The auctioneer points at Brent. ‘Fifty million from Mr Wilson.’
I wait for it. It’s coming.
Any.
Moment.
Now.
Except it doesn’t. Becker is silent beside me, and while I know the money being bid here is astronomically stupid, even for a long-lost Michelangelo, I’m suddenly overcome by an unreasonable wish for him not to let Brent win. Maybe it’s the wicked glint in Brent’s eyes as he looks over. Or maybe it’s because that piece belongs somewhere special, like a museum or at The Haven. Or maybe it’s simply because I want Becker to win and really want Brent to lose. For me, that would be the best slap in the face, even if I’m not technically delivering it.
‘Going once.’
I look across and find Becker staring blankly at the cabinet, oblivious to all eyes on him, waiting for his counter bid. He looks like he’s in a trance. Or is he thinking? I can’t be sure, so I nudge his knee. He turns his face slowly to mine. ‘It’s on you,’ I prompt, nodding my head towards the auctioneer.
‘Going twice.’ The auctioneer is looking at Becker like everyone else, his gavel hanging limply in his hand.
I have no idea what to make of the expression Becker is giving me. It’s vacant, but there’s fondness in there somewhere, too. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
He takes a deep breath and reaches for my hand, taking it gently and weaving his fingers with mine. I look down, confused by his move, but not so confused by the growing heat of the blood in my veins. Everything around me is silent again. Gone.
‘Just in case I forget to tell you when we get out of here,’ he says quietly, and I look back up at him, finding a calm, expressionless face. But those eyes. They’re alive and dancing, and gazing affectionately at me. ‘I’ve loved every second I’ve spent with you today.’ He smiles.
Of all the crazy shit that’s happened in this room, it’s this moment that takes my breath away and refuses to give it back. He squeezes my hand gently and turns to the auctioneer. ‘I’m out.’ He snaps to life, stands and pulls me up by my hand. Becker nods courteously to Brent like a true gentleman, gracious in defeat. ‘Congratulations, Wilson.’
‘Sold to Mr Wilson for fifty million.’
Bang!
Brent’s chest is puffing with pride. ‘Thanks.’ He gives our joined hands a scornful look, before quickly restoring his superiority when everyone in the room loses interest in Becker and rushes to offer Brent their congratulations. He laps it up. It’s sickening, and while Becker seems to accept defeat with perfect grace, I can’t help feeling bitter.
‘Come on, princess.’ Becker tugs my hand, and I look up to find him studying me with a hint of amusement on his face.
‘What?’ I ask, failing to erase my sulky expression.
‘Nothing.’ He pulls me through the crowds of people, politely asking to be excused when people block our path.
‘He shouldn’t have won it,’ I grumble, dodging bodies as I trail Becker.
‘He didn’t win it, Eleanor. He paid for it.’
We break free of the packed room and hit the marble floor of the entrance hall. ‘I didn’t mean win in that sense. I meant it only in the sense that Brent Wilson feels like he has one up on you. Head of a Faun belongs somewhere special. It belongs at The Haven.’
Becker peeks down to my moody face as he strides onward. ‘Are you becoming a bit protective of your boss, princess?’ he asks seriously, raising his eyebrows as he removes his glasses. ‘Because that might be seen to be inappropriate.’
‘Or just loyal,’ I retort, forcing our joined hands up so he can see them. ‘This is inappropriate.’
Becker smiles and drops my hand as we continue walking. It makes me wish I’d kept my stupid mouth shut. ‘I’m glad I brought you here today.’
‘You are?’ I thought he would regret it after my coffee-spitting performance.
‘Yes, your reaction to Brent winning the sculpture confirms something.’
I look up at him, keeping up with his strides. ‘Confirms what?’
‘That I can trust you.’
‘Trust me to sulk when you lose, you mean?’
He chuckles. ‘You’ve nothing to be worried about. I never lose.’
My steps falter, causing me to fall behind him until I come to a stop. ‘But you just did.’
Becker looks back when he notices I’m no longer at his side, and his soles skid to a stop. He places his hands in his pockets and walks back to me, closing the distance between us. I watch him closely as he slowly dips his head until his eyes are level with mine. He looks way too cheerful for someone who lost out to their arch-enemy. His smile is bright. Happy. I’m confused.
But then he speaks and transforms my confusion into horror. ‘I didn’t lose, Eleanor. Brent’s just paid fifty million for a lump of marble that I could have sculptured.’