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‘What’s the problem?’
Damn. He must have found a parking space. I cringe as I tap in his login details. There goes my hope of fixing the problem before Becker knows I’ve fucked up. ‘No problem,’ I sing, returning my attention to my phone as Becker rounds the desk and joins me. He looks at the screen. Frowns. Gives me the eye. I can only shrug, and he sighs, catching the gist of the problem.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he breathes. ‘People will think—’ He stops talking abruptly when a security guard flies past the glass door, and both our eyes follow, both our foreheads wrinkling. ‘What’s going on?’ Becker asks, walking to the door and looking out. I join him, hearing the commotion. Frank hurries past, and Becker stops him. ‘Frank, is there a problem?’
‘No,’ he squeaks, carrying on his way. ‘Good to see you, Mr Hunt.’
I look at Becker, getting a funny feeling.
‘I have a funny feeling,’ he says, reading my mind. He follows Frank, and I quickly grab my bag and follow Becker, but as I’ve nearly caught up with him, I remember something. Shit! I backtrack, dashing back to the office and deleting the digits from the login screen before catching up with Becker. The commotion has heightened, and I arrive to find Frank throwing curses left and right, turning the air in the posh auction house blue.
And Becker looks absolutely savage, staring at Frank incredulously. ‘What do you mean, the O’Keefe is gone?’ he asks, and I baulk. What?
Poor Frank looks like he’s about ready to pop under the pressure. ‘It was on the van, and now—’
‘Goddamn it, Frank.’ Becker slings his arm out and sends a pile of paperwork on a nearby table wafting into the air. ‘I’ve been trying to acquire that painting for years, and now you’re telling me the moment I buy it, it disappears?’
I stand silent, as Frank’s sweats increase and Becker’s rage grows. And all I can think about is Brent. The rivalry. The game of one-upmanship going on between the two men. I bite my lip, not liking the nasty feeling in my gut.
Becker takes my hand and tugs me out of the room. ‘That’s the last time I do business with Sotheby’s,’ he mutters over his shoulder, making Frank bury his head in his hands.
‘Becker,’ I say as I’m pulled along, but he doesn’t stop, just continues, annoyed. ‘Becker, Brent was here.’
He stops in a heartbeat and swings stunned eyes my way. ‘What?’
‘When I went to the ladies, I saw him. You don’t think . . .’
His lips twist, his eyes close, and then he stalks away, giving me my answer. Oh my goodness.
Shit. The word is running on repeat in my mind. Shit, shit, shit.Chapter 15I wasn’t about to ask Becker where he keeps his tux, so as soon as we were back at The Haven and he’d disappeared in his office to sulk about his stolen painting, I used his distraction to my advantage and performed a ram-raid on his apartment in a panic, flying through the wardrobe in his bedroom like my life depended on it. I eventually found it tucked away in a closet in the corner of his bedroom, lost behind a mountain of other suits. After I pulled it free, I made a hasty dash, praying that the dry-cleaner’s would have it ready for Friday at the latest. I struck gold. Giles at Fosters knew exactly who I was, or who Becker was, and responded to the sweetest smile I could muster, telling me he’d have it ready tomorrow. After thanking him profusely, I made my way back to The Haven, calling Mum on my way to check if it’s still convenient – since she’s a social butterfly these days – for me to go home next weekend. After an excited yes, I hung up and made a mental note to book my train ticket.
The next day, I stroll into Becker’s office to collect some files and find his granddad at his desk. Mr H looks up over his glasses, holding a broadsheet with slightly shaky hands. ‘Eleanor.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr H.’ I wander over and take a seat opposite him, resting my phone on the desk ‘Where’s Becker?’
‘He’s taking a delivery.’
‘A delivery?’ He never mentioned any deliveries today, and I certainly haven’t organised any.
‘I don’t ask.’ Mr H looks down at the newspaper, shaking his head. ‘In broad daylight, too,’ he muses, and he turns the sheet so I can see. Not that I need to. The theft from Sotheby’s has been a hot topic, as you’d expect. It turns out me screwing up the bank transfer was a blessing in disguise. ‘Becker mentioned you saw Wilson there moments before the painting was discovered missing.’
‘I don’t trust that man.’ I admit. ‘Becker seems happy to move on, but Brent doesn’t.’ I know my man. He won’t let Brent get away with turning him over like that. His ego won’t allow it. Neither will his fierce need for revenge. And that’s left me wondering with growing worry where that leaves us.
