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It not only piques Shelley’s interest, it also piques mine. ‘Of course,’ she says, shamelessly crossing one leg over the over and leaning back. I grit my teeth and nearly crack them with the force of my bite when Becker gives a knowing, sideways smile. ‘Anything for you, Becker,’ she purrs.
‘Any other interest in the 1965 Ferrari?’
She returns his knowing smile before turning to her computer and tapping a few buttons. ‘This is breaking client confidentiality.’
‘But it’s for me,’ Becker says quietly. Suggestively.
Oh my days, I want to poke the disgraceful philander in the eye. I’m about to step in, to take a leaf out of Becker’s book, when it occurs to me that Becker is fishing for information – information that Shelley can give to him. Me staking a claim could hamper that. For fuck’s sake. So, begrudgingly, I hold my tongue for a few moments while she continues to tap and glance up to Becker every now and then.
‘There,’ she says quietly. ‘Bill Temple and Larry Stein have commission bids.’
‘How much?’
‘Highest is 110K.’
‘Larry?’ Becker questions.
‘Good guess.’
‘American,’ he muses thoughtfully, like that’s a significant point.
‘Speaking of Americans,’ Shelley says, scanning the screen.
Becker visibly stiffens. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘Brent Wilson.’
‘Motherfucker.’ He smashes his fist down on Shelley’s desk, making me jump. I don’t think I need to intercept the flirting now, because Becker’s mood has just taken a nosedive. He’s no longer smiling coyly. Now he’s practically growling at the mere mention of Brent’s name. ‘Block him,’ Becker orders harshly.
Shelley flashes him a shocked look. ‘You know I can’t do that,’ she protests, shaking her head to reinforce her words.
‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
I shoot him a look and Shelley visibly straightens up in her chair. Is he for real? Has he forgotten I’m here? ‘How will you make it worth her while?’ I ask, more than pissed off.
He looks down at me, his mouth snapping shut. ‘It was a figure of speech.’
‘It wasn’t last time,’ Shelley pipes up, and my eyes are back on her in a heartbeat. She looks smug. I’m totally dumbfounded, yet I can’t blame her since she doesn’t know Becker’s status.
‘And what did you get last time?’ I ask.
‘Eleanor,’ Becker pipes up, warning me. I don’t care. I want to know, even if I’m pretty certain already, and I know it’s going to eat me alive.
I hold my finger to my lips to halt him, then deliver a calm, ‘Shhhh,’ tilting my head to the side when his mouth drops open. ‘Well?’
‘Nothing.’ Becker takes my arm, and I shrug him off, glaring at him.
‘Dinner,’ Shelley interjects, pulling my attention to her. She looks pleased with herself. I want to slap her. ‘To start,’ she adds.
The bitch. ‘I’m sure your boss will appreciate this news,’ I say, totally unruffled. ‘Feeding Becker confidential information in return for . . .?’ I can’t say it. ‘How sad, Shelley. You have to bargain for sex.’
Her smug look plummets as I swivel on my heels and walk gracefully, and with the utmost dignity, towards the elevator. I want to rip everything in sight to shreds. I hear Shelley’s angry whispers from behind me as I push the call button and enter the lift.
‘She won’t say anything,’ Becker snaps, dismissing Shelley’s panic. In my spite, I want to march straight back to Timms’s office and prove him wrong. The wanker.
‘Don’t count on it,’ I call as the doors close. And as soon as I’m out of sight and the lift is moving, I yell, kicking the wall of the elevator before falling against it.
All of these women. This unexpected possessiveness coursing through me. It could be destructive. I need to channel it. My damn mind is racing with thoughts of how that dinner progressed. Did he give her a good fuck from behind? Spank her arse? I slap the ball of my palm into my forehead and massage the thought away before it gets the better of me. Becker can fuck right off if he thinks I’m subjecting myself to this shit every time we go out on business.
The doors open, and I engage my leg muscles to step out, but my foot only lifts an inch from the floor before I see him. His stance is wide, his hands in his trouser pockets, and he’s standing slap-bang in the middle of the elevator opening, blocking my path. He looks solemn behind his glasses. How the heck did he make it down here so quickly?
I don’t entertain him. Instead, I pass him and head for the revolving doors, ignoring the curious look from the receptionist. I’m a little surprised that Becker hasn’t intercepted me, but not so surprised when I enter the turning doors and they jar to a halt. I breathe in some patience, then turn to confront him. He’s in the next section of the revolving doors, maybe because he deems it safe having a sheet of glass between us. He’d be right.
