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‘Where is he?’
I find myself laughing. It’s as sarcastic as a laugh can be. I refuse to let him see me scared. ‘Call yourself a treasure hunter?’ I goad, landing him with a wicked smile. ‘You’re here, and Becker . . . is not.’
‘Don’t test me, Eleanor.’
‘Why? You gonna kill me, too?’
His hand comes up and feels my hair, and it takes everything I have not to cower or flinch. Everything not to vomit. I have no idea where my valour is coming from, but I’m just letting it flow, my hatred for this man unstoppable. ‘Get your filthy hands off me.’
He sighs, releasing my hair, and reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. ‘I did warn you,’ he says, pulling out his phone as I hide my frown. He presents me with his screen, and there is a photograph of Becker. Kissing a woman. A woman with glossy, straight black hair to her shoulders. ‘He met her on the piazza for coffee earlier.’
My round eyes remain fixed on the picture, my mind a jumble. I try to encourage some tears of despair to come. Holy fucking shit, where’s that wig? I peek up to the chair in the corner where Becker threw it, seeing it hanging off the arm.
‘I knew he’d hurt you, Eleanor. I did try to tell you.’ He stands and tucks his phone away. ‘He’s always been a womaniser. You owe him nothing. Now, where is he?’
I blink repeatedly, plotting my next move while Brent smiles down at me, like he’s just divulged the world’s biggest secret. He looks smug. Satisfied. I want to smash his stupid face in. How long can I keep him here? I conclude very quickly that it won’t be for long.
I rest my head back down and look at the ceiling.
‘Where is he?’
I remain quiet, not blessing him with my eyes.
‘Eleanor.’ His tone is warning, and I completely ignore it. Then there’s silence for a few moments, and I hear him sigh, the mattress dipping. I have absolutely no idea what happens next. I’m moving without thinking, my knee coming up and cracking Brent in the nose. ‘Fuck!’ he chokes, flying back with his palm over his face, blood spurting out the sides. I look up, praying for a miracle, wrestling with my shaky hands. ‘Come on,’ I whisper, seeing the tip of the key a mere millimetre away from the lock. I growl, having a quick check on Brent, finding him slumped on the floor looking a bit dazed. He looks up at me. And a veil of evil falls. Shit. I return my attention to the headboard and pull harder on the cuffs, hissing, seeing a trickle of blood roll down my forearm.
The key slips into the hole, and one last twist of my wrist releases the lock. I gasp, feeling the blood rush back into my arms.
‘You little—’
My leg shoots out, my foot connecting with Brent’s jaw, and he yelps, flopping to the bed. I grab his arm, yanking it to the bedframe, my fingers working fast, adrenalin pumping.
I cuff him to the bed.
‘Fuck!’ he yells.
I jump up quickly and brush my hair out of my face, my pulse racing. When I find his outraged eyes, I step back, a little dazed, a lot scared. How the hell did I manage that?
‘Eleanor!’ he barks, bucking off the bed, his body twisting as he hisses from the friction of the metal on his wrists. ‘He can’t be trusted. I’ve just proved that, you stupid woman.’
I grab my jeans and yank them on before shoving my feet in my trainers and claiming the wig from the chair. Brent’s face straightens momentarily while his mind plays catch-up. Then his eyes bug. ‘You?’
I throw it at him. ‘You’re the criminal, Wilson. You’re the deceitful one who can’t be trusted.’ I make my way to the door. ‘Get comfortable. You could be there a while,’ I say, yanking the door open and slamming it behind me with brute force. I run like the wind out of the hotel.
The streets are quiet now, and a quick glance at my watch tells me why. It’s 2a.m. I look up to the dark sky. It’s started to rain, fat drops of water hitting me hard, as I sprint towards the Pantheon, adrenalin pumping. When I reach the Piazza della Rotonda, I skid to a stop, staring straight at the mammoth marble columns that line the porch. It’s dark, it’s quiet, and it’s so eerie. The glow from a few street lanterns illuminate the square a little, but the porch beyond the pillars of the ancient temple is cloaked in complete darkness.
The rain starts to come down harder, seeping into the threads of my sweater, my hair now sticking to my face. Shuddering, I tentatively walk forward, rounding the fountain, listening carefully, my eyes darting. There’s a constant, distant tapping sound that’s getting louder the closer I creep towards the church. But I can’t see a damn thing.
