Artful Lies (Hunt Legacy Duology 1)

‘He can smell something on you,’ the old man informs me, straightening his thin lips when I look at him questioningly. ‘Or someone.’

Bugger.

I can’t lie, and now I know for sure that Mrs Potts has filled in Mr H on what she found in Becker’s bed this morning. ‘No oh dears, please,’ I beg, rinsing my hands. I can’t even find the will to blush scarlet. It is what it is, and it’s exactly what Mrs Potts and Mr H predicted it to be. I look to Winston, who’s now settling back in his basket. I’ve showered. Surely he can’t smell Becker on me.

‘I’m saying nothing.’ Becker’s grandad watches me rinsing my hands and slips some egg past his lips, like he’s filling his mouth to make it impossible to speak. Maybe he can’t trust himself, because I’d put my life on him having far more to say.

I grab the tea towel and lean my arse against the worktop while I dry my hands, flinching when my tender skin comes to rest on the hard surface. Then I remember the vow I made to myself yesterday. ‘I’m going to take you for lunch,’ I declare, strolling over and sitting opposite him.

He stops chewing and is looking at me like I asked for the secret to eternal youth. ‘Pardon me?’

‘You and me,’ I say, putting the tea towel down and passing Mr H a napkin when I spot a bit of egg yolk on the corner of his mouth. ‘Together. Anywhere you want.’

He accepts the napkin gingerly and wipes at his mouth, eyeing me with doubt. I smile back at him, amused by his wariness. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Just . . . because.’

‘Because what?’

‘Because I want to.’

‘Are you going to pick my brains about my dumb maverick grandson? Because if so, I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.’ He returns his attention to his plate and cuts into another egg, shaking his head to back up his dismissal.

I retreat in my chair on Becker’s behalf, because I’m certain that would sting him like hell if he was here. Obviously, they haven’t cleared the air yet. Mr H can’t seem to even think about his grandson without looking like he’s sucking on a lemon. He’s well and truly miffed. But maybe I can fix that. I open my mouth to speak, but he interrupts my intended fix-it speech.

‘And he’s just made things worse by casting you under his spell. I thought you were smarter than that, Eleanor. Not like the rest of the brainless tarts.’ Mr H huffs disgustedly, and I withdraw again. Is he calling me a brainless tart? Ouch. ‘Sorry about your apartment, by the way.’ He waves a fork in the air, keeping his attention on his eggs. I keep my mouth firmly shut. I’m dealing with two very anti-Becker people. After the head-to-head last night, I know that the revelations of this morning – namely, me in Becker’s bed – have only added to the sour feelings. But he’s right. I am under Becker’s spell. I’m a baffling mixture of confused and excited by it. And I’m a whole lot of feeble, too. But fighting something that feels so incredibly right is fucking hard, even if you know it’s wrong. I should cut myself some slack. It’s a powerful spell. ‘Man thinks with his penis,’ Mr H barks to himself.

I cough in surprise, not that it’s noted. Then I lean across the table to assure him I know what I’m doing, even if I haven’t a clue. I just want to try and ease his worry, but I get no further than opening my mouth before he’s off again.

‘Let me enlighten you on something, Eleanor.’

I sit back again, wary, and he sighs.

‘My Mags, that’s Becker’s grandmother, fell ill while I was away looking for that damn missing piece of the map. Cancer. Given weeks, but she didn’t tell me. She left me gallivanting around the world while she suffered alone at home.’ He shakes his head sadly, looking off into the distance. My heart breaks for him. ‘I got home and found half the woman I left. It had only been weeks. Aggressive, it was. Ravaged my beautiful girl.’ His voice breaks. I have to swallow down the lump in my throat, thinking about my father. Just like Mr H’s wife, my father kept his suffering from us until it was too late.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘So am I,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m sorry I made her believe that my search for that blessed map and sculpture was more important than she was.’

‘I’m sure she didn’t think that,’ I offer, anything to ease the crippling guilt he clearly lives with.

He forces out a laugh. ‘Thank you for your compassion, however wasted it is. I’ll never forgive myself for squandering precious time looking for that damn map. Let me tell you this, Eleanor. Becker won’t allow himself to get attached to anyone.’