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That’s the crux of it. The danger. He fears for me. It should comfort me. Should. It doesn’t, though. Because I have serious doubts that Becker can walk away. I see the longing in his eyes, no matter how much he fights to hide it from me. I’ll always see it and always wonder whether he regrets making his vow to abandon his search. Will he come to resent me?
I don’t want to be a regret. I don’t want him to look back and wish he’d chosen the treasure and not me. But . . . could he have both? I hold my own breath, pondering that. ‘Promise me something,’ I order, lifting from his lap and turning around, straddling him. He looks wary. It’s a bit insulting. ‘Promise me if you change your mind, you will tell me.’
His head tilts, interested. ‘Change my mind?’
‘About finding the treasure.’
He breathes in, looking a little shocked. ‘I’m telling you I don’t need to find it.’
‘And I’m telling you I think you do. I don’t want you to hate me.’
‘How could I hate someone who’s shown me how to love?’ He leans in and kisses my shoulder, smoothing my red hair with his palm. ‘I adore you, woman. Your strength, your bravery, your devotion.’ On a smile, he ghosts his finger over my eyebrow and down my cheek, reaching my chin and tipping up my face. Dropping the gentlest of kisses on my lips, he hums quietly, ‘You consume my thoughts now, Eleanor. My mission in life from the moment you hijacked my heart was to love you. Cherish you. To devote all of myself to you. It’s all that matters to me now. You are the most priceless, precious treasure of them all.’ Another sweet kiss lands on my open mouth. ‘I don’t need anything else.’
I could cry for him. ‘I love you.’
‘Super.’ Becker hauls me forward and holds me tightly. ‘I feel like I’ve been for a double session with my therapist.’ He nuzzles in my neck as he stands and detaches me, using brute force when I put up a fight. ‘Are we good?’ he asks.
How could we not be? He’s just spilled his heart; told me things I know he hates to even think about. It’s a massive step for him. Nevertheless, I need to make one thing clear. ‘No more sneaky stunts.’
‘What’s classed as a sneaky stunt?’ he questions, smirking as he dips and munches on my cheek ravenously.
I giggle, squirming, relishing in his lightened mood. I feel enlightened and relieved, and I know Becker must feel the same. ‘Secrets, Becker. No more secrets.’
‘Right.’ After kissing my cheek, he takes his chair back up, and I settle opposite him, hands in my lap. A lovely eye is narrowed on me before he goes to his computer and starts typing. I wait patiently for him to finish, remembering why I came here in the first place.
‘I was heading for the kitchen, but it struck me that I didn’t know what I might be faced with.’
‘Dorothy and Gramps, I expect,’ he answers easily, reclining in his chair.
I lob him a tired expression. He knows what I mean. ‘Do they know why I wasn’t here yesterday?’
‘What do you think?’
Okay. Stupid question. ‘Do they know . . .’ I mull over my words, unsure how to say what’s on my mind. ‘Do they know . . .’ My finger waggles between us, trying to help me along with actions rather than the words – words that I’m struggling to find.
‘They know you’re back. They know you’re sleeping in my bed.’ Becker helps me out, but only a little. Sleeping in Becker’s bed wasn’t quite along the lines I was thinking. ‘And that I haven’t behaved like this with a woman ever,’ he finishes tentatively.
I smile. ‘Okay.’ I sound smug. I am. ‘And is your gramps talking to you yet?’
His hands come up and scrub at his face. ‘Hardly.’
I’m not surprised. While Becker’s beloved granddad has hoped all this bad feeling regarding the Wilsons was in the past, Becker was keeping it very much in the present. ‘I won’t tell him,’ I say, nodding to the secret room behind the bookshelf, feeling the need to voice it. Regardless of Becker’s instinct to distance himself emotionally from his only living relative in a silly attempt to protect himself from heartbreak, he still cares enough to shield his gramps from the stress or anger that will be stoked if he knew his grandson sculpted the fake that Brent Wilson paid fifty million for.
When I think he might toss his NDA in my face, Becker smiles at me. ‘I trust you, princess.’
I beam my understanding, fully comprehending how big a deal that is. My Lone Ranger doesn’t want to be a loner any more.
I stand. ‘I should go say hello to them.’
