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What?
My hand flies to my mouth to stop my shriek of shock. ‘It’s fake?’ I hiss.
Becker looks up to the ceiling, thinking. ‘Yes, I’d say so.’
This doesn’t make any sense. Why would Becker bid on a piece if he knows it’s fake? The answer comes swift and fast and without the need to ask. ‘You tricked him.’ Becker pushed the bids up, forced Brent to pay well over the odds. Oh my days.
‘How do you know for certain it’s a fake?’ He could be wrong. It might be genuine.
He straightens up, looking at me with a hint of mischief in his eyes. It worries me. It tells me I’m not going to like what he says next. ‘Because,’ he murmurs quietly, leaning into me a little, ‘I know where the real one is.’ He slips his shades on, swivels on his heel, and strolls right out of Countryscape, leaving me with my jaw on the posh mosaic floor.Chapter 21I’m still standing in the exact same place, who knows how long later. Becker knows where the real one is? He just bid obscene money on a fake? Good Lord.
‘Becker,’ I yell, willing life back into my dead legs and sprinting after him. I hit the top of the steps outside Countryscape and skid to a stop before I fall down the damn things in my rush. I spot him at the bottom. ‘Becker.’ I’m off again, unable to calm my urgency to get to him and demand an explanation. Perhaps there’s a bit of panic in that urgency, too. I feel like a crook fleeing a crime scene.
I charge down the steps like a madwoman, disregarding the potential of falling and breaking my neck, which is a definite possibility in these shoes. Landing at the bottom in a flustered mess, I find my boss has removed his sunglasses and is looking up to the clear blue sky, inhaling the fresh countryside air with a look of pure exhilaration on his perfect face. He’s just divulged something wildly unbelievable and strolled off like it’s all so very normal. And now he looks the happiest I’ve probably seen him. I’m stumped for words. I frown to myself while Becker gazes up to the sky, waiting for him to finish up with his . . . moment.
It’s a nerve-racking few minutes. I’m constantly checking behind me for anyone who might run out of the mansion shouting allegations of corruption.
‘Do you smell that?’ He finally speaks, taking one last deep inhale through his nose before he lets it stream out of his mouth.
I smell. I actually sniff the air around me. I’m such a twat. Whatever smell Becker is currently taking great pleasure from, no one else can smell it. This is personal. ‘What?’ I ask, confident of the answer I will get.
‘That, princess, is the smell of retribution.’ He drops his head on a broad smile. His eyes are twinkling madly. ‘You okay?’
‘Actually, no,’ I cry, wincing at the sound level of my own voice and quickly looking over my shoulder. It’s all clear, but this isn’t a conversation for here. In fact, this isn’t a conversation to have within a ten-mile radius of here.
I grab his arm and roughly drag him over to Gloria. He doesn’t bother trying to stop me, nor does he complain about my rough handling of him. Good job for him. My desire to flee Countryscape, coupled with my desire for an explanation, has made for one determined princess.
‘Open the car,’ I snap, my eyes darting around us. I’m jumpy. I can’t help it. Becker, on the other hand, is unruffled and highly amused by my edginess.
He makes no attempt to obey my demand, and rolls his eyes, making a mockery of my concern. ‘Calm your britches, princess.’ He moves in fast, scooping me from my feet.
‘Oh,’ I cry, grabbing his shoulders when my feet disappear from beneath me. He walks straight past Gloria, and my head cranes, seeing her getting further away. Aren’t we leaving?
‘Let’s talk.’ He places me neatly on something, and for a second I wonder what, until I notice the sparkling silver Bentley winged motif next to my thigh.
‘Why have you sat me on Brent’s car bonnet?’ I ask incredulously, scrambling to get off. I don’t get very far.
Becker pushes me right back on. ‘Stay where you are.’ His palms land on each side of my legs, closing me in. Then I hear a high-pitched noise that cuts right through me. Metal on metal. My palms go straight to my ears to protect them from the cutting sound, and Becker gives me a feigned surprised look. I glimpse down to see the metal strap of his watch resting on the Bentley. ‘Oops,’ he says, lifting his wrist to reveal a monster scratch.
I look at his smugly satisfied face in horror. ‘Why did you do that?’ I ask, licking the tip of my finger and frantically rubbing at the mark. I’m being stupid. I heard the damage and now I can see it. That’s one deep scratch. Oh my days, I’m going to be arrested for all kinds of crimes. An accessory. Aiding and abetting. Criminal damage. I’ve never got my nose dirty before. Now I’m a criminal. ‘I don’t like you very much today,’ I grumble mindlessly. ‘Isn’t it enough that you’ve just conned Brent for fifty million without vandalising his posh car?’
