Artful Lies (Hunt Legacy Duology 1)

Woof, woof, woof!

‘Winston!’ Becker yells, but Winston doesn’t let up, and his next round of barks cranks up a level, sending Becker falling back to his arse.

Woof, woof, woof!

‘What the fucking hell has got into you?’ he shouts, scrambling to his feet. The look he chucks me is filthy. ‘What have you done to my dog?’ He points at Winston but soon retracts his hand, a look of horror on his face when his beloved pet snaps at his fingers.

I say nothing, too mortified by what nearly happened. I seem to have a killing machine on my lap. Becker isn’t impressed, standing before me while I look up at him in shock and Winston continues to make a racket. ‘Shhhh,’ I whisper in Winston’s ear, nuzzling into his cheek. He shuts up immediately and nuzzles right back.

Becker looks down at his burly pet with pure condemnation. ‘Traitor,’ he mutters, grabbing the file from the floor before swinging moodily around and stomping out of the library. ‘And get him off my couch.’ The door slams.

My body starts convulsing the moment he’s gone, and I realise it’s yelling for some oxygen. I gasp, my lungs screaming when I finally give them some air.

Fucking hell.

That was way too close for comfort.Chapter 12Winston and I have been locked away in the library all morning together, him snoozing, me working non-stop to distract myself. As a result, it’s been a productive few hours. After checking in with Mum, I worked my way through a whole case of books, sorting the reference books from the client files, and putting them back on the shelves in chronological order.

When Winston stirs a little on the couch – yes, I left him on the couch, fuck you very much, Mr Hunt – I look over and see him stretching out, his sleepy eyes blinking open. ‘I need tea,’ I declare. ‘C’mon, big guy.’ I slap my thigh as I make my way to the doors, hearing a thud as Winston lazily flops down from the couch.

He follows me down the corridor, but my steps falter when I hear a voice in the distance. Becker’s voice. And then I hear Mr H’s. I wouldn’t have paid much attention, but a loud bang resonates from Becker’s office, followed by a frustrated shout. I freeze, then look down to see Winston has made himself comfy at my feet.

‘Calm down, Becker boy,’ Mr H yells, and I purse my lips. It sounds like a very heated conversation and not for my ears, but just when I’ve convinced myself to move, Mr H goes on. And what he says has me standing stock-still again. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at her.’

My hand reaches for the wall, my body suddenly needing the support, and my eyes tumble to the ground. They begin to dart, waiting for Becker’s response. I’m not being presumptuous; I’m being shrewd. I need to know if what my intuition is telling me is the truth – I’ve seen the way he looks at me, too, and I’ve never been sure what to make of it. One minute, it feels like he’s mentally undressing me, the next he’s looking at me like he wants to strangle me.

‘I don’t look at her like anything.’ Becker’s voice is a raised whisper, his aggravation clear in his tone.

‘Nonsense,’ Mr H retorts. ‘She’s a no-go area, my boy. Keep it in your pants. Dorothy told me about your little performance outside your office last night, and that you demanded Eleanor to come in early this morning. It’s self-serving, reprobate behaviour. Beneath you. And it’s definitely beneath her. Stop playing games.’

I bite my lip, looking for the instructions I need to move, to send me to the kitchen where I was heading before their voices stopped me. I shouldn’t be listening to this.

‘I’m fucking trying,’ Becker yells.

‘Not hard enough.’ Mr H’s bellow is just as loud, but fiercer. ‘Get your arse to a psychiatrist, Becker. Talk it out. Stop using women as your therapy. And leave Eleanor alone.’

The old man’s demand shocks me. What is Becker, a sex addict? He’s trying? What, to leave me alone? Well, clearly he’s not trying hard enough.

‘I don’t need therapy. I’m done with it,’ Becker snipes. ‘I’m sick of someone trying to poke around in my mind. There’s nothing wrong with me.’

Becker’s grandad laughs sardonically. ‘You need something. The way you carry on isn’t healthy. Your mum and dad are gone, boy. Playing Russian roulette with our business and with your damn life won’t bring them back.’

‘Gramps, stop, please.’ He sounds desperate, and my heart unexpectedly clenches from his plea. Because it really is a plea. But what on earth does Mr H mean? Russian roulette?

‘What if she’s different?’ Becker asks out of the blue.

My eyes shoot down the corridor to his office door. Different?