Artful Lies (Hunt Legacy Duology 1)

‘But it’s a no.’ I turn and walk away, hearing Becker chuckle. Oh, he’s pushing my buttons. I stop and turn. ‘Not today, anyway. Maybe tomorrow?’ I raise my eyebrows, and Brent smiles, victorious. Becker, however, looks like his head might pop off with shock. Take that, Hunt. Two can play your game.

‘Tomorrow,’ Brent says on a huge smile that I’m dying to slap away.

I grit my teeth. ‘Fabulous.’ I slam the door behind me, and march to the kitchen. Mr H is gone, and I ignore the stab of guilt I feel for being grateful I’m alone. I need to pull myself together.

I spend five minutes pacing the kitchen, trying to cool off, at the same time playing over my senseless rambling about Brent’s car, worrying whether I’ve planted any seeds of suspicion in his head. Maybe I have where his car is concerned, but I couldn’t have possibly given any reason for him to believe the sculpture is a fake.

I pull my jumper away from my chest, coming over all sweaty. Bloody hell, I can feel myself going into meltdown. I wasn’t told deception would be part of my job. Or willpower to resist my boss. I’m crap at both.

Winston looks up at me, his doggy brain probably wondering what has got into me. Yesterday, I’m sure he would’ve come to comfort me, but he simply watches me from his basket today, sleepily. He even pokes his nose out a little, trying to get a whiff of me without having to drag himself from his bed to find out if I’m still sleeping with the enemy. ‘I still smell of him,’ I snap.

‘Who are you talking to?’

I whirl around and there’s Becker regarding me with slight concern.

I’m talking to myself, marching doggedly around the big kitchen, pulling at my clothes to try and relieve the claustrophobic feeling and anger. ‘You’ve got a nerve, Hunt,’ I yell, and he laughs, but it is 100 per cent sarcastic.

‘So do you.’ His face deadpans quickly, all amusement gone.

‘Why was he here?’

‘To ask you out, obviously.’

‘And you let him in?’

‘Yes,’ he answers simply, stunning me further. ‘I couldn’t resist seeing you turn him down.’ His face twists dangerously.

Good. His plan backfired. What was he trying to prove, anyway? ‘Well, sorry you’re disappointed.’

‘I’m not disappointed, because you’re not going. I know you’re only trying to get a rise out of me, but it won’t work. You’ve had this.’ He indicates down his front, pointing out the perfection of it all. ‘Why would you want anything else?’

The arrogant bastard. And I’m not getting a rise out of him? Sure. ‘Excuse me. I need to call someone to confirm a date.’ I make to move and get intercepted before my feet leave the ground.

‘Whoa.’ He laughs, but there’s a nervous edge to it. It fills me with all kinds of smug satisfaction. ‘Don’t be spiteful.’

‘I’m not.’ I move to the left, knowing damn well he’ll do the same. He always does. It’s like he’s wired to my brain, knows every move I’m going to make. It’s not a good thing. I look up and give him a rebellious stare. ‘You’re in my way.’

Becker’s hackles rise, his boots bringing him a step towards me. ‘And?’

His aggravation makes me smile. ‘You okay?’ I ask, watching him bubble with annoyance.

‘Never better.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, absolutely.’ He waves a hand indifferently in the air but fails to rid his face of the tight scowl.

‘That’s good then.’

‘You’re not going for lunch with him!’

I burst into a fit of giggles. ‘I’m not getting a rise out of you?’

‘You fucking infuriate me.’

‘Join the club, boss,’ I snipe, poking him in the shoulder. ‘I’d rather be trapped in a tomb with a million rats than go on a date with Brent Wilson, but don’t you ever put me in that situation ever again.’

He settles immediately, pouting. ‘Sorry,’ he more or less grunts.

‘And I don’t just mean the possessive bullshit, either. You shouldn’t have tossed me in with the lions. I could have dropped you in it about the car or the sculpture. I wasn’t prepared.’

Becker rolls his eyes condescendingly, walking over to the fridge. I know what he’s doing. He opens the door and closes it quickly, facing me with an apple poised at his mouth. ‘Wilson knows who scratched his car.’ He takes a big bite, making a long, drawn-out affair of munching his way through. My stomach clenches. The nerves of my core tingle. I just can’t stop them, and I’m not under any illusion that every muscle in my body solidifying will rein them in. Becker catches my sudden stiffness, his glimmering eyes dropping to my crotch. I furiously fight to ignore him. ‘You handled yourself just fine,’ he says on a secret smile.

Did he hear my rambling? ‘I need to get on.’