Artful Lies (Hunt Legacy Duology 1)

‘I’m sure he will,’ I say, following Mrs Potts out of the kitchen. We make it only a few paces when we’re hit by a loud screech that bounces off the walls around us. ‘What the hell was that?’ I ask, looking around, startled.

‘Lord Almighty,’ Mrs Potts mutters, taking my arm. ‘Nothing, dear. Let’s be going.’

I can do no more than follow, looking over my shoulder, but then I hear it again, this time louder. ‘There,’ I say, pulling her to a stop. ‘There it is again.’ It sounds like a cat’s being strangled.

‘It’s nothing, Eleanor,’ she insists, making me frown.

‘It doesn’t sound like nothing to me.’

‘It really—’

‘Oh, Becker. You dirty boy.’ The high-pitched voice stabs at my back, and I swing around, despite Mrs Potts’s best efforts to pull me on. I’m horrified by what I see. A woman falling out of Becker’s office half-naked, her modesty covered only by frilly satin underwear. ‘Come get me, tiger.’

Tiger? My face screws up. I hate her. Why do I hate her? I toss the question aside quickly, afraid of the answer. Is this the woman I took the call from? Paula?

I know what I’m going to see next, and as much as I know it’s going to make my eyes bleed, I can’t seem to force my legs to carry me away. Mrs Potts is determinedly tugging on my arm, yet I remain in place, waiting for the inevitable. The brazen hussy steps back until her back meets the wall, then she holds a finger up and motions for him to come to her while she licks her lips seductively.

I’m prepared. I’m prepared. I’m prepared.

He appears.

Bare-chested.

I’m not prepared.

I swallow hard. Good God, there are no words. He’s an Adonis.

My eyes yell at me when I force them away, but I soon give them what they want and look at him again. Why am I doing this to myself? I’m beginning to hate this man. He irritates me, makes my blood boil with rage, and those things should make him unattractive. But they don’t. If anything, it’s making him even more enticing. I just don’t get it. I’m done with pricks. And Becker Hunt is the king of pricks.

I torture myself further by watching as he moves in slowly until his hard body is pressed up against her super-skinny frame, pinning her to the wall. He’s going to kiss her, and the distressed ache I feel completely muddles my mind. I should be cheering her on, thankful he clearly has someone else to occupy himself with. I should feel lucky to have escaped his so-called charm.

But I don’t feel lucky. I feel sick with jealousy. Quite frankly, I’m prepared to pull her off him by her hair. What’s got into me? I need to remove myself from this god-awful situation, but just as I’ve convinced my dead muscles to help me do that, I see him pause right before his lips meet hers. His profile is perfect, and I manage to blank out the women, who’s a whisker away from his face, and relish in it. Then he slowly turns towards me.

And I stop breathing.

His hazel eyes are serious. ‘Enjoy your date,’ he growls, a hint of a salacious smile gracing his perfect mouth. Then he roughly grabs the woman’s arm and drags her towards the curved stone staircase to his apartment.

My teeth grind and my jaw aches from being clenched. The absolute, first-class, total and complete arsehole. I should slap his face.

But . . .

Oh my God. I see something.

Something monumental, something that’s knocked me sideways, more so than the unreasonable hurt I’m feeling. I’m distracted from my unwarranted wounded feelings by the biggest tattoo I’ve ever seen, which spans Becker’s back.

I step forwards to get a better look, but I can’t make it out, can’t fathom the design; he’s too far away. It’s just shadows of grey ink, but it’s alive and swelling on his broad back. Riveted. I’m absolutely riveted by the revelation. A tattoo. Not just a tattoo, but an enormous piece of art.

When he reaches the foot of the staircase, he pushes Tiger Bird up and looks back at me. My lip involuntarily curls. Then he disappears up the stairs, and the last thing I hear before a door slams is the sound of a highly excited scream. Then silence. Then the hurt surges through me like a hurricane. That was all for my benefit. And it fucking stings like hell.

‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Potts says quietly, yanking me back to the here and now. ‘Oh dear, dear, dear.’

I shake my head on a disbelieving, quiet laugh, and muster all my strength to face Mrs Potts and appear fine when I’m far from it. He’s humiliated me. I fucking hate him. ‘Good night, Mrs Potts.’ I pass her quickly before I confirm what I know she’s thinking, if I haven’t already.