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‘Every auction house on the planet wanted that sale. What makes you think that I could manipulate the seller’s decision to take it to Countryscape?’
I could laugh. Becker manipulated every moment of the sculpture’s journey from a worthless lump of marble to the fifty-million-pound price tag.
Simon’s expression changes somewhat, and I have no idea what to make of it. It’s a knowing look, I think. My eyes pass slowly between the two men a few times, trying to gauge what’s being said without being said.
‘You carry more clout in this world than you’re letting on, Hunt,’ Simon says, watching Becker closely. ‘Don’t try to kid me otherwise.’
Becker slaps on a charming smile and shifts in his chair, getting comfier. To an outsider, I’m guessing the smile currently gracing his face would seem genuine, but I’m becoming a master at deciphering his smiles, and this right here is fake. One hundred per cent, it’s fake. Like that sculpture. ‘You’re giving me more credit than is due, Simon.’
‘Am I?’ he questions quickly, not missing a beat.
‘Way . . . too . . . much.’ Becker says slowly. Warningly. I’m wary of the signs of hostility, so I’m floored when Simon Timms ignores them.
‘I don’t think I am.’
Becker’s jaw ticks, and I find myself intervening before this gets out of hand. I lean forward, getting Simon’s attention. ‘Countryscape wanted the sale, and they got the sale.’ I smile sweetly. ‘Becker bid, he lost, and life goes on. Now, Mr Timms, I thought you had some info on the 1965 Ferrari?’
Simon recoils, suddenly speechless, and Becker coughs his throat clear, disguising his laugh. ‘I think you’ve been told, Simon.’ He flashes an over-the-top smile.
I sit back, looking at Simon expectantly as he reaches blindly to the side and retrieves a file, his scowl fierce. He then tosses it to our side of the desk. ‘Here.’
‘Super. Thank you.’ Becker takes the file and flicks through, while I keep my gleaming smile on Simon Timms. Funny. He’s not looking at me lustfully now. He’s looking at me like he holds me in contempt.
I’m desperately trying to maintain my poker face. Any mention of that bloody sculpture makes me nervous, annoyingly. I need to work on that. Timms is making me feel uncomfortable, and it’s in this moment I consider something. Is he wondering, given Becker has just spelled out my status, if I have inside information on the Hunt Corporation, too? Have I got to add him to the list of people who will try to wring information from me? Was it him who broke into my apartment?
‘It’s all there,’ Simon goes on, dragging his eyes off of me and returning them to Becker. ‘I’m sure you’ll be satisfied. I’ll look forward to your bid.’
Becker nods thoughtfully, and then rises from his chair. ‘Indeed. Good day to you, Simon.’
It takes everything in me to stand coolly, as opposed to diving upwards, like an eject button has been pressed. ‘Good day,’ I say tightly, purposely looking him straight in the eye as I leave, hoping he reads my message. I’ll hold no prisoners. Don’t mess with me.
There’s no farewell. Simon Timms doesn’t stand and see us out. But I feel his eyes boring into me as we walk away. ‘Just shout if things don’t work out at the Hunt Corporation, Eleanor,’ he calls, and I turn to find him smiling. It’s a slimy smile. One that makes my skin crawl. Good God, Becker really did do me a favour.
‘I don’t think so, Simon.’ I turn and leave, catching up with Becker. ‘I don’t like him,’ I declare, feeling Becker’s warm palm slide onto my lower back.
‘Me too,’ Becker mutters, directing me to the right when we reach the end of the corridor.
We breach the area where Shelley is sitting, prim as can be, and Becker slaps the hugest smile on his face, knocking her back on her swivel chair. I bet he has payback planned after my BAFTA award-worthy performance in Simon Timms’s office before the tables turned. I inwardly groan. This is going to be torturous. But I can be possessive, too. Bring it on, maverick. Problem is, I genuinely believe that Becker is unaware of his knockout charm. I think it’s natural to him. I think he fails to realise the extent of his appeal after a lifetime of charming the knickers off women. I, on the other hand, threw every effort into my flirting routine.
‘Becker,’ Shelley sings as we approach, turning away from her desk to give an obvious flash of her long, bare legs. ‘Can I get you a coffee? Tea? Water?’
‘I’m good,’ Becker replies, coming to a stop, prompting me to do the same. I may as well not be here. Shelley is completely blanking me, and I notice, again, that she hasn’t asked me if I’d like a drink. No, her full attention is on Becker, and it only becomes more acute when my boss places a palm on the edge of her desk and leans in towards her. She smiles demurely. I have to physically restrain myself from muscling my way between them and declaring Becker’s status to this female. ‘I need a favour,’ Becker says, all low and raspy.
