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‘I like it when you talk dirty to me.’
‘I’m not talking dirty.’
‘Say “renaissance”,’ he whispers in my face, low and sexy. My stomach flips as he takes my wrists and thrusts my arms up the wall behind me.
‘No,’ I breathe.
His knee comes up and pushes into my centre, and I damn myself to hell for groaning like a sorry, desperate idiot.
‘Say—’
‘Never.’
‘Winston!’ Mrs Potts shrill scorn interrupts our back and forth, and we both whip our eyes over to the door. ‘Come away from there,’ she orders sternly.
‘Oh fuck, here comes Mrs Trunchbull,’ Becker jokes, though there’s nothing to joke about, and he might agree when I’ve shared the news that I’m yet to share. I pull the red dress off urgently and make a grab for my floral sundress, swooping it up off the floor.
‘Your granddad and Mrs Potts were checking the CCTV footage for rats earlier,’ I tell him as I hurry into my dress.
Woof!
‘Winston, come here!’
Becker frowns. ‘I’ve told him, there are no rats. I have the place laced with fucking poison.’ He starts to gather up the other dresses from the floor, the material of his sweatpants stretching over his taut arse. The sight makes my frantic motions falter for a split second.
Woof!
‘For goodness’ sake, there’s nothing in there.’ Mrs Potts annoyed words soon snap me back to life.
I wrestle with my dress. ‘They found something a little more disturbing than rats.’
‘Like what?’ Becker remains bent at the waist, collecting up the black leather dress.
‘Like footage on the CCTV of you screwing me like you might never have sex again.’
Becker shoots up and gawks at me. ‘What?’
‘In the corridor the night I left.’
Recognition lands on his face, his mouth dropping open. ‘Oh fuck.’
I nod my head in agreement. ‘I happened to be in your office with your gramps when he stumbled upon it. Then Mrs Potts joined us, too.’
‘Oh fuck.’ His arms drop to his sides, the dresses hanging.
‘You must know there’s a camera in the corridor.’
‘I asked Percy to wipe them. He must have got side-tracked.’
‘Probably because you asked him to break into my apartment with you.’
‘Are you going to hold that against me forever?’
‘Yes,’ I retort simply, looking around and spotting a camera in the corner. ‘Make sure you delete the last half hour.’
‘Stupid dog.’ The door flies open and Winston bolts in. ‘Oh!’ Mrs Potts takes in the scene, her head swinging from me to Becker a few times. ‘There is someone in here, then.’
I don’t go bright red. I don’t know why. Maybe because shame is something I’m getting used to. Or maybe I’m becoming as cocky as my gorgeous boyfriend. ‘Just leaving.’ I bowl past Mrs Potts, abandoning Becker to face her alone as he fights his way into his T-shirt.Chapter 17I take it upon myself to leave work early so I can meet Lucy. I need to escape the magical world of The Haven, just to remind myself that there’s a real world beyond the walls of Becker’s dangerously idyllic sanctuary. Lucy doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve packed some things and I’m getting ready at her place for our night out tonight.
I look down at my phone as I sit on the wall outside the glass building that houses TC&E Accountants where Lucy works, seeing the text from Becker that arrived a few minutes after I left. I didn’t open it. I can’t reply within five minutes if I don’t know what it says. Now it’s been thirty minutes since my phone chimed, six times longer than my allotted time, according to his NDA, and I have another message. My phone pings again. Make that another two. On a smile, I open the first message.
I miss you already. What time are you home?
Home. Is that what it is now? I scroll to the next message.
You’ve just breached your contract. Strike 2.
I roll my eyes insolently, moving to the next.
You’re walking a very thin line, princess.
I recoil in disgust. ‘I’m barely walking at all, thanks to you.’ My bum cheeks sing their agreement as I exit the screen, casting my mind back to the library, when I confessed my knowledge of the secret book and the map. Three strikes and I’m out? The map. The piece of art with a story amid the beautiful design. The missing piece. The key to Becker’s mission.
I pull up Google. And I stare at the search bar, fighting the urge. This is becoming a habit. My fingers work mindlessly, typing in ‘Head of a Faun’ and I scroll the results. Of course, the results are limited and tell me nothing I don’t already know. What did you expect, Eleanor? Directions to the missing piece? A diagram of where it can be found? My shoulders slump, my mind wanders, and not for the first time, I sense the frustration Becker must feel over the mystery of the lost piece of the map and the sculpture. Where would one even begin to look for it? God, to have confirmation that Michelangelo really did destroy it himself. That would be the perfect outcome. But, also, what a travesty that would be. Old Mr Hunt’s words come back to me. Getting your hands on something that is thought lost in history gives you a rush like nothing else. I smile. I bet.
