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Chapter 28An hour roaming the park really didn’t do me any favours. Open space and a lack of company left a massive void to worry about old Mr H. I called Lucy in an attempt to take my mind off the old man who I’ve become so fond of, and it worked to a certain extent. She’s all loved up, seeming far more settled after the explosions last night. She didn’t mention the girl from floor eighteen once.
When I’ve settled Winston in his bed, I go in search of Mrs Potts to find out how Mr H is. I poke my nose around every door, not finding a soul in any of the rooms, leaving me concluding that she’s still in his suite with him. It only increases my worry, but not wanting to knock and disturb them, I reluctantly make my way back to the showing room to start packing away the Rembrandt, anything to keep me busy instead of hanging around worrying.
I’m surprised when I wander in and find Becker there, carefully wrapping the painting. His shirt-covered back holds my attention for a few moments, my mind picturing the map beneath the layer of his clothing. No matter how much old Mr H wants that map gone from their lives, it’s never going to happen.
‘You’re back,’ I say from the doorway.
‘I’m back,’ he replies softly, finishing packaging the painting and lifting it from the easel. ‘I’ve just seen Gramps.’
‘Dorothy said not to call you and cause undue worry.’ Do we need to worry? Taking the easel, I carry it to the corner of the room and put it in its rightful place. ‘How is he?’
‘He was very sleepy. I left him to rest.’
I relax, relieved. ‘I’m glad. He had me worried.’
‘Yeah, me too. He’ll be fine.’ He exhales, sounding tired. Worn down. Worried? ‘Now, let’s talk about the Audi.’
My arms turn to stone, braced against the sides of the easel. Fuck. I forgot about that. ‘I sold the painting,’ I blurt out, whirling around. He’s glaring at me, arms crossed over his chest. ‘Thirty-five million,’ I declare proudly. ‘Not thirty, but thirty-five million.’ Becker’s head cocks to the side a little, amused. ‘I told her the National wanted it. She bit my hand off.’ His face remains unimpressed, and it begins to rile me. He threw me in the deep end and forced me to tread water alone. And I did bloody well, too. ‘You could at least look pleased,’ I snap petulantly. ‘And since you seem so keen to talk about cars, let’s . . .’ I only just manage to rein myself in before I clue him in on my suspicions about the vintage Ferrari. I keep forgetting that Becker doesn’t know about my encounter with Brent. And he mustn’t. It’ll only anger him and encourage him to continue with these crazy games.
‘Let’s what?’ He takes a threatening step towards me.
‘Nothing.’ I evade his eyes.
‘Princess . . .’ he extends my pet name, sounding guarded. ‘Let’s what?’
‘Nothing.’ I laugh, aiming for nonchalance, but I only achieve guilt. I’m still not looking at him, and I dare not, either. ‘I have a pile of paperwork to get through.’ I thumb over my shoulder and back away. ‘Must get on.’ I turn and hurry away, wondering at what point he might share his recent rip-off, if he will at all. I might have it all wrong. After all, he promised me no more secrets. But Brent has told me that he’s got the car; Becker’s also told me he has a new woman in his life. So, who has the fucking car?
I hear Becker’s phone ring as I make my escape, thankful that he’s distracted from chasing me down and pressing me. For now, anyway. I don’t know how to handle this. ‘Called to gloat?’ Becker asks when he’s answered, rather than your customary hello or hey or afternoon. There’s also a ton of menace behind the question. I hear him curse, and I risk a peek over my shoulder, seeing him stabbing at the screen of his phone with his thumb. He’s cut the call. He looks mad. Why? I don’t know, and by the look on his face, I don’t want to. I turn and hurry out. ‘Stop where you are, princess.’
I stutter to a halt and freeze, like he could have pressed a pause button on me. I don’t like the authority in his command. Neither do I like the fact that I’m apprehensive, rather than my usual lusty self when he throws orders at me. Then my brain seems to jump-start.
Called to gloat?
Oh . . . no . . .
I shrink like a blooming flower that’s had burning hot water poured over it. There’s only one person who Becker would ask that question, and in my haste to escape, I didn’t think about it quickly enough. I would have run faster had my brain engaged sooner.
