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‘Of course.’ She sniffs, unimpressed and maybe a little insulted. I keep my smile in place as she wanders into the room, cocking her head from side-to-side, studying the painting. ‘It’s not as spectacular in the flesh as I anticipated,’ she says, and I only just swallow down my surprise before it leaps from my mouth. It’s fucking stunning, the ignorant cow. I already didn’t like her. Now I positively loathe her. I watch her scanning the art, her lips twisting. ‘What do you think, sweetie?’
Sweetie? I frown. That’s a bit familiar. ‘Well, I think it’s beaut—’ I choke to a stop when someone appears in the doorway of the showing room.
‘I think it’s average, Auntie.’ Alexa nails me in place with a look that could turn steel to ashes as she sashays into the room. Oh . . . good . . . Greek . . . god. My eyes follow her every step, my scowl rivalling hers. It takes every teeny tiny piece of my self-control, but I manage to stay on this side of the room, as oppose to throwing myself across it and wiping that smug smirk from her face.
Auntie? Oh my days. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’ I rip my death glare away from Alexa and dart out of the room, leaving the countess and her niece – her fucking niece – in the showing room alone. I’m guessing this is not part of the showing protocol, and Becker won’t be best pleased if he finds out I’ve left his treasure unattended, but this is an emergency. I can’t be trusted in that room with that woman.
I dial him and look through the door, seeing the countess and Alexa standing in front of the painting.
‘Princess.’ He still sounds chirpy. Not for long.
I swing around, hunching over a little, like making myself smaller will reduce the risk of being heard by them. ‘Don’t princess me. The countess has brought a relative along.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh?’ What does he mean, oh?
‘I feared she might.’
I gasp. The bastard. ‘You knowingly put me in this position?’
‘It’s a massive sale, princess. If you can pull this off, you can pull anything off.’ Is he testing me again? ‘Anyway, she’s less likely to pounce on you than she is me.’
‘Which one?’ I ask, checking over my shoulder. ‘Auntie or niece?’ They’re still looking at the splendid painting.
‘Both.’
I cringe and force myself to ask the question that keeps molesting my mind. ‘Becker, tell me you haven’t . . . with . . .’
‘I haven’t, though she’s tried plenty.’
I grimace, looking up to the heavens. I bet she has, and I bet she scared Becker to death. It’s quite a feat. ‘You wanker.’
‘Now, now, princess. Let’s not get personal.’
‘Fuck you, Hunt. You knew damn well Alexa would be here.’
‘Sell the painting, Eleanor. Not a penny under thirty million. Make me proud.’ He hangs up, and I close my eyes, calling on all of my willpower. Sell the painting. Just sell that painting for a cool thirty million and kick her out of here. Just not literally. Escort her out. Or better still, call Mrs Potts to show her the way, because putting myself in a dark alleyway with that woman could be fatal.
My head drops back in mental exhaustion at the thought of being professional and courteous. Never a dull fucking moment. The phrase ‘the things you do for love’ is being tested to the limit here. ‘You’re a bastard, Becker Hunt.’ But I’ll show him.
Filling my lungs with plenty of air, I whisper encouraging words to myself as I wander back into the showing room. Both women turn to me when they hear my steps, and both sets of eyes narrow to evil slits as they follow my path to the foot of the painting.
I remember Becker’s approach to showing a piece. He stood back silently and let the work speak for itself, let the client silently study it, but the atmosphere is too heavy to do that. Plus, I expect the only thing in this room they’ll study is me. So I adopt a different approach. ‘Oil on panel,’ I begin, searching deep and shifting everything I know about Rembrandt and this painting to the front of my mind. ‘Amazingly preserved, and I think you’ll agree it’s stunning in the flesh.’ I ghost a finger delicately over the frame. ‘Dated 1635, and until now its whereabouts was unknown.’
‘And where was it?’ The countess asks, throwing a spanner in my works. That’s the only thing I don’t know, damn it.
I smile tightly, ignoring Alexa’s amused smile. ‘Lost in history,’ I reply coolly and finally.
‘The paperwork? Certification?’
‘All present,’ I say, glancing over to the file in the corner. I take a few steps back, giving them space, and also because being too close to Alexa is giving me hives. ‘I believe Mr Hunt sent the papers to the National.’ What am I doing? ‘I’ll ensure you have access to them once they’ve been returned.’
