Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology 2)

The next moment, his printer springs to life and he’s retrieving something from the tray. A piece of paper gets thrust towards me as he eyes Becker smugly. I’m learning very quickly that while women love Becker, men clearly do not. Simon here is being bold. And a sexist pig, for that matter, but I’ll let it slide just this once, since I’m purposely fanning the flames. ‘Why don’t you reapply now,’ he says enthusiastically as I take the paper by the very edge and pull it slowly from his grasp.

‘Why, thank you.’ I bite my lip and watch as his eyes drop to them. ‘I might just do that.’

I’m moving before I can add a little cheeky wink, my body being yanked from the desk by a very determined grip on my upper arm. I fall apart on the inside but maintain a serious face as I glance at Becker. He looks murderous. Good. A dose of his own medicine won’t hurt him.

He doesn’t need to breathe a word. He just glares at me in warning, with molten lava that could have come from Hell itself spilling from those angel eyes. I pout and pull my arm free, giving him a fixed glare. It’s a don’t-fuck-with-me glare, and I know he catches it because he gives me a don’t-push-me glare in return.

‘She’s a gem,’ Simon says on a chuckle, breaking our glaring deadlock.

‘She’s something,’ Becker mutters, ridding his face of all condemnation and turning a fake smile onto Simon as he whips the application form from my grip. I try to seize it back, but he’s ripping it up speedily. And once it’s in a million pieces, he grins as he hands it back to me. ‘You and I both know that you get way too many perks for you to even consider a job change.’

I want to stuff the scraps of paper up his perfect arse. ‘Like what?’ I goad.

He arches a surprised brow. What? Does he think I’m beyond hearing it out loud in front of fellow professionals? Professional? What a laugh. He wants bold and cocky? Let’s play, Hunt.

‘Well, let’s see,’ he muses, turning to Simon and wandering over to one of the seats opposite his desk. He pulls his trouser legs up by his knees and slowly lowers to the chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting his elbow on the arm, all casual and unruffled. Simon and I both follow every move he makes, me intrigued by what he might say, and Simon looking a little wary. Probably because of the undercurrent of threat apparent in each move Becker is making. ‘Like the fact that you love me spanking your arse when you don’t do as you’re told.’

Simon gasps, and I roll my eyes, suddenly comprehending that Becker will pull no punches and say it exactly as it is. Flicking my eyes to Simon, I see him lean in a little over his desk, getting closer to Becker, like he wants the sordid details. What a creep. I can see from the look in Simon’s eyes that he wishes I made it to his interview on time.

I wander over and take a seat next to my boss/lover/boyfriend/arse-spanker/con-artist, the bold son of a bitch.

‘Like . . .?’ I go on, wondering why on earth I’m encouraging this? But I can’t help it. You’ve met your match, Hunt. You’ve found this spirit. You can damn well deal with it.

‘Like,’ Becker goes on, indulging Simon with a lopsided, suggestive grin. I’m forced to keep my own grin restrained. He’s a bold bastard. And I love him. ‘The fact that she screams loud enough for—’

‘I think Simon gets the picture, Becker.’ The man really doesn’t give a rat’s arse about professionalism.

‘Like—’

‘Becker,’ I breathe, throwing him a warning look that he completely ignores.

‘Like you are mine, princess.’ He slowly casts his eyes across to me, face straight, totally serious. ‘So you’ll understand if I get a little narky when you get familiar with other men.’

‘Touché,’ I whisper in response, letting my small smile loose.

‘Super,’ he counters, before returning his attention to a stunned Simon. ‘Now that Eleanor’s status has been clarified, let’s get to business, shall we?’

Simon falls into a nervous mess, faffing with papers and shifting things on his desk. I chuckle under my breath, knocking Becker’s knee with mine. He peeks out the corner of his eye and tosses me a wink. ‘Head of a Faun,’ Simon blurts out, and my smile drops, the mention of that damn sculpture suddenly reducing me to a fidgeting idiot. I thought we were here to talk about the vintage Ferrari?

‘What about it?’ Becker asks, hostility breaking his steady tone, his surprise clear, too.

Simon rests back in his chair and links his fingers across his large stomach. ‘I wanted that sale, Hunt.’