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I gape down the line, astonished. ‘Are you for real?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you? I’m very real. We don’t associate with carelessness. The police sniffing around isn’t ideal.’
Yes, I can appreciate that, given the secret room where Becker loses himself from time-to-time and carved a fake Michelangelo. ‘Just promise me you have nothing to do with the Picassos,’ I beg, needing absolute clarification.
‘I promise you,’ he replies sincerely, and I sink into the couch, relieved.
‘Why didn’t Price just ask you?’ I ask.
‘Because he knows I’ll tell him to fuck off.’
I gawk down the phone. ‘Don’t hold back, will you?’
‘They weren’t exactly helpful when Mum and Dad were killed. Why would I help them?’
I tingle from top to toe as a result of Becker’s spat words, feeling resentment bubbling in my veins, my lip curling. My protectiveness stuns me. I’m so very glad I played dumb. To hell with the police. They weren’t there for Becker. Why the hell should he ever cooperate for them? ‘He also asked about my relationship with you,’ I go on.
‘And you said?’
‘I told him you’re my boss.’
Becker laughs hard. ‘Don’t you think the whole fucking world knows that we’re fucking, Eleanor?’
I frown down the line. ‘I didn’t think of that at the time, when I was being interrogated by the police. And do you want to rephrase that, Hunt?’
‘Sorry,’ he says, a little sheepishly. ‘In love. The whole world must know I’m in love with you. Better?’
I grin to myself. ‘Much. So now Price knows I’m a liar.’
‘Price can think what he likes, princess. I couldn’t give two shits. But at least he knows he’s wasting time trying to ply you for information. The Hunt Corporation has always been a private company. Let’s keep it that way.’
I go quiet, once again the gravity of my position at the firm and my involvement with Becker hitting me hard. ‘Okay,’ I agree quietly.
He sighs. ‘Get ready and go have a drink with Lucy.’ His instruction is soft and comforting. ‘Relax, princess. And be safe.’ He hangs up after his final order, just as Lucy appears from the bathroom.
‘All clear?’ she asks, rubbing at her hair with a towel.
I chuck my phone on the couch and stand, ignoring her question but taking on board what Becker has instructed me to do. Relax. ‘What are you wearing?’
She grins and scoops up the Topshop bag from the floor. ‘Brace yourself.’ She whips out . . . something.
‘What’s that?’ I ask, tilting my head as she unfolds the garment.
‘This’ – she shakes the material until I’m looking at something very . . . small – ‘is a playsuit.’
My eyes roam from top to bottom of the material. It doesn’t take me long. ‘That’s tits and legs,’ I point out. ‘You are breaking your own rule.’
She scoffs and drapes the pink, very short, very low playsuit over the back of a chair. ‘I feel like getting glammed up.’
I give the playsuit a dubious look. That’s a pulling outfit, the kind of outfit a woman wears when she wants attention. ‘Is everything okay with Mark?’
‘Fine.’ She shrugs and grabs the hairdryer, flipping her head over and turning it on. ‘Can’t a girl pull out all the stops once in a while?’ she calls over the roar of air.
‘You mean pull out her tits and legs?’
‘Potato, patarto.’Chapter 18Covent Garden is a hive of activity, groups of tourists still roaming among the hardcore Londoners who have ventured out to play. Being the good friend that I am, I didn’t abandon Lucy in her disgrace and instead supported her. That is why I am now skimpily clad in a short black draped dress, but my boobs are tucked safely away. My hair is piled high and messily, and my tiny black purse matches my heels. The ones that pinch like a bitch.
Lucy spots two stools at the bar and makes a beeline for them, grabbing the cocktail menu when she arrives. ‘You know what I think?’ she says, burying her nose in the leather-bound book with lists and lists of drinks.
‘What do you think?’ I ask, settling next to her and placing my tiny bulging purse on the bar.
‘I think we should work our way through the mojito menu. Every flavour.’ She looks up and waves a beckoning hand to the barman. ‘We’ll start with the blackcurrant.’
‘How many are there?’ I ask, craning my neck to see. Lucy turns the menu away from me. Her sly action tells me there are a lot of flavours on that menu.
‘Just a few.’ She points at the page and smiles sweetly at the barman. ‘Two of the blackcurrant, please. And when you see our drinks an inch from the bottom, start making the strawberry.’
‘Like your style.’ He laughs and grabs two tall glasses as Lucy slaps the menu down and turns her stool into me. I have to admit, her tits and legs look amazing, and she’s pinned up her short blond hair haphazardly. She looks lovely.
