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It’s making my head spin in the best possible way. ‘It’s wonderful.’
‘I’ll leave you to have a look around, dear. Mr H needs his medication.’ She whips her duster out and gives the gold handle of the door a quick dust. ‘The client files are on the far wall, dear. Top and bottom.’ She indicates to one of the ladders. ‘The reference books are over there.’ She points across the room. ‘You’ll find your way around soon enough.’ Mrs Potts disappears out the door, leaving me alone in the immense, quiet space.
I spend a good five minutes inspecting the room before I make my way to the far wall. As I near, the spines of the books become clear, and I’m soon close enough to read the text. Record books. They’re deep red in colour, with gold type, and they’re labelled alphabetically with years in brackets. I reach forward and select one, slowly sliding it out. The title reads: K (1961–1964)
Opening the cover carefully, I become immediately engrossed in the pages, my eyes scanning and absorbing the information while I stand at the foot of the towering bookcase. There’s a page for each deal, every detail imaginable neatly scrolled in black ink. The client’s name, address, interests, even a photograph of them – some posed, some caught in a moment. The pictures are all black and white, too, and the attire the figures wear is indicative of the date on the spine. Then there are the pieces bought, the value, the price paid – all figures that blow my mind.
I glance across the page and see a familiar face. ‘JFK,’ I gasp, running a finger down the picture of him laughing in the Oval Office. ‘Incredible.’ I force myself to snap the book closed and replace it on the shelf. The Hunt Corporation’s dealings have always been cloak-and-dagger. And seeing what I’m seeing now – the values, the people, the insanely famous treasures – it’s not such a mystery as to why.
Peering to my right, I spot one of the gold ladders leading to the balcony that circles the room. I can’t resist. Kicking my heels off, I pull my hair into a messy ponytail before clasping each side of the ladder. Then I slowly and carefully climb to the top, and I soon find myself walking around the circumference of the room on the gold balcony. I glance down, surprised by how high I am. I reach up and rest my touch on the spines as I continue, the consistent mild rise and fall of the tips of my fingers over the books creating a quiet, relaxing thrum.
I loop the room twice before stopping at a shelf in the far corner and picking out a book. ‘Treasures from the Ming Dynasty. You’re on the wrong shelf,’ I say to myself, my head shaking in wonder at the picture adorning the cover. It’s the vase I nearly dropped during my interview, looking even more spectacular with strategic lighting directed on to it. This is another world, a world I never guessed would be this amazing – and the longer I spend in it, the more fascinating and intriguing it becomes. I tuck the book under my arm and take the ladder back down to put it in its correct place.
Stepping off the bottom rung with the book under my arm, I slip my feet back into my heels and make my way over to the other side of the library where a wealth of reference books are kept. Slotting it into place, I run my eyes across the length of books, so damn fascinated by it all. I’ve read hundreds of books on antiques, some general and some specific, but seeing this makes me feel like I’ve only scratched the surface. I reach up to pull out a textbook on Roman treasures, but pause, my hand hovering in the air, when I feel tingles pitter-patter across my skin. I try to shrug them off, scowling at the shelves before me. The tingles only intensify. Goddamn it. I slowly peek over my shoulder to see what I knew I would.
Becker Hunt is standing across the library, his shoulder resting on a bookcase, watching me quietly. I quickly look away before my eyes take the opportunity to drink him in, focusing on the book I was about to browse and pulling it free, flicking through the pages.
‘You found the library,’ he says quietly, his voice smooth and low.
I keep my attention forward. ‘Mrs Potts left me to explore while she gives Mr H his meds.’ Those damn goose bumps won’t shift, no matter how much I beg them to.
‘Do you like it?’ he asks, his voice still quiet.
‘I love it.’ I don’t hesitate. I’m in my element, and if he’s been standing there watching me for a while – and I just know he has – then he’ll have seen my awe as clear as day. It’s magnificent, and not even my disdain for my new boss will make me say otherwise. He’s clearly proud of it. He has every right to be.
