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‘Something to tell me?’ he asks, his voice brittle with annoyance. I close my eyes when I sense him coming closer, until he’s pushed up against my back and breathing in my ear.
I shake my head into his cheek, keeping my mouth shut. I don’t know why I’m denying it. That was Brent on the phone, and he’s kindly filled Becker in on our little meeting outside my apartment. Which means Becker’s obviously assumed – rightly – that Brent’s told me that he won the car. So why is he being so reproachful? He’s the one in the wrong, not me.
‘Why didn’t you tell me Brent Wilson was sniffing around your apartment?’ he asks, his hips pushing into my back, a calculating move that could work for him. Grind me down with his sinful expertise. Make me mindless and desperate and willing to throw myself into a fire if he will only indulge me.
I breathe in. ‘Why would I when I know you’d get angry?’
‘I’m not angry,’ he whispers hoarsely. ‘You smell like apple.’
My teeth sink into my lip as I fight off the want he’s unearthing. He’s mad but playing it cool, and it occurs to me that he’s not mad that Brent Wilson has dropped him in it, but because Brent ignored Becker’s demand to stay away from me. But we need to get back to the matter at hand. ‘Have you got something to tell me?’ I counter.
‘Yes, I have.’ He slips an arm around my waist and captures me, hauling me back. ‘Today, I ripped off Brent Wilson for over a hundred million.’ He finishes his calm announcement with a light kiss to my ear.
I exhale from relief. At least, I think it’s relief. Because I’m not overthinking. My imagination isn’t running away with me. But is Becker telling me because he’s been caught red-handed? He doesn’t sound proud or pleased or smug. He sounds almost indifferent. It’s just another score for Becker against Brent, but I’m beginning to wonder where the gratification can be found if Brent isn’t aware that he’s been wronged. Where’s the satisfaction in that? But I should have expected this the moment the O’Keeffe went missing. Becker was never going to let that lie. But where does it end?
Becker lifts me a little and attaches his lips to my neck. The apprehension has vanished and the familiar want and lust is back full-force. He’s feeling uneasy, knowing Brent has been sniffing around again, trying to turn me against him. He doesn’t need to worry. I’m his and, apparently, no amount of crimes will change that. Will he ever pull a stunt that will be morally too much for me to handle? My compassion for Becker’s history is helping me empathise and accept his crimes. And now I understand that his need to keep the upper hand over Brent will be fierce since he vowed to abandon the search for the lost sculpture. Becker needs to get his revenge one way or another. This is one way – ripping off Brent repeatedly – and Brent’s not helping matters by countering his attacks. The other is resuming the search and finding Head of a Faun, and after what I’ve learned about his parents’ deaths, I should never allow that. Never. So I’m compromising. I’d rather keep Becker and accept that he’s going to con Brent for the rest of our lives together rather than lose him to a myth. ‘How?’ I ask.
‘The original has been switched with a pukka replica.’
I remain calm. He blows my mind in more ways than one. Carving sculptures, switching cars. ‘Is that what you’ve been up to all day?’
‘Yes.’
‘So Brent’s paid millions for a replica?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s the original?’
He spins me around and grabs my cheeks, grinning. ‘In our garage.’
I scowl at him. ‘You promised me no more games.’
‘He only wanted it because I wanted it, princess. And now he thinks he has it.’
I can’t argue with the truth. Damn Brent for goading Becker. ‘He’s bound to find out.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe when he sells it.’
He rolls his eyes. I don’t know why. It’s a perfectly reasonable worry. ‘He’ll never sell anything that he knows I want. That’s his satisfaction. Mine is looking at that car in my garage every day knowing he thinks he has it.’ He winks cheekily, and I shake my head, done for the day. That’s self-satisfaction at its best.
‘Am I to assume that your granddad can’t know about this?’ I ask flatly. His look of worry gives me my answer, and I sigh heavily. ‘I can’t believe I’ve let you drag me into your corrupt world.’
His finger meets my lips. ‘You love my corrupt world.’ He gives my arse a solid squeeze. ‘I’ll show you just how corrupt I am in bed tonight.’ Replacing his finger with hard lips, he kisses me passionately, deeply, and meaningfully, swallowing me up until he eventually slows to a stop and nips my lip playfully. ‘Thirty-five million, eh?’
