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‘Why?’
‘Because I’m a fucking legend and Wilson is not.’
‘You’re cocky.’
‘I’m Becker Hunt.’ He grins and takes my lips again. ‘And soon, you will be Eleanor Hunt.’ Growling a little, he pulls away and turns me, slapping my arse. ‘Go see Gramps before I bend you over and fuck you to the Vatican and back.’ I pout and he smirks as he takes the shampoo down from the shelf. ‘And then get ready for an all-nighter.’
Heat. So much heat. All night. Him all over me all night long.
I grab a towel and dry myself off before throwing on some clothes and making my way to Becker’s office, Winston on my heels. I can’t deny the relief I’m feeling. Becker’s home, the police have nothing on him, he’s set Price straight, old Mr H is okay, and he’s still talking to Becker. All the anxiety that was keeping me awake for the past day has drained away, making way to tiredness. I’m going to sleep for a week. Right after our all-nighter.
Pushing my way into Becker’s office, I find the old boy sitting at the huge desk, his face buried in a broadsheet. He looks over the top, his glasses resting on the end of his nose. ‘Here she is.’
‘Hey,’ I shut the door behind me and go join him, taking one of the leather chairs opposite. ‘You should be in bed,’ I admonish him. He looks surprisingly well, despite the few stitches on his forehead.
‘Don’t you start,’ he huffs, folding the paper neatly and placing it to the side. ‘I’ve had Dorothy in my ear all morning.’
‘You had a heart attack, Mr H. And a nasty blow to your head.’
He waves a hand flippantly. ‘How are you, lovely?’
‘Me?’ I question on a small laugh. ‘I’m fine.’ Couldn’t be better, in fact.
‘You’ve had quite the enlightenment.’ The old man’s lip quirks at the corner.
‘Oh, you mean the fact that I’ve recently found out that my fiancé comes from a long line of gentleman thieves?’ I match his mild grin.
‘You’ve taken it very well.’
‘Loving is accepting,’ I say simply, because it really is that simple.
‘The thirst for adventure.’ Old Mr Hunt says, smiling across the desk at me. ‘It never dies, you know. I still miss it.’
I nod my understanding, wondering if the old man is trying to tell me indirectly that I shouldn’t expect Becker to give it up for me. ‘Did your Mags worry about you?’ I ask, suddenly a little apprehensive. I’ve been so busy worrying, and now feeling relieved, I’ve not considered the fact that I might have a life with Becker, but it will be a life of constant fretting.
Old Mr H chuckles a little. ‘All the time,’ he says. I’m not sure if his confirmation is a consolation or not. ‘But she married me knowing what made me tick. She knew the deal.’
‘Are you telling me I shouldn’t ask Becker to give it up?’
He smiles. ‘I’m not telling you not to ask him.’
‘But you’re telling me not to expect him to?’
‘I guess so.’
Goddamn me, part of me, the compassionate part, desperately wants him to find that sculpture. Another part, the sensible part, is too scared he won’t come back. What is Becker thinking? What is he planning? Is he even planning? I hum, thinking Becker and I need to have a serious conversation. And I need to seriously consider what my limits are. What I can accept. What I can’t.
Mr H’s old, frail hand comes to rest on the solid wood of the double pedestal desk and slowly strokes it from side-to-side. ‘You recognised this the moment you saw it, didn’t you?’
My eyes drop to the dark surface on a smile. ‘Of course.’ We’ve been over this before. ‘It’s a stunning copy of the original Theodore Roosevelt.’
‘You’re almost right.’
My gaze shoots up. I’m almost right? No, I am right. ‘It’s identi . . .’ My words fade to nothing, and he smiles. The penny drops, and my eyes get progressively wider by the second as his hint explodes in my head. ‘It’s the real desk?’ I blurt, sticking myself to the back of my chair, putting distance between me and the double pedestal beauty. Like, stupidly, if I touch it I might implicate myself. How ridiculous. Because I’ve not implicated myself enough in all things Hunt related?
‘That it is,’ he confirms. ‘Beautiful, don’t you think?’
My mouth drops open and my eyes drop back to the desk. ‘Then what’s in the Oval Office of the White House?’
‘A stunning replica.’
‘Oh my days,’ I breathe. ‘How?’
Old Mr Hunt rests his hands on his stomach and sits back in his captain’s chair, his smile firmly in place. ‘I was in America in 1945. It was a total coincidence.’ He grins, and I shake my head in wonder. Yeah, I bet. ‘This little beauty was being kept in storage.’ He taps the top.
‘After the Oval Office fire on Christmas Eve 1929,’ I add, knowing the story well.
‘That’s right. Despite it being undamaged, Herbert Hoover used another desk that was donated by a furniture maker, and this poor thing got forgotten about.’ He shakes his head and sighs. ‘A travesty.’
‘So you decided to steal it?’
‘I was quite a handy crafter of wood.’
‘As opposed to Becker’s sculpting skills?’
He laughs. ‘Exactly.’
‘So you crafted a replica and . . .’
‘And I got myself a job at the haulage firm that was hired to transport the desk from storage back to the White House in 1945.’
I laugh. I can’t help it. The Hunt family are really quite something. ‘So Harry Truman and all of the succeeding presidents and vice presidents have been running America from a desk that you made?’
‘Sounds unbelievable, doesn’t it?’ He winks, and I’m laughing all over again. Actually, no. It doesn’t any more. Nothing I learn about this family shocks me like it should. I’m immune to shock. ‘Here, let me show you something.’ He beckons me over to his side of the desk as he pulls open the middle drawer. I wander round, still smiling. The spirit in the old man as he shares one of his many tales is a pleasure to see. It’s infectious. I come to a stop beside him and watch as he lifts all of the papers from the drawer. ‘You know of the tradition, don’t you?’
‘The tradition?’
‘Yes, the tradition that Harry Truman started at the end of his term in office.’ He dumps all the papers on the desk and looks up at me.
‘He signed the inside of the middle drawer,’ I tell him.
‘That’s right.’ He pushes himself back from the desk and indicates for me to look.
I move in and peek around all corners of the drawer. ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘Of course there isn’t.’ He chuckles. ‘I pinched this desk in 1945.’
‘And Truman started the tradition in 1951.’ I swing my disbelieving eyes to Mr H. ‘When he got voted out of office.’
‘Yes, which means . . .’
‘Every US president since then has signed your forged work,’ I finish quietly on a mild shake of my bewildered head, looking up at his delighted face.
‘Ironic, don’t you think?’
‘Unbelievable.’ Absolutely unbelievable.
‘And even more ironic is the fact that I, too, signed the desk before I switched it. Though in a slightly more discreet place. So it’s in fact me who started the tradition.’
‘Why would you sign it?’
He shrugs. ‘We Hunt men have terrible egos, Eleanor. You should know that by now.’ He reaches up and clucks my cheek on a wink, just as the door opens and Becker walks in on us chuckling together.
He looks fresh, suited and booted, and his hair still wet. Oh boy, my man is a show-stopper. Becker frowns as he cleans his glasses before slipping them on. ‘All right?’
‘Your gramps just told me the tale of this sturdy desk.’ I pat the top on
a cheeky smile, and Becker rolls his eyes as he wanders over, dropping a kiss on my cheek.
‘That’s his favourite story. Just humour him. It won’t be the first time he bores you with it.’
‘Cheeky sod!’ Old Mr H laughs, pushing himself up from his chair with too much effort. ‘You might have skydived off the Burj Khalifa, but you didn’t wander the corridors of the White House.’
Becker is over in a shot, helping him, and the old man doesn’t argue. ‘Careful.’
‘I’ll be scaling the side of a skyscraper again soon,’ he quips, turning to his grandson and giving him a sharp nod, staring into his eyes and taking his cheeks in his palms, getting his face close to Becker’s. ‘God’s speed, and all that nonsense.’
I could melt when Becker takes his grandfather in a fierce hug, holding onto him tightly as the old man pats at his back affectionately. It’s the first time I’ve seen them embrace like this, and the comfort it gives me surpasses heart-warming. ‘I love you, Gramps,’ Becker says quietly, kissing the old man’s head.
Emotion creeps up on me and wedges itself in my throat, my lips pressing together as I stand quietly to the side and let them have their moment.
‘Good lad,’ Mr H says, instigating their separation and getting on his way, raising a waving hand in the air as he goes. The door closes and I look to Becker, seeing him staring across his office, his face expressionless for a few moments before he glances across to me.
‘Come here,’ he orders quietly, opening his arms.
I walk straight into his body and let him hug me, getting a hint of how tightly he held his dear old gramps. ‘I’m so glad you’re home,’ I mumble into his chest, letting a happy warmth penetrate me bone deep.
‘Me too,’ he whispers, sighing. ‘I have somewhere I need to be.’ He detaches me from his body and homes in on my questioning face. ‘Therapy,’ he answers on a smile. ‘And I think it will be my last session.’
‘It will?’ I ask, surprised, though on the inside I’m all kinds of happy about that.
‘It definitely will.’ Dropping a gentle kiss on my forehead, he breathes in and lets all the air stream out slowly. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you, too, my sinful saint.’ I feel his lips stretch into a smile across my skin before he pulls me away and finds my happy eyes. He stares at me for the longest time, combing through my red hair with his fingers. Then he swallows and plants one last kiss on my lips. ‘See you later.’ He strides out, but slows at the door, looking back at me. ‘Never stop looking at my arse, princess.’
‘Never,’ I reply.
He flips me an endearing wink and leaves.
Chapter 39
After Becker left for his session with Dr Vass, I made a point of finding some work to do. It wasn’t difficult after I took a call from Bonhams who put me onto a lord in Devonshire who was interested in the Rembrandt that the countess bought and then decided, conveniently, that she had nowhere to hang it. I checked in with Lucy, who was still on cloud nine, before calling Mum, who was at the top of the London Eye. She was so damn excited when I suggested dinner tomorrow night.
After answering a few emails, I start to finish off some filing when Mrs Potts shoves her head around the door. The smell of something delicious wafts into the room. ‘I’ve made Mr H a roast chicken dinner for lunch, dear. Come, there’s plenty to go around.’
My tummy growls its excitement. ‘On my way,’ I confirm, dropping the files to the table. My appetite is back with a vengeance. ‘Is Becker back yet?’
‘Not yet, dear. Come along.’
The phone rings from behind me, pulling my hasty pace to a stop. ‘I’d better get that,’ I say. ‘I have a bite on the Rembrandt.’
‘Okay, dear. I’ll finish serving.’ She lets the door close, and I answer the phone. ‘The Hunt Corporation.’
‘Eleanor?’
I recognise Becker’s therapist’s voice immediately. ‘Hi Paula. How are you?’
‘I’m good, you?’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ I answer, but she probably knows this already after her session with Becker.
‘Good to hear. Is the cheeky maverick there? I have a question about a piece of art I want to buy through an online merchant, but his mobile’s going straight to voicemail.’
My back straightens. ‘He left hours ago to come see you.’ I don’t like the quickening of my pulse, nor the fact that my eyes have automatically drifted across the room to the bookshelf with the hidden compartment.
‘But we don’t have an . . .’ She drifts off, obviously realising that she’s dropped Becker in it. ‘Oh dear.’
I hang up without so much as a goodbye, my pulse now pounding. But I don’t try to call Becker to find out where the hell he is. Instead, I dash across the library and reach beneath the shelf, feeling for the catch that’ll get the secret compartment open. My fumbling fingers hamper my urgency, my curses coming thick and fast. Eventually, the bottom section releases and I waste no time reaching in and feeling for the leather-bound file. Pulling it out, I stare down at the embossed elephants for a few tense seconds before I pull the fastener and flip the book open, going straight to the back where I know the map to be. My pounding pulse ignites the moment I reach the last page and find what I feared I would.
‘You bastard,’ I whisper, staring down at the empty page. No map. Nothing. I don’t bother flicking through the remaining pages. It’ll be a waste of precious time. With my heart in my mouth, I zoom out of the library and race to the kitchen, falling through the door clumsily. Old Mr H and Mrs Potts look up at me from the table, both quite alarmed by my abrupt entrance.
I catch a breath and hit them with my discovery. ‘He’s gone,’ I blurt out, holding up the book. ‘His therapist just called to speak to him about something she wants to buy. He told me he was seeing her today, but she’s not seen him and the map’s gone.’ My panic is rising, the book shaking in my hands. ‘He’s gone to find the sculpture!’
Both of them stare at me, with not a hint of panic on their faces. ‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Potts says calmly, lowering the spoonful of carrots she’s holding over Mr H’s plate.
‘Oh dear?’ I mimic, recoiling. Just oh dear? That’s it? ‘Aren’t you wor—’ A flashback hits me – one from Becker’s office this morning. ‘God’s speed,’ I whisper, swinging my panicked face to Becker’s grandfather. Visions. Visions of him hugging Becker bombard my mind. The look he gave his grandson, the hug they shared. ‘You knew?’ I sound accusing, but I simply cannot help it. ‘You knew what he was going to do.’
Becker’s grandfather’s old shoulders drop with his eyes. ‘I knew,’ he confirms.
‘How could you?’ I fall back against the closed door. What’s changed? The old man has constantly expressed his demand for Becker to drop it. To quit with the search.
Gramps gets up from the table, prompting Mrs Potts to rush and assist. She holds onto his arm as he approaches me slowly. My glazed eyes meet his, my shakes getting the better of me. ‘Eleanor, dear, the moment I stepped into his secret room and saw that sketch of Head of a Faun, when I realised Becker forged that treasure, I knew he will never move on until he puts that ghost to rest. That sculpture is a ghost, dear girl. Becker boy needs to find peace, and that damn lost treasure is the only thing that’ll give him peace.’
‘But it might not even be there to be found,’ I point out desperately. ‘He could be putting himself at risk for nothing. Brent Wilson knows he has a fake. He knows Becker pushed the price up and forced him into buying it. Don’t you think he’ll be tailing Becker’s arse?’
He smiles. He actually smiles, and it’s beyond me why. This is awful. ‘Let it be,’ he placates me softly. ‘Let him do his thing. Let him find it and come home to us.’
‘He told me that I’m more important.’ My voice begins to quiver.
‘I’ve no doubt you are, Eleanor. No doubt at
all. But do you want to sleep with him every night and know his dreams are invaded by that sculpture? Because they will be, dear girl. Hades have mercy, I still dream of the damn thing myself.’
I withdraw, stunned by his confession. ‘You hate that sculpture,’ I mumble pathetically.
‘I hate that our obsession has hurt my family. It’s the cause of all the heartache, and now I feel like it’s the only thing to cure it. He can’t move on until he finds it, Eleanor. Which means you can’t either.’
I look down at his hand, where his stick has always been glued to him until recently. It’s back in his grasp, but I would put my money on the fact that it’s missing something. ‘You’ve given him your piece of the map, haven’t you?’
‘X marks the spot, dear girl.’
‘And where’s the spot? Where has he gone?’ I’m less scared now, more pissed off. The control I wanted is gone. I wanted to talk to him about this. I wanted us to agree on things, share things. He’s taken it all out of my control.
He smiles. ‘Rome.’
‘Rome?’ I blurt. ‘But Becker spent years there.’
‘As did I. But the Pantheon was never on my hit list, nor his father’s, and nor Becker’s.’
‘The Pantheon?’ I blink my surprise, wondering why on earth it would be hidden there. There’s no connection with Michelangelo. None at all.
‘Yes, the Pantheon. Beats me too, but that’s exactly where the code points to.’
‘The code?’
‘Yes, those damn numbers had me scratching my head for years.’
‘And Becker cracked it?’
‘Of course he cracked it. Within fifteen bleedin’ minutes. The boy’s a genius.’
I’m a genius. ‘And what if it isn’t there?’ I ask. God, what if it isn’t anywhere? I’ll have to live in fear for the rest of my life. I’ll panic every time Becker leaves The Haven.
‘I have a feeling in my bones, Eleanor.’ He winks.
‘So I have to just hang around and wait for word from him? A call to tell me he’s alive?’
‘Welcome to the Hunt family, dear girl.’ He turns and ambles back to the table, cool and calm as can be, while I remain by the door, stunned. ‘Come eat,’ he calls, settling down and letting Mrs Potts finish loading his plate.