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Dedication
For Loui. My writing time isn’t the same without you curled up by my desk.
Contents
Dedication
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Credits
Also by Jodi Ellen Malpas
Copyright
Chapter 1
Where do I go from here?
Amid the crazy that has tangled my mind and twisted my aching heart, it’s the loudest question of all. My forehead rests on the window of the train and my eyes watch blankly as the blackness races past and the consistent rocking sways me into a numb haze. Run home. It’s what my instinct is telling me to do. Because for the first time since I left my small village, centring my attention on a past that I’ve fought hard to leave behind seems so much easier than trying to make sense of what is happening now.
My eyes close and the darkness I find opens the floodgates, visions of Becker and memories I don’t want to have steaming forward. His face, so handsome yet angelic, his smile so wicked, his passion so addictive. And the feelings he unearthed in me, all unexpected but all thrilling. He found me. And then he lost me. He filled me with hope and drive, and then he cruelly ripped it away. He’s ruined me.
Because if I don’t win this battle, Eleanor, I’ll feel like I’ve thrown away the chance of something fucking incredible.
My eyes open. Something incredible. It was. We were incredible. And that makes me hate him all the more for stealing back the gift he gave me. The gift of life.
I took you to Countryscape because I wanted you to see what no one else sees.
My swallow is lumpy, my heart in agony. I saw him. I saw what he doesn’t want anyone else to see. He let me in. Becker didn’t only expose his desperation to find the lost sculpture, his sweet con-artist skills or his crooked business dealings, he exposed his weaknesses. His vulnerabilities. His secrets. His pain.
It was a potent mix that when all combined made me fall head over heels for him. And loving him made every wicked facet of him acceptable.
Trust me, Eleanor. Please, you need to trust me.
‘But you scared me,’ I say to myself, like he might be able to hear me from London. I thought I had figured out who Becker Hunt was. All of it shocking, but more so thrilling. And then . . .
My hand goes to my wrist and rubs, feeling his harsh hold pinning me to the floor. I close my eyes and see his balaclava-covered face. I hear myself begging for my life.
Please don’t hurt me.
He told me he would try not to break my heart. He didn’t say he would try not to break me. He never warned me that by being involved with him, I could be in danger.
I dived in feet first. I knew the risks. His reputation as a modern-day Casanova didn’t scare me away. His ruthless con-artist skills didn’t have me bolting like they should have. I felt too alive. Too drawn, too deep. I was blinded by his bold, fearless approach to life and business.
And now I’m more lost than the piece of treasure he so desperately needs to find. And just like the sculpture, I hope he never finds me. I reach up to my chest and try to massage the hurt away, knowing deep down that if Becker wants to find something, he’ll find it.
The brakes of the train kick in, screeching and jolting me from my whirling thoughts, and I glance up as the darkness ends and the grimy platform of a station appears. The thought of moving, of talking some life into my muscles, brings on another level of despondency. Because moving requires energy, and I feel drained dry.
On a sigh, I disembark with the rest of the passengers. I tell myself that daughters naturally run to their mum when they’re in a crisis, no matter what their age or what the crisis. I hate that I’m in a crisis, and I hate that it feels like such a mammoth one. It’s time to go home.
The taxi drops me off at the ATM, and I withdraw some cash to pay the driver, deciding to brave the short walk down the road to our house. I could do with the time to psych myself up, come to terms with the fact that I’m back here, and think about what I might say to my mother. How will I explain why I’ve abandoned my new, exhilarating, happy life in London?
It’s quiet, the streetlamps still glowing in the dark winter morning, as I stroll leisurely down the high street, mindlessly slowing to a stop when I reach my father’s shop. I look up at the sign that says ‘FOR SALE’, and my heart breaks that little bit more.
I let myself in and breathe in that old, damp smell. It’s comforting. Something familiar in a world I don’t recognise.
Nothing has changed. Every single piece of old furniture is exactly where it was the last time I was here. There’s hardly any floor space to move, and no trace of walls in between the masses of clocks and paintings hanging from the bare brick. I slowly turn until my eyes fall to the bench where Dad used to sit for hours working on his treasure. ‘What are we going to do with all this junk, Dad?’ I ask the silence, shuffling through the dusty furniture.
I bend and blow a small puff of air over the surface of a reproduction Victorian sideboard, creating a plume of particles that bursts into the air. The tiny fragments get up my nose, and I sneeze as I hurry to the back room to find some tissue, but the noise of a handle shifting pulls my searching to a stop.
The shop door handle.
I whirl around fast. The sun hasn’t even risen yet, and no one could possibly know I’m back home. News travels fast in Helston, but not that fast.
‘Eleanor?’ The voice sounds distant and grainy, but I’d know it anywhere. My despondency vanishes, and in its place . . .
Anxiety.
He’s standing by the door, looking across the room at me. And he’s smiling. Smiling?
‘Brent.’ There’s no denying the shock in my voice, even if it’s tinged with fury. My muscles come to life, straightening my back and holding me up without the need for support from the worktop behind me. ‘What are you doing here?’
He shuts the door softly, keeping his eyes on me, letting them roam up and down my body. ‘I thought I should check up on you after your incident with Hunt.’
‘Excuse me?’ He’s just turned up in my hometown, hundreds of miles away from London, and he knows there’s been an incident? How?
‘You looked distressed when you ran away. I was worried.’
I back up some
more, my wariness intensifying. He saw me run away? ‘You were there?’ I mumble mindlessly, trying to bully my mind back into something close to straight. Impossible. There are too many things tangling it, and now this? I’ve been nothing but a pawn in Brent’s and Becker’s exploits. A naïve, stupid idiot who underestimated their rivalry and the seriousness of the game they’re playing.
‘What on earth caused you to be so upset?’ he asks, ignoring my question. ‘What did he do to you?’
I hold my tongue, suddenly hyper-alert. He’s digging. Why? Is he suspicious of the fake sculpture that Becker tricked him into paying a stupid fifty million for? I don’t know, and I shouldn’t care either. I can’t get involved. I don’t want to get involved. I’ve implicated myself enough already. ‘How did you get in?’
Brent holds up my keys before placing them on a nearby sideboard. I left them in the lock? ‘You knew of his reputation, Eleanor.’
That statement doesn’t make me wilt like it should. It makes me angry. ‘You should leave,’ I declare, sounding sure of that. I am. I trust him about as much as I trust Becker. Not at all.
‘I think we can help each other,’ he says, coming at me, making me back up. Help each other? I’m not even going to ask. ‘Becker Hunt can’t be trusted. We should be looking out for each other.’
‘I want nothing to do with him or you.’ Unease starts to make my voice wavier in its sureness, and that alone makes me angrier. ‘Get out.’
Brent suddenly stops, his eyes widening as he looks past me. It takes a few confused seconds to realise why.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Chapter 2
‘You fucking snake,’ Becker snarls, tackling Brent from the side and sending him crashing into the nearby wall with a gruff bawl.
My stomach flips.
‘You fucking underhanded wanker.’ He has his hand around Brent’s throat to keep him in place, his body quaking with fury, constantly lifting and slamming Brent against the bricks. ‘I fucking told you.’ He hoists him up and swings him around, shoving him up against another wall, knocking pictures everywhere. ‘I told you to stay away from her.’
Every muscle in my body ceases to function, and I remain like a statue, watching Becker go bananas all over Brent’s surprised arse. My eyes could bleed. My mind could explode.
Brent wrestles Becker off and shoves him away, shrugging his suit jacket back into place while he snarls, ‘So you can get your lying claws back into her?’ He swings a fist quickly and cracks Becker on the jaw, sending him staggering back a few paces. My hands come to my mouth, but my gasp can’t be contained.
Becker quickly gathers himself and dives at Brent’s midriff, tackling him to the ground and straddling his torso. He lands an ear-piercing, precisely delivered punch to his face, splitting his lip. ‘I’ll blind you so you can’t even fucking look at her.’
The loud clout and Becker’s savage promise shocks me to life, brings me back into the shop where two arseholes are rolling around on the floor, wrestling, grunting and throwing punches all over the place. They’ve already bulldozed my life; I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them bulldoze my dad’s shop, too.
‘Stop!’ I shout, finding my feet and flying across the shop. I grab the first thing I can lay my hands on, Brent’s jacket, and dig my fingers in, getting the best grip I can. Then I heave with all my might, shouting as I do.
I’m not sure what happens next. One minute, I’m playing tug of war with Brent’s suit, shouting and screaming like an unhinged madwoman, and the next my feet have been swiped from beneath me, sending me crashing to the floor. I cry out as my head ricochets off the dusty wood, tossing stars into my hazy vision. I’m forced to close my eyes to stop the room from spinning.
‘Eleanor.’ Shaky hands cup my cheeks, and my eyes flutter open, trying to turn ten Beckers into one. My face is being stroked, my arm, my leg, my hair, while I try to blink my vision clear. ‘Take your time, princess,’ he murmurs, lifting me to cradle me in his lap. ‘Shhhh.’ The familiar sound is softer than his usual sexy shush, more soothing and loving. It prompts too many memories of when he’s unleashed it on me before. It makes me panic inside, makes me want to push him away before he infiltrates my defences. But I’m not incapable of doing anything while I’m dizzy. I’m mumbling nonsensical words to the air, words that make perfect sense in my head.
Leave me alone. Get away from me. Fuck off, you lying, deceitful, wicked arsehole.
Then his angel eyes appear, those gorgeous, deceiving hazel orbs, gazing down at me, pouring with remorse and guilt. The green flecks are dull. He looks tired.
I snap my eyes closed, hiding from him. It’s all too much. I’m being attacked from every direction by his energy, and I refuse to fall victim to it again. I start trying to remove myself from his clutches, trying to escape. ‘Get away from me.’
He fights with me, winning with ease and pulling me back to where he wants me. ‘Eleanor, please, you’re hurt.’
‘She doesn’t want your help.’ Brent’s sneer breaks into our little scuffle, and I mistakenly relax, giving Becker the opportunity to lock his arms tightly around me.
‘She’s confused,’ he says quietly and unsure, like he so desperately wants to believe that himself.
I might have had the ability to move taken away from me, but my mind is still working perfectly well, and I know I’m not at all confused. Becker is a dishonest arsehole. Fact.
Becker’s chest begins to throb. ‘You have what you wanted. You have the sculpture. You don’t get Eleanor, too.’
Brent has the sculpture. A fake sculpture. The reminder aligns my perspective totally. Brent isn’t here for any other reason than to try and win me over? It would be another score for him over Becker. I’m still a fucking pawn.
‘And you get her?’ Brent asks, clearly interested.
‘Get out, Wilson, or so help me God, they’ll be carting you out in a body bag.’
Brent sniffs and hovers in my field of vision for a few moments, while Becker continues to bristle and twitch, his jerky movements being absorbed by my head and shoulders. I don’t doubt for a moment that he’ll attack. The fury consuming Becker is growing by the second, dripping from his maniac stare, drizzling from every pore. He believes this man’s family is connected to his father’s death. That time on our way to Countryscape when I foolishly asked about his parents gave me a hint of the anger residing deeply inside Becker Hunt, but it was nothing compared to what I’m witnessing now. The roguish, supercilious womaniser has another side. A deadly side. Memories of the joker, the wind-up merchant, the playful, egotistical man that had me falling for him are fading fast.
‘Stay. Away.’ Becker says each word through his clenched jaw. ‘I’m done. You’ve got the sculpture. You win. Your family has taken too much from me already, Wilson. I’ll die before you take Eleanor, too. Now get the fuck out.’
My internal alarm bells are screaming, demanding I spring to life and slap Becker’s face for his nerve. His statement stands for shit because I know that damn fucking sculpture is still out there, and Becker still wants it. I start to squirm, trying to free myself from his hold. Nothing will cooperate. My limbs are tingling with lack of feeling, making my movements clumsy and uncoordinated.
‘Get off me.’ The harsh demand fights its way past my thick tongue and dry lips, my arm breaking free and swinging behind me, catching him on the shoulder. I push myself away from him, but I only make it a few feet, dragging myself to a fake Queen Anne cabinet and using it to pull myself up. The feel of Becker’s determined eyes boring into me as I put as much distance between us as I physically can only increases my fear. He’s not going to make this easy. Neither is my stupid hurting heart. And that adds a drop of anger to the fear.
‘Get out,’ I seethe. ‘Both of you get out!’
‘You’re smart, Eleanor,’ Brent rasps, a dash of victory in his ton
e. ‘Don’t let Becker Hunt make you stupid.’ The door to the shop opens and closes softly.
Brent’s gone, but I don’t relax because Becker remains slumped on the floor a few feet away, staring at me. ‘Go,’ I demand.
‘Eleanor, please, let me explain,’ he begs. ‘You weren’t supposed to be at your apartment.’
‘That doesn’t make it okay!’ I yell. ‘Why the hell would you break in?’ It doesn’t make any sense.
‘I needed to know who broke in the day we were at Countryscape. I was looking for clues. Anything to tell me who it was.’
‘I would have let you in. I would have given you my key.’
‘I didn’t want you to know.’
‘Know what?’
He looks at me, a million woes in his eyes. ‘That you’re in danger.’
I recoil, stunned. ‘What?’
‘Your employment at the Hunt Corporation caused a stir in the industry, princess. You know that. You know how corrupt this business is, and people will do anything to get information. I’ve pulled you into my world; I’ve put you in the middle of it all.’ Regret pours from every word. It’s hard to see. Hard to hear. ‘When we left Countryscape and found your apartment broken into, I knew I’d made a mistake by getting close to you.’ His jaw clenches as he stands, taking one measured step towards me. ‘But I didn’t want to let you go. And I still don’t.’
‘It’s too late.’ I look away. My father was right. The high-end world of antiques and art isn’t worth the hassle. It isn’t worth risking your life for.
‘Don’t push me away, Eleanor.’ He reaches for my arm, and I whip it out of his reach, trembling with fear. It’s definitely fear. Problem is, I don’t know if I’m frightened by what Becker has told me and the potential danger, or if I’m afraid of what he can do to me, how he can make me feel, how he blankets my wretchedness with a happiness that blinds me. ‘Don’t ever come near me again.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Becker retorts quietly, heightening my fear and confirming exactly what it is I’m frightened of. Him. I’m frightened by how easily he carries me into his fascinating world. How easily I accept him. I’m frightened by how easy it would be to crumble and give into him, to let him take me in his arms, to let him apologise for frightening me, to let him swallow me up in his smiles and cheek. To return to The Haven, the place I love most in the world, and bathe in the bliss and serenity it offers me. To fall under Becker’s spell again.