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‘I’ll be sure to say hello,’ Becker assures her, and I prod him in the arm discreetly. He looks to me, showing hints of a knowing smile. ‘I’ll leave you ladies to talk for a few moments.’
What?
He backs away, either oblivious to my panicked eyes or just plain ignoring them. I fear it’s the latter. ‘Excuse me.’ He flashes his phone at me and turns, striding across the room and disappearing into the crowd. The fucker. And who the hell is calling him now?
‘So, Alexa tells me you’re Becker’s . . .’ The countess hums to herself for a few moments, purposely waiting for me to give her my attention. Stupidly, I do. She has a cunning glint in her eyes. ‘Skivvy,’ she finishes.
‘Lovely talking to you,’ I blurt out, sounding as insincere as I intended. I spin and make off before I lose control of my forced courtesy. I’m going to kill him.
I hear the old bat call to me as I flee, but I don’t care how rude I appear. I’m not hanging around to be insulted – not by her, not by her niece, not by anyone. I shake off the lingering unpleasant presence of the countess, shuddering as I make my way through the tables. Quite pathetically, I’m playing out a scene in my head, one where I’m telling her exactly what I think of her, no holding back. My language is vulgar . . . but I keep it contained in my mind. I have to remember: the money isn’t in the bank yet.
Breaking free of the huge room, I come to an abrupt stop when it occurs to me that Becker gave me no hint where he would be. I scan the gatherings of people before me, reaching up on tiptoes to try and spot him. My search turns up no results, so I head over to the hall that leads to the smoking room, hearing the orchestra playing a dramatic version of ‘Cry Me a River’. I smile when I see Mark and Lucy on the dance floor.
‘May I have this dance?’ A palm rests on my bare arm, and my body instantly tightens as my eyes drop to the hand and stares. ‘Please?’
I slowly turn. ‘Brent.’ I inhale his name on a contained panicked gasp, my eyes darting past him. If anything was to pull Becker from wherever he’s hiding, this man would be it. Where is he?
‘Lost someone?’ he asks, following the direction of my searching eyes.
‘No.’ I force the trepidation from my tone as I step away, disconnecting his hand from my arm. I think I’ve done well in my endeavour to appear cool . . . until he gives me a telling smirk. Victorious.
‘Tell me.’ He steps forward but hesitates when I instinctively move away. I should not be displaying any apprehension. ‘Because I’m so very curious,’ he muses.
I don’t like where this conversation is heading. ‘What?’ My feet take me back with no instruction, and I run a quick scan of the area again, searching for Becker. Again nothing. Damn it, where is he?
Brent arches an amused eyebrow. He’s getting a sick thrill out of my discomfort. ‘Did you play any part in ripping me off with the fake Michelangelo?’
My heart, my lungs, my kidneys – every internal organ, in fact – drops into my heels. Oh . . . fuck . . .
I want to believe I misheard him, but the anger that’s looming behind his clear eyes tells me I heard him just fine. I’ve lost the ability to function, resulting in me standing before him looking as guilty as I am, while my mind becomes more knotted with each second that I’m regarded with suspicious eyes. ‘You can’t prove it,’ I whisper, my heart working its way back up from my shoes, bypassing my chest, and settling in my throat.
A flash of surprise flies across his face. ‘So I need to prove it?’
Shit . . .
Oh . . . shit . . .
My eyes are wide, my body still. I can’t control any of my evident shock.
‘Good God,’ Brent laughs, his disbelief evident. ‘He really does have you wrapped around his finger.’
I nail my mouth shut. Fuck!
Brent continues to watch me wilt under the pressure, seeming highly entertained. ‘I only had Alexa’s word. Seems now I have yours, too.’
I’m in all kinds of panic, but amid it, I manage to wonder how the hell Alexa knows. ‘Did you break into my apartment?’ I’m on the offensive. That’s it now. All the stops have been pulled out. I know Becker said he’s not smart enough, but this man stole an O’Keeffe, for Christ’s sake. So what makes Becker so sure?
Brent’s head lowers slightly, making his Roman nose seem longer, and the light catches the grey flecks in his hair, making them shine. ‘You can’t prove it,’ he whispers, making my lungs shrink.
