Artful Lies (Hunt Legacy Duology 1)

The auctioneer waits for the chatter to die down, looking around the room with a smile on his face. Once it’s quiet, he remains silent for a long, extended length of time before he begins to talk. It’s a tension builder, if ever there was one, and it works. Everyone in the room is holding their breath, except Becker. His eyes are still rooted firmly on the glass cabinet.

‘Head of a Faun,’ the auctioneer begins, low and dramatic, slowly gliding his gavel through the air until it’s pointing at the glass cabinet. ‘The lost sculpture of the Italian Renaissance master Michelangelo himself.’ A few whispers start again, but only briefly before silence falls and the auctioneer continues. ‘It’s been authenticated by world-class Michelangelo experts. We all know that many of the master’s pieces have been found hidden in obscurity. This is a perfect example. I won’t bore you with what you already know.’ He chuckles to himself, and for the first time I hear life from Becker in the form of a tired sigh. He might look impassive, but he’s bored out of his mind. I smile and bring my coffee to my lips, feeling relaxed for the first time since they brought out the sculpture. ‘A true discovery,’ the auctioneer continues. ‘I’ll say no more and start with a commission bid of ten million pounds.’

Ten million pounds? I inhale sharply, sucking back the coffee I just tipped into my mouth. It hits the back of my throat and I proceed to cough all over the place, spraying milky liquid in every direction. Ten million. I splutter uncontrollably, my hands now vibrating, the remaining coffee in my cup swishing around precariously. Ten million? I couldn’t have heard him right.

I’m so busy trying to compose myself and wipe the dribbles of coffee from my chin, I don’t notice that everyone in the room has craned their necks to see who’s causing the drama.

‘Smooth,’ Becker mutters, whipping a hanky from his jacket pocket and dangling it in front of me without looking at my frightful state. ‘You’re dribbling.’

I peek up through my lashes and spy a million eyes, all narrowed, looking my way. I wince, shrink into my chair until I’m practically lying on the floor, and blush harder than I ever have before. And that’s an achievement, given my susceptible colouring. Everyone is staring at me. I feel like a total tit.

‘Thank you,’ I murmur, reaching for his handkerchief before dabbing at my face gently, all ladylike, pretending I didn’t silence a whole room of aristocratic hoity-toity old farts in one of the most famous auction houses in the world. Good God, I’m an absolute disgrace.

When I’m done with my clean-up operation, I muster some bravery and confront my spectators, devastated to see that I’m still the centre of attention. There’s nothing I can do to redeem myself, so I sniff and raise my chin as I straighten my shoulders. I’m squirming on the inside. Positively dying. Humiliated. I bet Becker’s all kinds of regretful for bringing me along. If the auctioneer doesn’t pick up where he left off soon, I’m making a run for it. There’s only so long I can sit here with everyone staring at me.

‘Eleven million.’

The announcement from a couple rows in front of us does the trick. Everyone in the room swings their attention away from me, and I follow their lead. Brent catches my eye and smiles, shaking his head at me. ‘Eleven million,’ he repeats, turning away from me to face the front, raising his paddle.

I gawp then swing my eyes to Becker, looking for his reaction. His attention hasn’t wavered from the sculpture.

‘Eleven in the room. Do I hear twelve?’

‘Twelve.’

A sea of heads swing up to the balcony, then back into the room quickly when Brent shouts, ‘Thirteen.’

The gasps grow louder with each bid.

‘Thirteen in the room from Mr Wilson.’ The auctioneer points his gavel at Brent. ‘Do I have fourteen?’

‘Here.’ Back our heads go again to the balcony, where the guy on the phone is waving his paddle in the air. It’s clear from all the way down here that he’s sweating, his head shimmering under the lighting above. I would be, too, if I were bidding this kind of money on someone’s behalf.

The chatter in the room accelerates, people hushing each other, some holding the arm of the person sitting next to them, bracing themselves. I’m thoroughly caught up in the hype, getting a rush of adrenalin from the tension and excitement. Brent catches my eye again, his profile clear as he looks up at the balcony, scowling at his competitor.

‘Fifteen million.’ He pushes the words through clenched teeth, slowly turning back to the front of the room and lifting his paddle. His bid takes the hype up to another level. Someone at the front stands and looks back at Brent, and someone else whips out their phone and starts frantically hammering at the screen. It’s a frenzy of stunned activity. You can almost hear the heart of every single person in the room beating.