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Her stunned eyes drop to it, then swing to me. ‘What?’
I smile, nervous as shit, damning Becker to hell. I should be the one to tell my best friend, not him. ‘I haven’t had the chance to mention it.’
‘Oh my fucking God,’ she blurts out, seizing my hand from Becker and having a good inspection of my ring. ‘Is it real?’
I snort, forcing back my laugh, and Becker huffs his disgust as he pushes himself up from the table on stupidly taut arms. He leans over to the worktop nearby and collects something before throwing it on the table before us. My eyes follow its path and expand in surprise when I register what it is. Lucy’s bag. He got it back? ‘I have your phone, purse and keys in my office, princess,’ he tells me before turning and striding out, leaving Lucy still gawping at my ring and me gazing at the map on his back. ‘You can go home now, Lucy,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘I want my fiancée back.’
‘She was my friend before she was your fiancée,’ she shouts, getting all possessive as she drops my hand.
Becker stops, his hand poised on the kitchen door handle. ‘Do you give her good-fucking-mornings, -afternoons, -evenings, and -nights?’
‘What?’ Lucy throws me an inquisitive look, which I refuse to acknowledge, before returning her attention to my cheeky, bold man.
‘Trust me, you don’t.’ The door closes and Lucy swings to face me, catching the grin on my face. ‘He’s a magnificent cock, that’s what he is. I can’t believe you’re marrying him. What the hell, Eleanor?’
I shrug. ‘I love him.’
She shakes her head in wonder. ‘But it’s so soon.’
I can’t possibly be defensive. It’s very soon, but . . . ‘I guess when you know, you know.’
‘And you know?’
‘Oh, trust me, I know.’ I know everything.
She seems to take a deep breath. ‘Then I’m happy for you.’
‘Thank you.’ For the first time, I wonder what my mother will make of this. I’ll tell her when I go home. I need to be face-to-face. Or should I call her?
I point to Lucy’s bag. ‘You should call Mark.’
She cringes. ‘Would you want to speak to me if you were Mark?’
I stand and brush myself down. ‘If I loved you, then yes.’ I head towards the door.
‘Hey, Eleanor,’ Lucy calls, pulling me to a stop. I turn, prompting her to go on. ‘Is it me, or did Becker make an uncanny amount of threats to spank your arse last night?’
‘Um . . .’ Fuck, what do I say to that? Yes? Yes, he has a fetish for slapping my arse stupid? God, I hope that’s all she heard. ‘You must have been dreaming.’ I turn quickly . . . and walk right into Mrs Potts.
‘Morning,’ she says.
‘Morning,’ I sing, moving to the side to let her into the kitchen. But she doesn’t shift, so I sweep my arm out in gesture for her, polite as can be. She hums thoughtfully, looking down at my hand. My left hand. Oh boy. I wait for her to speak, fidgeting nervously. She eventually lifts her eyes to mine. Smiling eyes. She knows. Gramps must have told her. She winks, happy, wobbling past me, clocking Lucy at the kitchen table. ‘And who have we here?’
‘This is my friend.’ I rush to enlighten her. ‘Lucy. She got locked out last night so Becker said she could stay here.’
Mrs Potts raises her nose in the air, eyeing Lucy, who has wilted under the old dragon’s glare. ‘You look like you’ve been in a scrap with a tank of gloop. Would you like breakfast? Tea?’
‘I’m gagging for a cuppa.’
Her phone rings, and Lucy’s face drops.
‘Answer,’ I prompt.
‘What should I say?’ she asks, glancing down at her bag. I see every muscle in her tiny frame tense.
‘He’s calling, which means he wants to talk.’
‘Right.’ She dives on her bag like it might run away if she doesn’t seize it quickly, and after grappling clumsily for a few seconds, she pulls out her phone. Then stares at the screen, her face twisting. ‘It’s my mum.’ She stabs at the reject button and tosses it down. ‘I can’t be doing with her now.’
‘Rather uncharitable of you, dear.’ Mrs Potts says scornfully, and I look across to find her lips pursed in disapproval.
‘She’ll just nag me about going home to see them.’
‘And why don’t you?’
‘Because I’ll be forced to muck out at five in the morning. I’ve been in London for over two months and I can still smell horse shit embedded in my skin.’ She raises her arm to her nose and sniffs on a grimace.
‘Oh, you lived in the country? How lovely.’ Mrs Potts wobbles over with her tray of teacups. ‘I lived in the countryside when I was a girl. Where do you come from, dear?’
I open the door again and make my exit, leaving Lucy and Mrs Potts chatting. The smooth fabric of my knickers rubs my tender arse as I wander the corridor to Becker’s office. But I still smile.
Pushing my way in, I find him with his phone at his ear. He looks frustrated, his fingers slipping under his glasses and rubbing into his sockets. ‘I’ll pay whatever they want, just don’t let that car go to auction.’
My jaw tightens when I quickly get the gist of the conversation. The vintage Ferrari that he wants and which Brent Wilson also wants. Becker’s potent aggravation tells me the call isn’t going well.
‘There are strings you can pull, Simon. You just won’t.’
I hear Simon Timms’s insulted gasp from over here and watch as Becker removes his fingers, revealing rolling eyes. Brent getting that car will put him in a bad, bad mood.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time a lot is pulled at the eleventh hour. I’ll double my offer.’ He shifts in his chair, making the coiled muscles of his bare chest ripple sinfully. I quickly look away. He won’t appreciate my admiration right now. ‘Is this because I didn’t pull strings for you on Head of a Faun?’ Becker questions with a slight curl of his lip. ‘Are you holding a childish grudge, Simon?’ He narrows his eyes on his desk, listening. ‘Fine. Doesn’t look like I have a choice but to bid. I’ll be there.’ He slams the phone down aggressively and throws his arms into the air. ‘Dickhead.’ Anger sizzles in the air around us. He isn’t happy.
‘Okay?’ I ask stupidly, taking a seat.
‘Super.’ He quickly dials someone else and takes his phone to his ear again. ‘Percy, back to Plan B,’ he says simply, before hanging up. ‘Why do people insist on making things complicated?’ He looks at me like I should know exactly what he’s talking about. ‘I haven’t got time for this.’
I throw him a blank look, hoping he’ll catch it and enlighten me. He doesn’t. He scribbles something down on a pad, and I find my neck craning in an attempt to catch what he’s writing.
‘What’s Plan B?’ I ask, too curious.
‘Plan B is the plan that will guarantee I get the car.’
‘And Plan A isn’t?’
‘Always have a backup. That’s the first rule in this world. How’s Lucy?’
I rest back in my chair. ‘Chatting with Mrs Potts.’
He looks past me, seeming to fall into a bit of a trance. He’s here, but he’s not here, something clearly playing on his mind.
‘Becker?’ I ask. He’s distracted. ‘Everything all right?’
‘It will be.’ He gets up from his chair and rounds his desk, my eyes following him suspiciously until he’s looming over me, his chest in my face. I force myself to disregard it and find his eyes in an attempt to decipher him. He’s crowding me, and his vacant expression has been replaced with a mild grin. ‘What are you doing today?’
I shrug. ‘I have plenty on my list of things to do. Anything you want to add?’
‘I have a meeting with the Countess of Finsbury at three,’ he tells me. ‘She wants to see the Rembrandt.’
‘Ooh, the countess. Sounds important.’
&nbs
p; ‘She is. Get the showing room ready.’ He moves in and slams his lips on mine. ‘I’m going to buy myself a car.’ Biting my bottom lip, he pulls away slowly, dragging my flesh through his teeth. ‘I’ll be back for three. If I’m running late, you’ll have to start without me and make small talk.’
‘What small talk can I make with a countess?’
‘She’s fond of me. I’m sure you’ll find some common ground.’
‘What?’ I blurt out, horrified. Fond of him? I’ll be the last person she’ll want to make small talk with. ‘How fond?’
The widening of his smile tells me, and I breathe out my exasperation.
‘Fine. I just won’t mention who I am beyond my professional title, else she might not buy the painting.’
He winks cheekily and slides his hand into my hair, giving it a little possessive yank. ‘Do you drive?’
‘Yes,’ I answer quickly, but avoid mentioning that I’ve not been behind a wheel since I left home.
‘Good. You can borrow a car to take Lucy home. Any except the Ferrari, and I’m taking Gloria.’
‘You trust me with one of your cars?’
He looks regretful all of a sudden. And a little worried. ‘Why, are you a bad driver?’
His expression, coupled with a sudden comprehension of something, makes me worry, too. Namely, Becker’s hi-tech garage. ‘My driving is perfect. It’s your fancy garage that concerns me.’
‘You’ll be fine. Just line the wing mirrors up with the hydraulic bars at the front.’ He dismisses my concern in a heartbeat.
‘The key cabinet,’ I point out hastily. ‘It opens with eye recognition. Your eye.’
‘The override code is 72468232537.’ He reels the number off, making my eyes widen further with each digit he says.
‘Say what now?’
‘I’ll text it to you. Make sure you delete it once you’ve memorised it.’ He hands me my phone, keys and purse. ‘It’s a good job I was tracking your phone, huh?’
‘Remove it,’ I say, looking up at him. ‘Now.’ I thrust my mobile towards him, my face serious.
‘I’ll do it when I’m back, I promise. I’m already late.’ He slams his lips on mine. ‘See you later, princess.’ He saunters out, tensing and flexing his back muscles as he goes.
I scowl, and once I’ve had my fill of his tattoo, my eyes automatically drop to his butt. His butt is safer. It doesn’t make my mind go to dangerous places, only filthy places. ‘Good luck at the auction,’ I say quietly.
‘I don’t need luck. Trust me. And stop looking at my arse,’ he tosses over his shoulder.
‘It’s my arse now,’ I throw back.
Chapter 24
I found Lucy still looking bedraggled in the kitchen, having been caught up in conversation with Mrs Potts.
It’s only when we’re on our way to the garage and I finally open Becker’s text that I’m reminded of something that perhaps should have occurred to me before bringing Lucy down here. The message contains the code, as Becker promised, but it also has a note tagged on the end.
72468232537. Don’t take Lucy into the garage. Have her wait on the street for you and drive round. She isn’t in my circle of trust x
‘Shit,’ I curse, coming to a halt.
Lucy walks into me, knocking me forward. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ I turn her back around and usher her down the corridor. ‘We need to go this way.’
‘This place is like a fucking maze,’ she grumbles, letting me guide her back through. I laugh my agreement and let us into the Grand Hall, taking the lead so I can weave her through all of the stock. ‘Eww, it stinks in here.’
I look over my shoulder and find her pinching her nose. ‘That smell is thousands of years’ worth of history.’
‘Looks like a load of junk to me.’
I shake my head in dismay. ‘This way,’ I call, hiding my secret smile when I clock the huge cabinet that I scaled this morning in order to reach my target and devour him. Then I look down at my ring finger, my smile widening. I’m getting married. And I’m marrying a con artist. Or ex-con artist. Whatever. He’s corrupt, which basically means I am now, too.
‘Now this is pretty,’ Lucy declares as I let us into the courtyard. ‘This I could work with.’
‘Come on,’ I push, jogging across the cobbles.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Down here.’ I indicate the alleyway as I breach the opening.
‘Are you serious?’ she asks, with every scrap of caution she should. I remember my reaction to the dark hole the first time I found myself in it. ‘I can’t see a fucking thing.’
I reach back and feel for her hand, finding it on the brick wall.
‘Arghhhhhh!’ She screams and retracts. ‘What is that?’
‘It’s me, you idiot,’ I laugh. ‘Give me your hand.’
‘It’s creepy.’
I tug her on, knowing the exact moment the lights will activate. ‘There,’ I say, dropping her hand and pressing the button that’ll release the door at the end. I look back to find her palms over her eyes. ‘Follow the alley to the end and let yourself out onto the street. I’ll drive round and get you.’ I dash off, back down the alley towards the courtyard.
‘What?’ she screeches, the contained sound piercing my eardrums. ‘Eleanor!’
‘The lights will go off soon. Hurry up!’ I leave her behind, hearing constant echoed curses and yelps.
I’m out of breath by the time I’ve made it back to the garage. Hurrying over to the key cabinet, I open Becker’s message and start tapping in the override code, my hits of the keys slowing when I begin to fathom the significance of the long string of numbers. On the final digit, the door releases, but rather than rushing to open it and grab some keys, I study the keypad instead, mentally going through the sequence of numbers in my head again. Except this time I don’t need to look at the message that Becker sent me. I simply spell something out across the keys.
SAINT BECKER
I smile at the cupboard as I slip my phone into my bag, opening the door. I’m immediately torn. Keys. Loads of keys, and I don’t know which ones to take. ‘You’ll do.’ I reach in and grab the set for the Audi.
Shutting the cupboard, I head for the silver RS7, pressing a button on the fob. The lights blink, the locks release, and I jump in and get comfy in the sport seat, looking for the adjustor, my hands feeling around the front before locating a button on the side. I begin to inch closer to the wheel. ‘Perfect,’ I declare, starting the engine. I swear, the thing purrs beautifully, and my bunched fists come to my mouth, my teeth sinking into my knuckles. I’m nervous and excited all at once. I can feel the power humming beneath me already, and I haven’t even moved yet. I need to take it easy. I bet this thing goes like shit off a shovel. Pulling the sun visor down, I locate the familiar white button and press it, then watch as a section of the ceiling starts to lower before me. I slot the gearstick into drive and feel to my side for the handbrake . . . and find nothing. So I glance down. No sign of a handbrake. ‘Where are you?’ I mutter, looking around the car for anything resembling one. I growl my frustration and grab my phone, dialling Becker.
He answers on a hushed whisper. ‘You’ve not scratched one of my cars, have you?’
‘I can’t scratch it if I can’t drive it. Where’s the handbrake?’ I ask impatiently as the hydraulic lift comes to rest on the garage floor.
‘What car are you in?’
‘The Audi.’
‘Good choice, princess. There’s a little lever by the gearstick with a red light. Press it.’
I click my phone to loud speaker, dropping it to my lap before releasing the handbrake and gripping the steering wheel with both hands. Then I lightly apply some pressure to the accelerator.
And fly forward.
‘Fuck.’ I sl
am the brakes on and come to a screeching halt, the front wheels on the ramp. ‘Whoa,’ I breathe, pushing myself back in my seat, my arms braced against the steering wheel.
‘What did you do?’ Becker sounds panicked. ‘Take it easy.’
‘I am.’
‘Tease the pedal, princess. Don’t slam your foot down.’
‘I didn’t slam my foot down.’
‘Eleanor, I haven’t got time to give you a driving lesson. I’m trying to buy myself a new fucking car.’
‘I don’t need a driving lesson,’ I spit indignantly, teasing my foot on the pedal and inching forwards carefully. ‘I can drive perfectly well, thank you.’ I sound haughty. I shouldn’t be. The second I finish speaking, the ear-splitting sound of scratching metal fills the garage. My ears practically bleed, and though I know I need to be braking, I can’t. My foot has seized up, making the shrill noise carry on forever. It’s cutting right through me, my face screwing up in dread.
‘Eleanor!’ Becker yells, shocking the muscles in my foot to life. I slam on the brakes and come to an abrupt halt. After I’ve calmed my rushed breathing, I press the button for the window and stick my head out the second the gap is big enough.
Oh fuck.
‘Eleanor?’
‘Yes?’ I squeak, trying to sound totally normal, like I’m not staring in horror at a jagged scratch down the side of one of Becker’s precious cars.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing.’ I disconnect the call and release a barrage of expletives. ‘Fucking hell.’ I reverse and straighten up, ignoring the further raw sound of a matching scratch. ‘Stupid garage. Why can’t you have a normal one, you holier-than-thou twat?’ I jolt to a halt when the wing mirrors are lined up, then jab the white button aggressively as I take my foot from the pedal and listen as the lift comes to life, the hydraulic bars shifting and starting to carry me up to the opening in the ceiling. ‘He’s going to go—’ I stop jabbering to myself when I notice the hydraulic bars beginning to move off-line from the wing mirrors, and I frown, looking back. ‘Oh fuck,’ I whisper when I realise it’s not the bars moving. It’s the car. ‘Oh my God.’ I panic, slamming my foot down on the brake. ‘Shit!’ I’m not in position any more, which means the back of the Audi is probably going to be sliced off at any moment. I should never have agreed to this. I whack the car into gear and try my hardest to be gentle on the accelerator, which is hard when you’re working under pressure. I only need to move forwards a couple of feet. Just a couple. I watch the wing mirrors like a hawk, and just when they are a foot or so away from being lined up again, another deafening sound penetrates the air, except this time it’s metal on concrete. The lift judders a little, but still continues on its journey, scraping up the back of the car as it goes. I sag in my seat, exhausted after my trauma as the derelict factory comes into view. He needn’t think I’m going through that again when I get back. I’ll park it up here and Becker can get it down himself, and if he wants anything left of his car, then he won’t complain about it.