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‘The plan?’
‘Yes, you must have a plan. What time are we heading out?’
‘We?’
‘I guess we should wait until it’s dark.’ I take my toothbrush to my mouth and start scrubbing. ‘What should I wear?’ I garble.
‘What should you wear?’ he mimics, shutting off the shower and grabbing a towel. ‘Something comfortable.’
I spit and rinse. ‘Right.’
‘Be ready in twenty minutes.’ He passes me, his hard body glistening wet. My hold of my toothbrush tightens, and I clench my teeth, my brain reminding me that he’s working. I mustn’t distract him.
I hurry through to the bedroom and rummage through my case for something suitable to wear, feeling a strange whirling in my tummy. Nerves, I think. Or is it excitement? I start to breathe deeply to keep my heartbeat steady. I don’t want to display any signs of anxiousness to Becker. He’ll refuse to take me. But I don’t feel anxious. My hands falter as I pull on a roll-neck jumper, my mind assessing my frame of mind. Yes, my heart is thumping a little, and my stomach is twisting, but I don’t feel apprehensive.
It really is excitement. I shake my head in wonder, grabbing my jeans from the bed, but something catches my eye. Becker’s bag. Or something in his bag. What the hell? I inch forward, my eyes jumping from his back at the window to his bag on the bed. And I frown, reaching forward and plucking out the item of my interest and staring at it for a few moments. Then I cast my suspicious eyes across the room to Becker’s back.
He moves, and I quickly stuff my find in the pocket of my jeans.
I’m taking no chances. Covering all my bases.
I’m ignoring the guilt creeping up on me for doubting him. But if I’ve learned anything during my time in Becker’s corrupt world, it’s to be prepared. It’s crazy. I’m never prepared for him. But this time . . .?
‘Okay?’ he asks, looking back at me.
‘Great.’ I smile and make my way over as he returns his attention to the desk before him. He’s dressed now, wearing some old worn jeans, his brown leather boots and a black T-shirt, and he’s leaning over the desk by the window, hands braced on the sides. He looking down at the map, which is spread across the wood. I approach him quietly and stare down at the old piece of paper. It’s not just his part of the map, though. The missing piece that Mr H had hidden in his walking stick all this time is resting where it should be, filling the hole that’s been present for years. It’s glowing, like it’s happy to have been reunited with the rest of the map. And a handwritten note is set to the side. The deciphered code. ‘How did you figure it out?’ I ask.
Becker breathes out heavily. ‘These numbers here on the missing piece.’ He runs his delicate finger across the ancient paper. ‘Gramps thought it was a code. It isn’t.’
‘Then what?’
‘Coordinates, but they’ve been manipulated to look like a complex code. This map isn’t as old as I thought.’
‘How old did you think it was?’
‘Older than seventeenth century when coordinates were invented,’ he muses, his finger stopping over Rome. ‘There are eight columns on the face of the porch of the Pantheon, and if I’ve calculated it correctly, these coordinates indicate between the fourth and fifth columns, about six metres back.’
My astonishment is obvious in my small draw of breath. ‘That’s quite accurate.’
‘Almost too accurate,’ he muses, straightening. ‘But I guess I’ll find out soon enough if it’s a dead end.’ He glances across to me. ‘Ready?’
That feeling inside of me – the one I’ve concluded was excitement – has just soared. I nod and he smiles, taking my hand and pulling me into his chest. I could shout my happiness. He’s not mad with me any more. Cupping my cheeks, he flicks a frown up to my wig before he brings our mouths together, and all of the lust I’ve managed to keep at bay steams forward. ‘I’m still mad with you,’ he breathes, sealing our lips and kissing me softly as he takes my jeans from my hand and tosses them on the bed.
I don’t reply, rounding his shoulders with my arms. That was the most unconvincing I’m mad with you that I’ve ever heard. He lets out a deep growl, rolling his tongue, exploring my mouth carefully as he walks me back.
‘We can spare a few minutes,’ he says, taking me down to the bed and smothering me. ‘Just a few minutes.’
I grin to myself, accepting and delighted, feeling him taking my arms and pushing them to the headboard. ‘Hmm,’ I hum, lacing my fingers with his and squeezing. His kiss is deep and soft, his body heavy atop of mine. It feels so good. So right. As ever, I’m lost in my corrupt fiancé and his corrupt world.
‘Sorry, princess.’ He lifts and I hear the clanging of metal, my wrists suddenly trapped above my head.
‘What?’ I look up and see a pair of handcuffs securing me to the bed. ‘No!’ I wriggle and the metal cuts into my wrists harshly. ‘Becker!’ I feel the mattress move and shoot my eyes down to find him standing at the foot of the bed. ‘What are you doing?’ I shout incredulously.
‘Leaving you here where I know you’re safe, that’s what.’ He stalks across the room and hauls up a backpack from the floor, grabbing the map.
‘Becker, you can’t.’ I wrestle with my restraints, flipping and twisting on the mattress.
‘I fucking can,’ he says on a laugh, throwing the bag over his shoulder and making his way over to me. ‘Did you really think I’d take you with me?’
‘Yes!’ I shout. ‘This isn’t fair!’
He reaches for my hair and pulls off my wig, tossing it on the chair in the corner on a disgusted look. ‘That’s better.’
‘Becker.’
‘I love you.’
‘Fuck off!’
He smiles at me, his look, annoyingly, rampant with love. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’ He stalks to the door and swings it open, looking over his shoulder at me. ‘And just so you know, I’m going to spank you stupid when I’m back.’ The door slams and he’s gone.
‘Becker!’ I hiss and spit all over the bed, throwing my body up violently for a few long, pointless minutes until I’m out of breath and my muscles ache. ‘You bastard!’ I scream. My anger is potent, my body buzzing with fury as I lay on the bed, restrained, with only my wild imagination to keep me company. I hate him. Hate him! I take a few moments to calm myself down. Now I don’t feel guilty for doubting him. My instinct didn’t let me down.
I start inching my body down the bed as far as I can and gripping my jeans between my feet. I have to virtually bend my body in two to get them above my head, but I manage. It takes some serious patience and time, but I eventually position my pocket by my hand. And, with a smug smile, I pull out the little silver key that I found in his bag.
Fuck you, Becker Hunt.
Chapter 41
It seems that was the easy part. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here wrestling on the bed to get the right angle. A few minutes? A few hours? Every tiny noise I hear beyond the door has my heart beating faster as I hiss in pain, the metal of the cuffs cutting into my flesh. What if Brent’s in Rome? What if he finds Becker? My thoughts are spiralling, my anger fast converting into worry. What if I never see him again? Annoying tears of frustration start to pinch the backs of my eyes, hindering my task. It’s getting the better of me.
I try to force my strung muscles to relax, my neck aching terribly, straining to see what I’m doing. ‘Goddamn it,’ I yell, stretching that little bit more, my muscles screaming. But then a noise from outside freezes me, and I hear a lock click. My eyes land on the door just as it moves a fraction, pushed open a little way. Oh, thank God. My veins drain of apprehension. He’s back.
Yet when the door opens the rest of the way, I find I’m not looking at Becker at all. ‘Brent?’ I gasp.
He stands at the threshold of the room, looking at me shackled to the bed, his face
a picture of perplexity. ‘Eleanor?’ he questions, taking in my cuffed hands.
Fuck. What now? My mind starts to sprint, but it doesn’t give me a clue of what to say. What I do know, though, is that he can’t make me talk. I won’t say a thing. And I’ve quickly looped into the fact that if Brent is here, he isn’t tailing Becker’s arse.
‘Where’s Becker?’ he asks, approaching the bed.
I slam my head back down to the pillow defiantly. ‘Fuck off, Brent.’
He chuckles, and it’s cold. ‘Your sass. I love it.’
I want to close my eyes, but that would be stupid. I need to keep my eye on him. Jesus Christ, I’m helpless.
‘Where is he?’
I find myself laughing. It’s as sarcastic as a laugh can be. I refuse to let him see me scared. ‘Call yourself a treasure hunter?’ I goad, landing him with a wicked smile. ‘You’re here, and Becker . . . is not.’
‘Don’t test me, Eleanor.’
‘Why? You gonna kill me, too?’
His hand comes up and feels my hair, and it takes everything I have not to cower or flinch. Everything not to vomit. I have no idea where my valour is coming from, but I’m just letting it flow, my hatred for this man unstoppable. ‘Get your filthy hands off me.’
He sighs, releasing my hair, and reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. ‘I did warn you,’ he says, pulling out his phone as I hide my frown. He presents me with his screen, and there is a photograph of Becker. Kissing a woman. A woman with glossy, straight black hair to her shoulders. ‘He met her on the piazza for coffee earlier.’
My round eyes remain fixed on the picture, my mind a jumble. I try to encourage some tears of despair to come. Holy fucking shit, where’s that wig? I peek up to the chair in the corner where Becker threw it, seeing it hanging off the arm.
‘I knew he’d hurt you, Eleanor. I did try to tell you.’ He stands and tucks his phone away. ‘He’s always been a womaniser. You owe him nothing. Now, where is he?’
I blink repeatedly, plotting my next move while Brent smiles down at me, like he’s just divulged the world’s biggest secret. He looks smug. Satisfied. I want to smash his stupid face in. How long can I keep him here? I conclude very quickly that it won’t be for long.
I rest my head back down and look at the ceiling.
‘Where is he?’
I remain quiet, not blessing him with my eyes.
‘Eleanor.’ His tone is warning, and I completely ignore it. Then there’s silence for a few moments, and I hear him sigh, the mattress dipping. I have absolutely no idea what happens next. I’m moving without thinking, my knee coming up and cracking Brent in the nose. ‘Fuck!’ he chokes, flying back with his palm over his face, blood spurting out the sides. I look up, praying for a miracle, wrestling with my shaky hands. ‘Come on,’ I whisper, seeing the tip of the key a mere millimetre away from the lock. I growl, having a quick check on Brent, finding him slumped on the floor looking a bit dazed. He looks up at me. And a veil of evil falls. Shit. I return my attention to the headboard and pull harder on the cuffs, hissing, seeing a trickle of blood roll down my forearm.
The key slips into the hole, and one last twist of my wrist releases the lock. I gasp, feeling the blood rush back into my arms.
‘You little—’
My leg shoots out, my foot connecting with Brent’s jaw, and he yelps, flopping to the bed. I grab his arm, yanking it to the bedframe, my fingers working fast, adrenalin pumping.
I cuff him to the bed.
‘Fuck!’ he yells.
I jump up quickly and brush my hair out of my face, my pulse racing. When I find his outraged eyes, I step back, a little dazed, a lot scared. How the hell did I manage that?
‘Eleanor!’ he barks, bucking off the bed, his body twisting as he hisses from the friction of the metal on his wrists. ‘He can’t be trusted. I’ve just proved that, you stupid woman.’
I grab my jeans and yank them on before shoving my feet in my trainers and claiming the wig from the chair. Brent’s face straightens momentarily while his mind plays catch-up. Then his eyes bug. ‘You?’
I throw it at him. ‘You’re the criminal, Wilson. You’re the deceitful one who can’t be trusted.’ I make my way to the door. ‘Get comfortable. You could be there a while,’ I say, yanking the door open and slamming it behind me with brute force. I run like the wind out of the hotel.
The streets are quiet now, and a quick glance at my watch tells me why. It’s 2a.m. I look up to the dark sky. It’s started to rain, fat drops of water hitting me hard, as I sprint towards the Pantheon, adrenalin pumping. When I reach the Piazza della Rotonda, I skid to a stop, staring straight at the mammoth marble columns that line the porch. It’s dark, it’s quiet, and it’s so eerie. The glow from a few street lanterns illuminate the square a little, but the porch beyond the pillars of the ancient temple is cloaked in complete darkness.
The rain starts to come down harder, seeping into the threads of my sweater, my hair now sticking to my face. Shuddering, I tentatively walk forward, rounding the fountain, listening carefully, my eyes darting. There’s a constant, distant tapping sound that’s getting louder the closer I creep towards the church. But I can’t see a damn thing.
Then the tapping suddenly stops, and so do my steps. I’m as still as possible as I listen carefully, apprehension creeping up my legs into my torso. I start to tremble, my eyes darting. ‘Bec—’ My breath is stolen from me, a hand slapped over my mouth as I’m grabbed and hauled across the piazza.
‘You’re seriously pushing my fucking buttons, princess,’ he hisses in my ear, squeezing me to his body. Dumping me on my feet when he’s carried me onto the porch of the Pantheon, he grabs the tops of my arms and shakes me a little. ‘How the fuck did you get free?’
My vision clears and centres on his vexed expression. If I thought I’d seen mad, I was wrong. He looks borderline psychotic. But I’m not exactly pleased as punch myself. I square up to him, bold and full of fire. ‘I took the key to the cuffs out of your bag.’ I push into his shoulder. ‘Don’t think you can play me, Hunt.’ I present him with my wrists, showing him the angry, red welts. ‘This princess is determined.’
His eyes widen at the sight. ‘Eleanor, I’m—’
‘Shut up and do what you’ve got to do before Brent joins the party.’
‘What? Brent’s here? Where?’
‘He’s taken my position on the bed.’ I don’t mean to sound proud, but I kind of am.
His neck retracts on his shoulders. ‘Come again?’
‘He came to the hotel.’
His eyes are getting progressively wider. ‘What?’
‘He came to the hotel. Obviously looking for you, but he found me instead. Handcuffed to the fucking bed.’
His wide eyes are now worried. ‘Oh Jesus.’ He moves in, running worried hands all over my face and neck, scanning for signs of damage.
‘I’m fine.’ I shrug him off. ‘No thanks to you.’
He visibly relaxes but the anger returns. If we weren’t in such a hurry, I’d challenge him. ‘We’ll be discussing this later.’ My hand is taken, and I’m pulled further under the porch of the Pantheon.
‘Yes, we will,’ I agree, sounding as threatening as I meant. He should be worried.
Becker brings us to a stop more-or-less bang in the centre of the porch, and I see a few slabs already broken out and replaced. ‘Stay there and don’t breathe a word,’ he orders, dropping to his knees and collecting a hammer and chisel. He starts meticulously tapping away, being super careful as he does, and I watch, fascinated, as he gently brushes away the dirt he’s unearthing from the joints surrounding the stone.
‘Why don’t you just smash your way through?’ I ask, thinking time isn’t on his side.
‘Because, Eleanor,’ he pauses and glances up at me with tired, impatient eyes. ‘This is t
he fucking Pantheon. It’s been standing here for thousands of years. I already feel guilty for tampering with something so fucking ancient. Now shut up.’
I scowl to myself, slighted, and do as I’m bid, keeping quiet while he works his way around the circumference of the stone until all of the joint has been broken away. Casting aside his tools, he stands and collects a crow bar, wedging it beneath one side and standing on the end. It doesn’t budge. ‘Motherfucker,’ he puffs, applying constant, jarring thrusts of the bar until I definitely spot a slight movement. I gasp, but keep my shout of encouragement contained, watching as he continues to coax the slab free.
‘It’s coming,’ I whisper. ‘Just keep pushing.’
Stilling, Becker slowly turns a look on to me that suggests I should zip it. Immediately.
‘Sorry.’ I step back and return my attention to the stone as Becker stands on the end of the bar again, pushing all of his weight into it. The slab slowly creeps up at one end, and my hands shoot to my mouth to contain my rush of excited breath.
‘Get that hammer,’ Becker puffs. ‘And wedge it under.’
I do as I’m told, glad to help, sliding the hammer under the slab just in time. Becker’s boot slips off the bar and the slab drops onto the hammer. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and drops to his haunches, slipping his fingers under the stone and heaving it up. ‘Should have lifted more fucking weights,’ he says, grunting his way through his task.
‘You can do it,’ I encourage him, the gap between the ground and the top of the slab growing. ‘Just a bit more and flip it.’
‘Shut up, Eleanor,’ he grates, straightening his legs until he’s standing. Then on an almighty roar, he tosses the slab up and it crashes to the ground. And it breaks clean in two.
‘Oopsie,’ I blurt, moving back a little to give Becker room.
‘Fuck,’ he curses, kicking a foot out in temper and booting his hammer across the porch.
‘Well, your careful and considerate chipping away of the joints were a complete waste of valuable time,’ I say as I stare at the broken slab, feeling his fire glare on me. I peek up and smile sweetly. ‘What now?’