Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology 2)

I shake my head. He’s such a juvenile sometimes. ‘You’re a twat.’

Becker laughs and straightens the frame of a picture as we pass. ‘Yes, a holier-than-thou one, apparently. And you love me.’Chapter 12The following Tuesday, I stroll into Becker’s office to discuss the upcoming sale of a Dalí, finding the elaborate space empty. I take a seat at his grand desk and try calling him, but it rings off, and I lean back, wondering where he could be.

My eyes cast over to the bookcase where his secret room is beyond, and I bite my lip, slowly rising. It helps him relax. A couple of times over the weekend he disappeared for a few hours. And a couple of times I found grey smudges on his face. Is he relaxing now?

I narrow my eyes on the bookcase where I know the entrance to be, as I round the desk tentatively and edge towards it, listening for any sounds beyond. Nothing. So I feel up the bookcase, finding it flush. I pout, edging away, slowly taking myself back to his desk. I lower to the chair, thinking. How long did it take him to masterfully craft that fake? How long was he plotting to rip off Brent Wilson and clear the path for his treasure hunt?

The home screen on his computer seizes my attention. The Google search bar is empty. Begging to be filled. Curiosity and intrigue seems to growing in me by the day.

My fingers are tapping before I can stop them, and I hit enter. The page loads with various articles, and I scroll through them, searching. My heartbeats quicken when I see something. An article from a local London newspaper. I click it and inhale when Becker’s father’s face fills the screen. The Hunt men were definitely at the front of the queue when God was giving out looks. Lord, it’s like looking at Becker, just a few years older. He’s wearing glasses too, and not for the first time I wonder how bad Becker’s eyesight is.

Becker’s dad is in a tuxedo, a brandy in his hand, obviously at some kind of gala or ball. And next to him, the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. Lou Hunt. Becker’s mother. Her hand is wrapped around a wine glass, her neck adorned with some serious sparklers, her body encased in a black velvet gown. She’s mesmerising. Or was. I wince, a horrible pain radiating through me. Such a handsome couple. Such a waste. And all because of that lost sculpture.

My eyes drop to the article below, and I inhale.

World renowned art dealer found dead in Italy

I start scrolling, hungry for information, even if I know what the newspapers reported wasn’t the truth. Then jump out my fucking skin when I’m grabbed from behind. ‘Boo,’ he says in my ear, and my finger finds the close icon and clicks off the screen before he spins me around and slams his mouth on mine.

‘You scared the crap out of me,’ I mumble against his lips.

‘I know. I can feel your heart thundering. What were you doing?’

I push my mouth harder to his, ignoring his question. ‘Where have you been?’

‘At Sotheby’s. I’ve acquired a new painting. Georgia O’Keeffe. We need to arrange delivery. Will you take care of it?’

‘Sure.’

‘The num—’

‘I can take care of it,’ I assure him, and he smiles.

‘You gonna pay for it, too?’

Ah. Good point. I smile sweetly. ‘Can I borrow some money?’

He laughs as his phone rings. ‘And there’s a Warhol exhibition coming up. Get me the catalogue?’ he asks, and I nod as he answers. ‘Hello?’ Becker pulls me from his chair, kisses my cheek, and takes my place, swatting my arse as I walk away.

I go straight to the coffee table between the couches and start collecting up a pile of books and putting them back on the shelves, anything to keep my attention off my impressive man sitting at his impressive replica of the Theodore Roosevelt desk.

Impossible. I peek over my shoulder, finding his eyes rooted to my arse. I cough, and he glances up, blinking. Then he shakes his head to himself and realigns his attention. I smile and carry on restacking the shelves, but I can feel him watching me. His office is literally throbbing with our combined desperation for each other. This working relationship was always hard, but now we’ve leaped over the line into acceptance and understanding, it’s unbearable. Keeping my hands to myself is an hourly challenge.

Peeking behind me again, I find Becker now in front of his desk, his phone to his ear, his arse resting on the edge, his spare hand braced on the wood. I gulp down some restraint and stupidly allow my relentless eyes to home in above his neck. His angel eyes behind his Ray-Ban specs are nailed to me.