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Becker halts my fruitless attempts to make the scratch magically disappear and takes my hands, holding them in front of me. ‘Look at me.’
‘No, you might steal my eyeballs.’
He bursts into a fit of laughter at my sulky quip, head tossed back, the lot. ‘Eleanor, I’m no criminal. Look at me.’
I begrudgingly peek up through my lashes, nearly being knocked unconscious by the smile on his face. ‘You had no right to put me in the centre of your pathetic game with Brent.’
His smile fades a little, and I know why. He’s read between the lines of that statement and interpreted what I haven’t said but want to. It isn’t just today. I’ve been a constant pawn for both men, and there’s no question in my mind that Becker not only brought me along to test my trust, but also as a little dig at his nemesis. I’m his, except I’m not. He has no claim on me in that respect, and I have no claim on him. I know it. He knows it. Mrs Potts knows it. Gramps knows it. Alexa knows it. Even Winston fucking knows it. Becker loved every second he spent with me today? Yeah, I bet he did, because I played his game unwittingly. This isn’t about impossible attraction. This isn’t because he can’t help but fucking want me.
This is about him showing me who he is. Letting me see.
I hope you’re ready.
Never, Becker. Never ready for you.
I want answers. ‘How do you know where the real one is? And how do you know that one’s not real?’ I point to the mansion. ‘Who are you, the world-renowned expert?’
‘No, I’m the man who paid the world-renowned expert to authenticate that one in there.’ He points to the mansion, too.
Oh my God. My palm reaches up to my throat and rests on my skin. I can feel the noose there. The one that’s going to hang me when the authorities find out about this. ‘That’s despicable.’
‘No, that’s clever, princess,’ he corrects me quickly, seizing my hand when I lift it to point an outraged finger in his face.
‘It’s despicable,’ I argue. ‘How did you even manage that, anyway? No expert held in high esteem would be mad enough to risk their reputation.’
‘Greed is a terrible thing.’ Becker shakes his head in dismay. There’s no sarcasm. He truly believes his claim, and I can’t possibly argue with that because he’s right. The antiquing world is as corrupt as they come. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that an outfit as reputable and notorious as the Hunt Corporation would be involved in such a scandal. No wonder Mr H and Mrs Potts were so opposed to me coming. That dear old man and sweet old lady? They’re in on this? My mind has just exploded.
‘But you didn’t want Brent here,’ I remind him, now speaking for the sake of it. All those times Brent was vying to be hooked up at Countryscape and Becker took delight in refusing, it was all an act. ‘You asked someone else to endorse him, didn’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t be very clever if I gained him entry knowing he wanted what I wanted, would I?’
‘But you didn’t want it.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t want Wilson to know that.’
He’s too clever. That’s the problem. Smart beyond what I gave him credit for, and I thought he was pretty smart, anyway.
‘How do you know where the real one is?’ I ask.
‘Because I have a map.’
I can’t contain my gasp. He’s searching for Head of a Faun? Flashbacks of the library, the secret compartment that I found and the map inside, explode in my mind, yet I can’t say anything. He doesn’t know I’ve found that book or what’s in it. He’ll think I’m a snoop. So I take a different angle. ‘Where’s the map?’
‘Somewhere safe.’
Damn. I can tell by the sour expression on his face that he isn’t going to give me any more on that. ‘Why somewhere safe?’
‘Because Brent—’
‘Was looking for the sculpture, too,’ I finish for him, clarity biting me on the arse and sinking its vicious teeth in. ‘And now he thinks he’s found it.’ My eyes dart across my lap as my mind tries to wrap around the astonishing realisation.
‘Well,’ he sniffs. ‘Someone else found it. Brent bought it.’
I exhale my disbelief. ‘Holy shit, this is unbelievable.’
‘This is win–win, Eleanor,’ Becker says quietly, chucking my cheek like I’m a child he’s trying to pacify. I peek up at him. He’s still smiling. ‘My family gets the sculpture, the Saunders don’t lose their estate thanks to me, Brent Wilson is confirmed a dickhead, and I get a thrill from it all.’ He gives me that lopsided, cheeky grin. ‘Wait . . .’ He glances off into the distance for a moment, thoughtful. ‘That’s a win–win–win–win.’
