I turn my eyes on to Becker, desperate to see what he’s making of this. Why hasn’t he bid? He’s still simply staring at the glass cabinet showcasing the sculpture. I nudge his knee discreetly with mine to get his attention. He doesn’t look at me, choosing to keep his focus on the lost treasure.
‘Fifteen,’ I breathe, taking a cautious peek around me to ensure no attention is on me. I have nothing to worry about. All eyes are on the two men in the bidding war.
‘The people on the phone are a museum in Florence,’ Becker says quietly, not breaking his focus from the sculpture. ‘They can’t go any higher than sixteen.’
I swing my eyes up to the balcony, just as the man on the phone yells, ‘Sixteen.’
But Brent yells, ‘Seventeen,’ in quick succession, putting the museum in Florence out of the game. I look up to the sweaty guy on the balcony and see him shaking his head, confirming what Becker’s told me.
‘Seventeen in the room.’ The gavel points to Brent.
‘Becker.’ I turn into him, my sensible side kicking in. ‘You can’t spend this kind of money.’ Especially if this is a war of the egos between him and Brent. It’s crazy. I don’t care if it’s a Michelangelo. ‘Let—’ My mouth snaps shut when I catch his finger rising slowly to his mouth.
‘Shhhh.’ He hushes me, the low, seductive whoosh silencing me in an instant. ‘Calm your britches, princess. I’m not that crazy.’
Everything in me relaxes. ‘Good, let the idiot blow his fortune.’
‘Precisely.’ Becker looks at me and lets a small smile crack the corners of his mouth, then I watch in confusion as he slowly raises his paddle into the air. ‘Twenty million,’ he bids.
My mouth drops open. What the fucking hell? He stares at me, that boyish, cheeky smile gracing his beautiful face, while I gape at him, feeling the attention in the room divert to us. People cry out in delight, in shock, in awe.
‘Twenty million in the room.’
‘Becker, what are you doing?’ I ask, unbothered by the sound level of my voice. There’s not a chance anyone could possibly hear me through the hustle and bustle.
He brings his paddle down and leans into me, putting his lips at my ear. My eyes close and everything around me fades to nothing. ‘I hate him, Eleanor.’
I frown into my darkness, totally confused, but when I open my eyes, Becker is smiling, getting comfortable in his seat again. He winks at me and returns his focus to the glass cabinet.
‘Your hate must be of epic levels if you’re prepared to part with so much cash, just to stop Brent from getting hold of the sculpture.’
‘Epic doesn’t cover it,’ Becker says.
Swallowing hard, I settle in my chair and work hard to ignore the excited faces glaring at us. All excited, except Brent. He’s scowling.
The auctioneer looks over his glasses to Brent. ‘Do I have twenty-one?’
Brent’s shoulders are tense, nearly touching his earlobes. He wasn’t happy at fifteen million. I can only imagine he’s absolutely insane with frustration at twenty-one. Being outbid by such a huge amount and by his arch-enemy, no less? Fucking hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he launched himself over the chairs and attacked.
‘Twenty-one,’ Brent spits, reaching up to his face with his paddle-free hand. I expect he’s wiping the sweat from his brow.
‘Thirty,’ Becker says coolly.
I don’t move. I don’t say a word. I mimic Becker’s poise and stare at the priceless sculpture. Why does Becker hate Brent so much? His explanation in the garage this morning seems feeble now. Keep your enemies close? He’d rather burn a priceless object than see Brent Wilson get his hands on it? What, even if it costs him millions? There’s more to it, there has to be, but now really isn’t the time to ask.
‘Thirty-one,’ Brent bellows in response. The room is silent. Not even the auctioneer can recite the bids before the counter bids are declared.
‘Forty million.’ Becker spells it out clearly and concisely without a hint of his mental state, which I’d say is fucking crackpot right now.
There are screams this time. The whole damn place plummets into complete chaos. It’s hardly surprising. Nothing would stop me from reacting to that one, either. Forty million? Who has that kind of money? I should laugh at my silent, stupid question. The Hunts. That’s who. Becker isn’t messing around. Brent is creeping up in pathetic one million-pound increments, while Becker is slamming down fucking colossal bids. He really doesn’t want Brent to have Head of a Faun.
Amid the madness of people surrounding us, Brent flies up from his seat. He’s furious. ‘Fifty million,’ he yells. His hair is in disarray from his jerky movements. He looks a state, whereas Becker looks perfectly composed and together.
Things are getting out of hand, and I start to wonder where this ends. Becker wants that piece, and so does Brent. I don’t expect either man to relent and lose face, so I settle in, looking ahead to the treasure that’s sent this auction room into pandemonium.