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‘Yes, I have.’ He slips an arm around my waist and captures me, hauling me back. ‘Today, I ripped off Brent Wilson for over a hundred million.’ He finishes his calm announcement with a light kiss to my ear.
I exhale from relief. At least, I think it’s relief. Because I’m not overthinking. My imagination isn’t running away with me. But is Becker telling me because he’s been caught red-handed? He doesn’t sound proud or pleased or smug. He sounds almost indifferent. It’s just another score for Becker against Brent, but I’m beginning to wonder where the gratification can be found if Brent isn’t aware that he’s been wronged. Where’s the satisfaction in that? But I should have expected this the moment the O’Keeffe went missing. Becker was never going to let that lie. But where does it end?
Becker lifts me a little and attaches his lips to my neck. The apprehension has vanished and the familiar want and lust is back full-force. He’s feeling uneasy, knowing Brent has been sniffing around again, trying to turn me against him. He doesn’t need to worry. I’m his and, apparently, no amount of crimes will change that. Will he ever pull a stunt that will be morally too much for me to handle? My compassion for Becker’s history is helping me empathise and accept his crimes. And now I understand that his need to keep the upper hand over Brent will be fierce since he vowed to abandon the search for the lost sculpture. Becker needs to get his revenge one way or another. This is one way – ripping off Brent repeatedly – and Brent’s not helping matters by countering his attacks. The other is resuming the search and finding Head of a Faun, and after what I’ve learned about his parents’ deaths, I should never allow that. Never. So I’m compromising. I’d rather keep Becker and accept that he’s going to con Brent for the rest of our lives together rather than lose him to a myth. ‘How?’ I ask.
‘The original has been switched with a pukka replica.’
I remain calm. He blows my mind in more ways than one. Carving sculptures, switching cars. ‘Is that what you’ve been up to all day?’
‘Yes.’
‘So Brent’s paid millions for a replica?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s the original?’
He spins me around and grabs my cheeks, grinning. ‘In our garage.’
I scowl at him. ‘You promised me no more games.’
‘He only wanted it because I wanted it, princess. And now he thinks he has it.’
I can’t argue with the truth. Damn Brent for goading Becker. ‘He’s bound to find out.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe when he sells it.’
He rolls his eyes. I don’t know why. It’s a perfectly reasonable worry. ‘He’ll never sell anything that he knows I want. That’s his satisfaction. Mine is looking at that car in my garage every day knowing he thinks he has it.’ He winks cheekily, and I shake my head, done for the day. That’s self-satisfaction at its best.
‘Am I to assume that your granddad can’t know about this?’ I ask flatly. His look of worry gives me my answer, and I sigh heavily. ‘I can’t believe I’ve let you drag me into your corrupt world.’
His finger meets my lips. ‘You love my corrupt world.’ He gives my arse a solid squeeze. ‘I’ll show you just how corrupt I am in bed tonight.’ Replacing his finger with hard lips, he kisses me passionately, deeply, and meaningfully, swallowing me up until he eventually slows to a stop and nips my lip playfully. ‘Thirty-five million, eh?’
‘It makes me feel better about the three million on my finger.’
He laughs and kisses my head as he leads us back into the showing room and collects the painting with his spare hand. ‘How awful was she?’
‘Which one?’
‘Alexa.’ He spits out her name like a bad taste.
‘Very awful. She insists her aunt only wants to deal with you in future, not your skivvy.’
‘I bet she does. Anyway, let’s get back to your other accomplishment today.’ He looks down at my frowning face as I sprint through my day. Other accomplishment? ‘My mangled Audi.’ His lips straighten. ‘It was quite a welcome-home surprise when I pulled up in the factory.’
‘Ah.’ I raise a finger, my indication that I’m about to give him a perfectly reasonable explanation for trashing his car. ‘I knew you’d be bringing a new woman home, so I wanted to make space in your garage.’
He laughs loudly, making me feel so much better. ‘You’ll be punished.’
‘How?’ Why I’m asking is beyond me. We all know what my punishment will be.
‘You’ll wash Gloria in your underwear every Sunday for a year,’ he declares, smiling in approval. I’m surprised. No arse-slapping? ‘And I’ll spank your arse occasionally while I watch,’ he adds, glimpsing down at me.
‘You’re a dirty-minded arse.’
‘And soon to be your dirty-minded husband.’ He collects my left hand and kisses his grandmother’s ring, and for reasons beyond me, everything weighing my mind down lifts.
I settle into his side. ‘Do you really think your gramps will be okay?’
‘He’s a tough old boot.’ We enter the Grand Hall, and Becker props the painting up in the corner before reclaiming me and getting us on our way again. ‘Happens now and then.’
‘We were only chatting,’ I explain, letting Becker lead us into the kitchen. He releases me and heads to the fridge like a homing pigeon in search of his apples. ‘It was all very sudden. One minute we were talking and the next he was all white and shaky. And you should get him a new walking stick.’ I hate to think what would happen if the knob came off while he was using it. He could take a tumble.
Becker turns around from the fridge with an apple halfway to his mouth. ‘Why? He’s rather attached to that one.’
‘There’s a piece loose.’ I wander over to the kettle I abandoned earlier and take it to the stove. ‘I tried to fix it, but the stubborn old boot insisted it was okay.’ I notice Mrs Potts has left the oven on, so I quickly turn off the dial and then face Becker. I find him staring at the floor, quiet and still.
‘Becker?’
He snaps out of his trance and gives me round eyes. ‘Tell me what was said.’
I withdraw, shaking my head a little. ‘What about?’
‘His stick.’
‘His stick?’
He throws his apple aside and stalks over to me, taking the tops of my arms. ‘Yes, the stick. Tell me.’
I pull myself free, backing away, seriously disliking his disposition. ‘What’s gotten into you?’
He sighs, dragging in a calming breath. ‘I’m sorry. But, please, try to remember what was said.’ He comes close and pulls me in for a hug, stroking the back of my head comfortingly.
I close my eyes and rack my brain, quickly finding what I’m looking for, and what Becker really wants, though I’m totally perplexed as to why. ‘He knocked it over and was prepared to break a bone rather than let me pick it up for him.’
‘And there’s a piece loose?’
‘Yes. The gold knob on the end.’ Seriously, it’s not that big of a deal. ‘Is it a priceless family heirloom or something?’ He seems quite upset at the notion of a broken walking stick.
Becker stills against me for a few moments before pulling away, looking at me vacantly. He’s thinking, but I haven’t the foggiest idea what about. I can only stand here, becoming increasingly impatient as I wait for enlightenment. I’m about to repeat my previous question, when his eyes spring up to mine, wide and questioning.
‘Becker?’ I say warily, watching as he starts to march doggedly around the room.
He halts and presses the balls of his hands into his forehead, his back rolling from his deep breaths. ‘I can’t believe I haven’t realised before.’
‘What?’ I’m getting mad now, wanting information faster than Becker is willing to give it.
He strides out of the kitchen and
I’m in hot pursuit before I’ve asked myself where he’s going.
Following him down the corridor, I note the tension making his back muscles protrude beneath his shirt, and his hand goes through his hair more than once, ruffling up his brown waves. He’s on a mission, and I haven’t got a clue what that mission is. He passes the library, the staircase to his quarters, his office, and eventually reaches his granddad’s suite.
He takes the handle and pushes his way into the room. I fear the worst. Old Mr H wasn’t in a good way. A confrontation with Becker – whatever Becker’s reason – could cause undue stress. I need to stop him. I hurry forward and catch Becker’s arm, trying to pull him back, but I get shaken off. I peek past him and see Mr H lying in his bed, Mrs Potts sitting next to him in an old fashioned, high-backed winged armchair. She looks up at us hovering at the doorway.
‘How is he?’ Becker whispers, surprising me. Everything suggested he was ready to go on a rant.
‘Resting,’ Mrs Potts frowns, and I see the question in her eyes. It’s probably matching mine. ‘Best to leave him,’ she says diplomatically, like she senses Becker has plans to do otherwise.
He ignores her and wanders quietly to his bedside. ‘Gramps,’ Becker says quietly.
Mrs Potts is up from her chair quickly, circling the bed. ‘Becker boy, I think it’s best we let him rest.’ I admire her valour, but nothing is getting Becker out of this room until he’s done whatever he needs to do . . . which is what?
He places a hand over his granddad’s frail, wrinkled one, and rubs a little. ‘Gramps, don’t pretend to be asleep.’
‘He’s not pretending, Becker.’ Mrs Potts swats his hand away, but he shrugs her off, determined, and moves in closer to his granddad, whose eyes are lightly closed, his breathing steady.
‘Gramps, I’m not going until you open your eyes.’
‘Becker boy, what’s gotten into you?’ Mrs Potts starts trying to pull him away, and for reasons unbeknown to me, I hurry over and take her arm, nodding at her reassuringly when she turns shocked eyes onto me.
Becker thanks me by reaching back and taking my arm, squeezing gently. The small gesture nearly breaks my heart. Whatever he’s doing, I have every faith that it’s necessary. That he’s confident he’s not putting his granddad in any danger.
Becker releases my arm and leans down, getting his face close to old Mr H’s. ‘Tell me, Gramps. Tell me why you had a funny turn.’
I hold my breath, and Mrs Potts looks at me, clearly confused.
My heart nearly stops when Mr H’s eyelids start to flutter. He’s not asleep. He can hear every word. His eyes open, revealing glassy orbs that zoom straight in on his grandson. I hold my breath, and I can tell by the rise of Becker’s shoulders that he’s holding his, too.
‘Fine,’ the old man rasps, staring into Becker’s eyes. ‘I’ll tell you, Becker boy.’
I find myself backing up, wary of the old man’s haunted eyes.
His nostrils flare.
He flicks his eyes to me.
And he takes a deep breath before he speaks.
‘Your wife-to-be just found the missing piece of the map.’
Chapter 29
Life stands still for a minute, my pulse whooshing in my ears.
Becker recoils, and Mrs Potts staggers back, taking me with her. I’m in no position to catch her, leaving her scrambling for a nearby cabinet for support.
‘What?’ Becker asks on a whisper, pure wonder in his question. Mr H struggles to nod as he looks away, like he can’t face the evident fascination sparking from his grandson.
I’m held rapt by what’s unfolding before me, unable to voice my shock. I haven’t found anything. What’s he talking about? I haven’t a bloody clue where the missing part of the map is.
I hear Mrs Potts catch a breath. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ she whispers.
Becker approaches his grandfather, who looks older and frailer than I’ve seen him before. ‘Your walking stick.’
Mr H refuses to look at Becker, and my gaze shifts quickly, back and forth between the men, mesmerised by what I’m hearing. The stick? My mind is in a tangle, struggling to keep up. I reach for Mrs Potts, who takes my arm to steady me, moving in quickly when I wobble from the rush of blood to my head. Becker catches my stagger and rushes over to relieve Mrs Potts. ‘I don’t know where it is,’ I blabber mindlessly. This is absurd.
‘No,’ Mr H grunts. ‘You don’t know, not technically, but you’ve unwittingly found it.’
I blink back the fog from my glazed eyes and find Becker staring at his granddad, shocked, confused . . . excited. ‘You’ve had it all this time? How could you?’
‘Why would I encourage you, Becker boy? After everything? Your mother, gone. Your father, gone.’ He’s getting distressed again, and I fold on the inside, especially now I know how Gramps and Becker lost their family. ‘I live with that guilt every damn day. I should have destroyed that blasted map when I had the chance. All of it.’
I hold my breath. I’ll always worry that Becker won’t be able to let it go of his need to find that sculpture. That he won’t be able to resist the temptation. He can say he’s capable of walking away until he’s blue in the face, but I don’t know if I can believe him. Especially if he knows where the sculpture can be found. The ultimate vengeance would be finding it, something his grandfather and father failed to do. This is personal. Becker wants peace. He can rip Brent Wilson off day after day for the rest of his life, but that’s a consolation prize. His only true peace will come from fulfilling his life’s ambition. What he sees as his calling. Which is finding the sculpture and avenging his parents’ deaths. Finding what he’s been searching for.
Frighteningly, in this moment of madness, I realise that now. And I positively hate myself for being curious and intrigued by the story. I hate that I’ve wondered if and where the sculpture can be found. I hate that I’ve got a thrill each time I’ve thought about it. And I hate that I’ve slowly and silently come to understand Becker’s obsession. But now, the potential of really losing him to that myth is all too real. Because the map can be completed.
‘When your father posted the map back to you,’ the old man says, ‘I intercepted it.’ He gives Becker cautious eyes. ‘I knew he’d found the missing piece, and I didn’t want you to have it.’
‘So you took it?’ Becker asks on a choke of air.
‘So I took it,’ his grandfather confirms.
‘All this time you know I’ve been searching for it, and you had it?’
‘You weren’t supposed to be searching for it,’ Gramps bellows, his back lifting off the bed with the effort. ‘You promised me you wouldn’t.’
‘Where’s your stick?’ Becker starts scanning the room, as do I, searching for the old man’s walking aid. It’s been here at The Haven the whole time. The missing piece of the map has been right under Becker’s nose, hidden in his grandfather’s walking stick. But it isn’t under his nose now. Now, old Mr H’s trusty walking stick is nowhere to be seen.
‘Don’t tell him.’ My demand comes out of nowhere, and Becker shoots a shocked look my way.
‘What?’ Becker asks, his eyes widening by the second.
My mind instantly straightening out, the gravity of my situation hitting me hard, I say what I mean. ‘I don’t want you to know where it is.’
‘Eleanor—’
‘No,’ I warn, feeling my jaw tightening. ‘No, Becker.’
‘I need to know,’ he grates, realisation replacing his shock – realisation that I’ll fight him on this. I’ll fight him with everything I have. I’ve accepted so much, but not this. No way. There’s a reason his grandfather has kept the missing piece of the map from Becker, and I’m with him. All the thrill, all the excitement, it’s gone. I will not stand back and watch him follow in his father’s footsteps.
‘No,’ I repeat.
‘It doesn’t mean I want to find the sculpture.’ He’s lying. I know he’s lying.
‘Medusa, give me strength!’ Old Mr H yells. ‘You expect me to believe that passion and urge in you goes away just like that? That need for vengeance deep, deep inside you, boy, will never be gone, no matter how hard you try, and no matter how much time you dedicate to our business. Having a woman on your arm hasn’t quenched your thirst for adventure. It hasn’t chased away the thrill of danger, so don’t you dare try to convince me otherwise.’
I drift off into my own world, wondering if the deep-seated urge Becker’s fighting will ever go away. The adventurer and daredevil are inbuilt into the Hunt men. It’s part of their DNA. Maybe it will be a constant battle and worry. Maybe those desires in him will fade over time. Who knows? Nothing is certain.
‘I love her,’ Becker says as he looks at me, his eyes glazed and confused. ‘I love her more than the sculpture, Gramps. I’m more obsessed with her than I am about finding that lump of marble.’ His jaw is going wild, ticking madly. ‘I just need to know for my own sanity. To put it to rest.’
Old Mr Hunt huffs disbelievingly. I can’t help feeling insulted, yet the reasonable side of me points out that he has every reason not to believe Becker. And it has me wondering . . . did the old man confess the whereabouts of the missing piece as a test? To see if Becker would choose me or the sculpture? The thought stings. I was completely unaware that I’d found the missing piece. Mr H could have easily passed off his funny turn as something else. Or could he? Becker knew immediately there was something amiss. Seems my saint is a little more on the ball than I am. But then again, he’s a Hunt man. They’re exceptional at so much, including sleuthing. ‘So you won’t look for it any more?’ Mr H asks outright, his expression daring Becker to lie.
‘No.’ Becker shakes his head adamantly.
Old Mr H glances over to me, and I shake my head mildly, silently begging him not to tell Becker where his stick is, or what he knows is on that missing piece of the map.