. Asked me if I recognise her.’