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I recoil, keeping my phone at a safe distance while I let her rant settle. She sounds borderline psychotic, but I hold my tongue, keeping my thoughts to myself. ‘But Mark’s really into you,’ I point out the obvious with nothing better springing to mind, and anyway, my observation is valid. I’ve seen how he is with Lucy. She’s just being paranoid. ‘Talk to him. Tell him it’s bothering you.’
‘I’d rather talk to her,’ Lucy gripes. ‘With my fist.’
An unattractive snort of laughter shoots from my mouth and echoes around the corridor, and I quickly look from left to right, ensuring no one has come to investigate the noise. ‘I’ll meet you outside your office.’ She needs me. I can’t deny her a needed pep-talk, especially after all the moral support she’s given me over the weeks. ‘One o’clock?’
‘Thanks,’ she breathes, relieved.
‘See you soon.’ I hang up and stand up, ready to face Mrs Potts and Mr H, but my steps slow before I reach the kitchen until I’m at a standstill. Then I start backing away, my bravery deserting me. I need information. I need to know the score. I need to know what they know.
I turn and go to Becker’s office. We’ve covered significant emotional ground, but now it’s back to work. Now he’s my boss again – my arrogant, testing boss. The boss I just confessed my love to. The boss who just confessed his love to me. My nerves intensify while my eyes journey across the intricate carvings of the door, the Garden of Eden and that huge fucking apple glaring at me. Forbidden fruit. The devil.
Stabilising my breathing, I push my way into his office, finding his work space empty. Oh. So where is he? I wander in and decide to call him, rather than search every possible room in The Haven, but a noise from behind has me whirling around, surprised.
I find nothing, just the wall of ceiling high bookshelves. ‘What was that?’ Keeping still and quiet, I listen carefully as my eyes scan Becker’s palatial office. I’m not liking the goose bumps that have jumped onto my skin. Nor the increased beats of my heart.
Then I hear it again – something like a shifting of wood. It’s faint, but I still jump like a scared cat. My feet are in action before I can tell myself to be rational. If my senses want to get me away now, then I’m not going to argue with them. I zoom from Becker’s office and shut the door behind me, immediately dialling him. His silly little rule in the NDA – the one that states I must answer within five rings, better apply to him, too.
He answers in two. ‘Princess?’
‘Where are you?’ I ask, my jumpiness mixing with a bit of impatience. I sound plain wound up. Or spooked. Or both. Is this place haunted?
‘You okay?’ He’s obviously sensed it.
‘No, I think there’s . . .’ I drift off, quickly reasoning with myself. I think there’s what? A ghost in his office? He’ll think I’ve lost my mind. ‘Where are you?’ I breathe.
‘In my office,’ he states, nonchalant and calm, prompting a massive frown to wriggle its way onto my forehead.
‘What?’ I turn and come face to face with Eve and the gigantic apple again.
‘I’m in my office,’ he repeats, still super cool.
I turn the handle and push the door to his office open, remaining on the threshold, wary. ‘But I . . .’ My words fade to nothing, because, low and behold, there he is, sitting at his desk. What the hell?
Becker looks up at me, smiling coolly. He looks pristine, suited and booted. Deliciously sinful. My phone is still held limply in my grasp, hovering at my ear, whereas Becker has taken the initiative to disconnect the call.
‘You okay?’ he asks, taking his glasses from his face and cleaning the lenses.
I crane my neck so I can scan his office, rather than stepping inside. ‘Fine,’ I murmur mindlessly.
‘You coming in, or are you just gonna hover on the edge of my Garden of Eden?’ His silly joke doesn’t have the desired effect, my mind too puzzled, though an appropriate, very vivid image of Becker munching on a ripe, juicy apple does tickle the corners. Tossing it aside on this occasion is easy.
‘How long have you been in here?’ I ask, taking tentative steps as I let my phone drop from my ear.
‘Since I left you in bed.’ He watches me approaching him like he’s dangerous, a questioning look on his face. I can’t blame him; I must look super suspicious, but I’m not at liberty to feed his obvious curiosity because I haven’t a clue what’s just happened. I must be losing my mind. He wasn’t in here. I’m not asleep and dreaming, though I nearly pinch myself to check. So what the hell is going on?
When I arrive at Becker’s desk, he raises his eyebrows in prompt for me to enlighten him on my peculiar behaviour. ‘All right?’ he asks when it becomes obvious that I’m far from forthcoming. He slips his glasses back on, blinking a few rapid times as he does. His action draws my attention to something on his eyebrow, now half concealed by the thick frames of his glasses. I reach over his desk, and his eyes follow the path of my hand, until I press the tip of my index finger onto the edge of his well-defined brow.
‘You have something here,’ I say, wiping at the grey smudge. The smear is large, and it doesn’t disappear with one swipe of my finger.
Becker withdraws from my reach, his hand coming up and dusting away the remnants of . . . whatever it is. ‘Probably soap.’ He dismisses it easily, not even looking at what he’s wiped from his face, before taking his attention to something on his computer screen.
Silence falls. An awkward silence. I haven’t made it awkward. He has, by the way he’s blatantly feigning concentration on his screen. I start to chew on the inside of my lip as I unbend my body from over the desk, bringing my thumb to meet the tip of my index finger and rubbing what I’ve wiped from Becker’s brow between them. I try to be as casual as possible, glancing around the office as I do. Whatever I wiped away feels . . . dusty. Abrasive. Not soapy.
He’s being all shifty and it’s bothering me. ‘I don’t think it’s . . .’ Something catches my eye near the bookcase adjacent to Becker’s desk. I frown, tilting my head thoughtfully.
‘What?’ Becker asks. He doesn’t sound too cool and collected now. Now he sounds a little worried.
‘What’s that?’ I ask, making tracks towards what’s holding my attention on the bookcase. It’s a sliver of light running from top to bottom of the old wood, straight down the middle. It becomes more obvious the closer I get, the gap widening to about a centimetre. My feet speed up instinctively, but just as I engage my arm to reach for the protruding wood, Becker barges past me and lands in front of the bookcase, leaning back against the unit. The gap disappears, assisted by his weight pushing into it, and I pull back my outreached arm on a tiny gasp of alarm. The noise of the dislodged piece of bookcase locking into place is a similar sound to what I heard when I was alone in here a few minutes ago. Or, apparently, not alone.
‘That’s nothing,’ he spits out fast before slamming his lips together, a silent sign that he won’t be forced to say anything more on the matter. Is he fucking kidding me? I know my current facial expression pretty much spells that out for him. I must look like someone’s just told me that the government’s upping the age restriction on alcohol to sixty.
He glances away guiltily. He shouldn’t have. I’ve just spotted another speck of powder under his earlobe, but instead of telling him so, I simply reach forward and wipe it away again, this time holding my finger between us instead of dusting it off. His head doesn’t turn, but his eyes do. They fix to the tip of my finger and remain there until I decide he’s had enough time to look at the offending flicks of . . . whatever it is. What is it? I don’t know, but it’s adding to my boyfriend’s nervousness, and it’s rubbing off on me. There’s a room behind this towering bookcase, and I want to know what’s in there.
‘Open the door,’ I demand, jaw tight.
Becker looks as guilty as sin. Appropriate. He’s not going to budge. Fine.
/> I start to pull books out from the shelves, one after the other, waiting for one to click and release a secret door. I feel stupid, but how else will it open? This is how it’s done in the movies. One has to work.
‘Eleanor, stop.’ He grabs me and pulls me away.
‘Then open it.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he grumbles, positioning me to the side, his muttered curses coming thick and fast. Giving me a scowl of epic proportions, one that I return, probably fiercer, he reaches past a book and pulls. ‘Have it your way.’ Something clicks, and a whole section of shelving releases, creaking open a few inches.
I inhale, stepping back, as does Becker, giving me free access. I look at him, and his eyebrows raise, his arm swooping out in sarcastic gesture to go right ahead. I bite my lip and tentatively reach forward, taking the side of the wood and pulling it towards me. It’s heavy, but Becker doesn’t help me out, just stands to the side, watching me struggle. Arsehole. Does he think I’ll give up? Of course he doesn’t. Using my free hand, I haul the huge door open, the hinges creaking eerily.
My mouth falls open when the small room comes into view. Lumps of metal, wood and stone litter the space, as well as chisels and hammers of every shape and size. There are shelves, all packed full of sculptures, all different kinds – busts, animals and figurines. None of them are familiar, but they’re all amazingly well-carved pieces. And then I frown when I see a drawing of a sculpture that I recognise, the surface dusty, the edges curling. ‘Head of a Faun,’ I say to myself, tilting my head, reaching for the tatty piece of paper.
And then I gasp, retracting my hand like the sketch could have just burst into blazing flames before me. Thoughts, lots of them, rush around in my head. His con-move, Head of a Faun, the unidentified dirty mark I’ve just wiped from his face. The fact that my boyfriend is a sweet con artist.
And just like that, the obscenest thought of all starts to poke at the corner of my mind. It’s so crazy, it should be easy to push it aside, disregard it. It’s outlandish. Ridiculous. Yet I can’t shake the suspicious feeling, because many things about The Haven, the Hunt Corporation, and Becker Hunt are ridiculous. And now this hidden room? And these tools? And that picture of the long-lost sculpture?
I study the man before me closely, the poke on my mind becoming more of a vibration as I mentally revisit our time at Countryscape. How composed and prepared he was during the bidding of Head of a Faun. How he knew it was a fake.
Becker’s jaw clenches, his eyes locked on mine, unwavering. ‘Say it,’ he whispers demandingly, face straight. ‘Say it, princess.’
I’m transfixed by his depraved beauty. Someone so shady shouldn’t be this good-looking. It’s like a fucked-up kind of bait. A dangerous temptation. I’m getting mad just thinking about how damn alluring Becker Hunt is as my brain is trying to piece together what I’m about to ask and how I should position it. There’s no right way. However I ask, it won’t change the answer.
So I dive in feet first and ask my question. My ridiculous, outlandish question. ‘How good are you at sculpting?’ I immediately drag in air and store it, bracing myself.
He smiles, amused by my approach. ‘A fucking master,’ he replies clearly, no holding back, as plain and simple as that.
The fucked-up, corrupt world I’m in stops spinning.
Chapter 9
‘Oh my God.’ I reach for the bookcase, drinking in air, my heart going from nought to sixty in a second. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.’ My world might have stopped spinning, but my head is making up for it. I’m dizzy. I can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t form a coherent sentence. I feel like I’m suffocating. My hand grapples at my neck and my body rolls with waves of panic.
‘Eleanor?’
I blink, trying to gain focus, trying to see him, as a tidal wave of information pours into me, making everything clear. ‘You’re a forger,’ I hiss. ‘You forged the fake Head of a Faun and made sure Brent bought it!’
‘Shhhh.’ Becker moves in close, taking my arm, but I doggedly brush him off. That wasn’t his usual sexy shush. That was a short, sharp gust of breath. He’s mad with me. The nerve!
‘Don’t shush me,’ I wail, but then I slap my own hand over my mouth before Becker does, because I’ve just realised that his granddad is in the kitchen down the hall and he won’t know this. He can’t know this. It’ll finish him off. God, I remember him asking Becker if there was any clue to who crafted the fake that he was supposed to call out as a forgery. Little did Mr H know, his grandson fucking sculpted it. Oh . . . my . . . God. Of course Becker wasn’t going to declare it a fake. He made it. He plotted the whole damn thing from beginning to end.
‘Eleanor, calm down.’ Becker practically shakes me from my meltdown and my morals suddenly appear from nowhere and bite me on my sore arse. I don’t know where they’ve been all this time, leaving me to get wrapped up in all of this . . . this . . . this . . .
‘Oh my God.’ Tricking someone doesn’t seem so bad now. Even ripping someone off for a whopping fifty million seems quite tame. But forging a long-lost treasure? What else has he forged? I’m a criminal if I stay here. Already am if I escape. Just being here, working here, implicates me. I’m Becker’s Bonnie. He’s my Clyde. Okay, so we don’t shoot people, but some people in the antiquing world might see this as equally immoral. Because it is. Another crime. They’re building by the day. What else is there?
Fucking hell, pull yourself together, Eleanor.
‘How many priceless treasures have you forged?’ I ask.
‘Just the sculpture,’ he answers easily and willingly, shutting me up. He shrugs a little, shyly. ‘I sculpt as a hobby. It relaxes me. And I’m quite good at it.’
I’m speechless. Nearly. ‘I need air.’ I turn, but he catches my wrist, holding me in place.
‘Eleanor, you’re not leaving,’ he says with a determination that snaps me from my spiralling thoughts.
‘You’d better tell me everything,’ I whisper-hiss in his face. ‘Everything, Becker Hunt. I want to know it all – your mum, your dad, your vendetta against the Wilsons. I’m not leaving until I have every scrap of information in that fucked-up, corrupt mind of yours.’ I rap on his temple, like a copper knocking on a door. Good Lord, the police.
‘What do you mean, you’re not leaving until you know everything?’ He hones straight in on that part of my rant, which should probably ease me a little. ‘You’re not leaving full stop.’ He’s worried about me running away again. Good! I’m a gangster’s moll. Sculpting a fake, paying someone to authenticate it? Planting it in a house so it’s found, the auction, the act . . .
‘Talk, Hunt. Talk now.’
He matches my determined stare, his chest puffed out, his jaw tight. It’s a standoff. He better be prepared to lose. ‘Fine.’ I pass him and get precisely nowhere.
‘Eleanor,’ he breathes, catching me around the waist and lifting me from my feet.
‘You’d better start talking,’ I hiss, wrestling with his hands around my waist. ‘I didn’t come back so you could carry on with the lies, Hunt.’
On a bark of irritation, he dumps me on my feet harshly, his frustration getting the better of him. ‘Keep your voice down, Eleanor.’
I’m quivering with fury, and I have a boatload of determination backing it up. He better not underestimate me. ‘Talk!’
I see the moment he comprehends that I’m not backing down because he clams up. That angry look, the unique one that only shows when his parents are mentioned, is present, but it’s not scaring me away this time. His hesitance isn’t because he’s reluctant to spill about his crimes. He’s actually more reluctant to share the story of his parents. He doesn’t want to talk about it, wants to avoid the pain. But he’s putting me in the centre of his corrupt world. He can’t be selective with the information he provides to help me survive it. ‘All or nothing,’ I say.
; He balls his fist and brings it to his forehead, banging repeatedly as he clenches his eyes shut. ‘Fine, I’ll tell you about my mum and dad, and then you’ll understand why I forged Head of a Faun and made sure that arsehole bought it.’ He stomps off across his office, leaving me stuck to the carpet where he plonked me, and on a roar of agony and grief, he throws his fist into the back of the solid wooden door.
I flinch, watching as he pulls his arm back, ready to hit the door again. ‘Becker, stop.’ I hurry over to him and seize his balled fist before he can land the door with another brutal punch, though he doesn’t make it easy for me, resulting in a tug of war that I refuse to lose. ‘Stop!’ I yell, wrenching at his arm. His eyes are wide, revealing all of his anguish as he heaves before me, more through emotion than physical exertion. ‘Just stop it.’
He gasps for breath and throws his arms around me, squeezing me to his chest. I’m struggling to breathe, being suffocated, but I endure his fierce hug, let him swathe me until he’s ready to let go. ‘Mum was in a car accident,’ he spits the words into my neck urgently, his voice rough and broken. But he isn’t telling me anything that I don’t already know. It was front-page news. The whole world knows his mum died tragically in a car accident.
I try to wriggle from his hold, failing miserably. ‘Becker, let me see you.’
‘No, just stay where you are for a minute.’ His strong arms lock down some more, making escaping impossible. ‘She was on life support for three weeks. Almost every bone in her body broken.’
I wince and swallow.
‘Her brain showed no signs of activity.’