Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
‘Me too.’ Becker steps into me and takes my cheeks with both palms, squeezing, before raining kisses all over my face.
I sigh, letting him at me. ‘What have you been up to in your secret room?’ I ask quietly, aiming for a complete subject change.
‘Trying to relax.’ Becker answers, pulling away and finding my eyes. Trying. He obviously failed. He’s been on edge since I told him who I saw at Sotheby’s the other day. Has he found out anything? Surely the police would want to talk to anyone there, including me.
‘The police have been in touch.’
He’s a mind reader. It scares me. ‘And . . .?’
‘And they want to take a statement from you.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ve told them what I know. Which isn’t much.’
‘Are they coming here?’
He snorts. ‘Not a chance. Hell will freeze over before I let a copper inside the walls of The Haven. They’re lucky I talked to them at all.’
I wince, seeing the article I found on the internet about his father’s death. A mugging gone wrong. It’s ridiculous. And his mother? The police weren’t exactly helpful then, either. ‘And what should I say to them?’
‘The truth, Eleanor. Just tell them why we were there and what happened.’
Easy for him. I can’t help but worry that he’s not going to let this slide. Brent didn’t want that painting. He knew how much Becker wanted it and that’s the only reason he’s acquired it. Yet I keep going back to . . . how? How does a businessman like Brent Wilson steal a bloody Georgia O’Keeffe from Sotheby’s?
‘Becker,’ I start, but his finger covers my mouth and he delivers that sexy shush.
‘I’m over it.’ He moves his palms to my shoulders. ‘Paula is proud of me.’
Paula? Dr Vass, his therapist? ‘You’re still seeing her?’ Voices in my head remind me of that conversation between Becker and his granddad, the one where old Mr H demanded his grandson sought therapy instead of using me as his medicine. So he’s doing both? Is that a good thing?
His expression takes on an edge of annoyance, his hand going to the back of his neck and stroking at his nape. ‘Yes. She’s like a dog with a fucking bone now she knows about you.’
I laugh on the inside, recalling her surprise when she learned of my trip to Countryscape with Becker. ‘And what does she make of us?’ I ask.
‘She was quite shocked when I told her that I’m kind of attached to you.’
‘Attached to me?’
‘Yes, like one of my treasures.’
‘Is that what she said?’ I can see her now, analysing how Becker sees me. Like one of his prized treasures.
‘Yes.’
I’m offended. ‘Does that mean you’d rather burn me than let someone else have me?’
The look of disgust that invades his face is profound. He could be chewing mud. ‘Pretty much, yes.’
‘That’s so romantic.’ I laugh, bringing my palm to my forehead to smooth out the wrinkles caused by my frown.
‘I never claimed to be romantic.’ Becker snatches my hand from my head and starts pulling me across the courtyard towards the showing room. ‘But I’m going to try.’
‘You are?’ This should be interesting.
‘Yes. Paula has given me a few pointers.’
‘You asked your therapist for relationship advice?’
‘Among other things.’
‘Like what?’ My mind is racing.
‘Like what dress you might like,’ he tells me nonchalantly. Really? Oh God, this could be a catastrophe. Did Becker tell her that my colouring isn’t exactly versatile? Did he tell her that I have a rather curvy arse? ‘Why did you have me take Paula’s calls those times?’ I ask.
His steps stutter slightly, and I glance up to find him pouting to himself. ‘I wanted her to get to know you before I declared my situation.’
‘What situation?’
‘You, princess.’ He sighs tiredly, as if bored of the conversation. ‘You are my situation.’
‘You make me sound like a burden,’ I grumble, pouting.
‘You kind of are.’
My slighted state just got even more slighted. That’s charming. ‘You’re a situation for me, too, you know? Being mixed up with your boss isn’t ideal. Especially one who’s a con artist, forger, and has you sworn to secrecy.’
He stops us and circles my neck with his big palms, looking down at me with a slight edge of tiredness. ‘Nothing about this is ideal, Eleanor. That much I’ve figured out.’ His expression softens and he loosens his grip of my neck a little, forcing a smile. ‘Just keep stumbling with me, princess, and I’ll keep stumbling with you.’
‘Will we ever stop stumbling?’ It could get tiring, wear us both down.
Becker’s forced smile transforms into a genuine, cheeky one, and he drops a chaste kiss on my forehead. ‘I fucking hope not. I love stumbling with you.’ He opens the door to the showing room, and music penetrates my hearing. I throw him a questioning look as Miike Snow croons ‘Silvia’.