Artful Lies (Hunt Legacy Duology 1)

I reach up and take his hand, gently pulling it down from my mouth. He doesn’t stop me. There’s sexual tension sizzling between us, cracking and sparking. It makes me draw a deep, self-controlled breath before I give in to it. Before Becker Hunt wins and proves what we both know: I’m more enthralled by him than I am irritated. But what about him? Is this just a game to him?

My eyes can’t resist a brief glimpse of his mouth. His lips are slightly parted. I could kiss them right now. Get an answer to my question. But I don’t swoop in. I’m not breaking. I like it here. I’m staying, and I won’t be distracted by his attempts to . . . well, distract me. Mrs Potts is right. Focus on the job. He really can’t help himself, so I will have to help him.

I lift my eyes. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ I pull away and shut the book with an ear-piercing crack, getting a small thrill when his shoulders jerk – something he tries and fails to disguise. I hold his eyes. ‘You’re keeping me from my work, Mr Hunt.’

He watches me with his penetrating stare for a few moments. I don’t shy away. I mustn’t show weakness. Then he clears his throat, pulling back like he’s been burnt. ‘I have a meeting in my office. Bring me tea for two.’ He stands, straightening out his suit and raking a hand through his tousled hair. He’s flustered. Well, isn’t that a novelty.

‘Yes, sir,’ I answer swiftly and clearly, placing the book on a nearby coffee table.

‘And don’t call me sir,’ he snaps, striding off and yanking the huge door open like it’s weightless. He slams it behind him, creating a deafening sound that rings in my ears long after he’s gone.

‘Jesus.’ I exhale, relaxing my strung-out muscles. That was way harder than it should have been. But I did it. I showed him. Take that, Becker Hunt. I will not break.

When I’m sure my legs can hold me up, which takes way too long for my liking, I head to the kitchen to fetch tea for two, as per his curt order.

‘Hello, dear.’ Mrs Potts shuts the fridge as I enter and places a chicken on the counter. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘Mr Hunt would like tea for his meeting.’

The instant worry that passes across her old features amuses me. ‘I’ll take it,’ she says, crossing the kitchen and pulling a teapot down from the shelf of an ancient wooden cabinet.

I join her and take the teapot from her grasp. ‘Mrs Potts, I can handle it.’

She eyes me doubtfully on a disbelieving huff. ‘The tea, or Becker?’ She attempts to reclaim the teapot, but I pull it away and give her a raised brow.

‘Both. He employed me to take the pressure off you. To relieve you.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I’m immune.’ That’s not true at all, but I’ve certainly reached an epic milestone. ‘Mrs Potts, I can see you have your hands full with Mr H. Please, let me help.’ I need to prove I can do this, to Mrs Potts and to myself.

It doesn’t take her long to relent, though I can tell it’s reluctantly. ‘Have it your way, but don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart.’ She’s off across the kitchen again.

Breaks my heart? ‘Let’s not get carried away, Mrs Potts.’ I laugh, opening the cupboards to find what I need. ‘My heart is perfectly safe.’ It’s my treacherous senses that are the problem here. No living, breathing woman could be unaffected by Becker Hunt.

She scoffs and dumps the chicken in a tray, then proceeds to cover it in tinfoil. ‘That’s what they all say.’

‘You have no need to worry,’ I assure her. Yes, he’s annoyingly attractive and probably hot in bed, but I know, beyond all things I know, that Becker Hunt isn’t the kind of man I could fall in love with. He’s too self-obsessed and conceited. He’s too in love with himself. And I definitely love my job too much. I know what true heartbreak is. I felt it as I said goodbye to my dad five years ago. I felt it when I turned from betrayal and left for London. This job? This is everything. I’m beginning to love me, and that’s what will keep my heart intact against Becker Hunt.

My tea for two is complete, the silver tray looking fit for royalty. I leave Mrs Potts hacking away at a pile of potatoes and make my way to Becker’s luxurious office, tray across my palms, my back straight. It takes a bit of awkward negotiating of the tray, but I finally balance it on a raised knee and ring the brass bell.

‘Come in.’

His demand is clipped. He’s pissed off. This knowledge fills me with unreasonable satisfaction as I push the handle down with my elbow and enter the room, kicking the door closed lightly with my heel. I spend a few moments reacquainting myself with his office, pulling up when I see a new addition. An amazing new addition to the regal space in the form of a huge grandfather clock. Not just huge. It’s massive, and when I look closely, I see the clock face is a stunning replica of the Shepherd Gate Clock.