Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology 2)

‘I went straight to the hospital to collect him.’

‘Did you talk?’ I ask, nervous on Becker’s behalf. Mr H knows now that his grandson crafted that fake sculpture. I can only imagine the wrath Becker has faced.

‘Yes, we talked.’

‘And how was he?’

‘Before or after he cuffed me around the head with his walking stick?’

I sigh on a dramatic roll of my eyes. ‘Very funny.’

‘He was more than fine, princess. He’s in my office.’ The shower turns on, and I dash to the bathroom, just so I can look at him some more. Just so I know he’s here. I find him under the spray, his eyes closed, his face pointed up, water raining down on his rough face. I breathe out, resting my forehead on the glass as I watch him. His movements are fluid, slow but fluid, and I’m completely and utterly mesmerised by him.

‘Want some popcorn?’ he asks, not opening his eyes.

I smile and rest my palm on the glass, keeping quiet, just admiring him.

‘Come give me a kiss, Eleanor.’ His demand is hoarse, his voice pure sex. He opens his eyes, his corrupt, lazy gaze staring me down. ‘Now.’

I step into the shower and brace myself for his claim, sighing rather than yelping when I’m grabbed and pinned to the tile wall. He pulls the wet T-shirt off me and tosses it aside, and heavy, wet lashes veil his eyes as he gazes at me, his face hovering close to mine. ‘I love you.’

‘I never forgot that.’ My fingers weave through his wet hair. ‘Brent Wilson won’t be pleased.’

‘Wilson has got it coming.’ He slams his lips to mine and pushes me up the wall with the force of his kiss, his tongue exploring my mouth hungrily. ‘He makes his moves too fast. Misjudges too often. Looks at the smaller picture rather than the bigger one.’ He bites my lip and pulls back, sliding his hands to my bum and cupping the cheeks possessively. ‘He’s a desperate man, Eleanor.’

‘Weren’t you even a little worried when Price arrested you?’

He shakes his head a little but says nothing.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m a fucking legend and Wilson is not.’

‘You’re cocky.’

‘I’m Becker Hunt.’ He grins and takes my lips again. ‘And soon, you will be Eleanor Hunt.’ Growling a little, he pulls away and turns me, slapping my arse. ‘Go see Gramps before I bend you over and fuck you to the Vatican and back.’ I pout and he smirks as he takes the shampoo down from the shelf. ‘And then get ready for an all-nighter.’

Heat. So much heat. All night. Him all over me all night long.

I grab a towel and dry myself off before throwing on some clothes and making my way to Becker’s office, Winston on my heels. I can’t deny the relief I’m feeling. Becker’s home, the police have nothing on him, he’s set Price straight, old Mr H is okay, and he’s still talking to Becker. All the anxiety that was keeping me awake for the past day has drained away, making way to tiredness. I’m going to sleep for a week. Right after our all-nighter.

Pushing my way into Becker’s office, I find the old boy sitting at the huge desk, his face buried in a broadsheet. He looks over the top, his glasses resting on the end of his nose. ‘Here she is.’

‘Hey,’ I shut the door behind me and go join him, taking one of the leather chairs opposite. ‘You should be in bed,’ I admonish him. He looks surprisingly well, despite the few stitches on his forehead.

‘Don’t you start,’ he huffs, folding the paper neatly and placing it to the side. ‘I’ve had Dorothy in my ear all morning.’

‘You had a heart attack, Mr H. And a nasty blow to your head.’

He waves a hand flippantly. ‘How are you, lovely?’

‘Me?’ I question on a small laugh. ‘I’m fine.’ Couldn’t be better, in fact.

‘You’ve had quite the enlightenment.’ The old man’s lip quirks at the corner.

‘Oh, you mean the fact that I’ve recently found out that my fiancé comes from a long line of gentleman thieves?’ I match his mild grin.

‘You’ve taken it very well.’

‘Loving is accepting,’ I say simply, because it really is that simple.

‘The thirst for adventure.’ Old Mr Hunt says, smiling across the desk at me. ‘It never dies, you know. I still miss it.’

I nod my understanding, wondering if the old man is trying to tell me indirectly that I shouldn’t expect Becker to give it up for me. ‘Did your Mags worry about you?’ I ask, suddenly a little apprehensive. I’ve been so busy worrying, and now feeling relieved, I’ve not considered the fact that I might have a life with Becker, but it will be a life of constant fretting.

Old Mr H chuckles a little. ‘All the time,’ he says. I’m not sure if his confirmation is a consolation or not. ‘But she married me knowing what made me tick. She knew the deal.’