Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
‘Wow. Should I buy a hat?’
‘Jesus, no.’ I laugh nervously on behalf of Becker. If commitment makes him twitchy, I expect marriage would have him spontaneously combust.
‘I can’t believe a word you say. I remember quite clearly you calling Mr Magnificent, aka your new boyfriend, a tosser, a wanker, a twat—’
‘He’s still all of those things.’ I nudge her in the side. ‘And it just makes me love him more.’
‘And does he love you?’
‘Oh, he loves me,’ I say, smiling. ‘More than his treasure, which means I’m worth fucking millions.’
Lucy chuckles as we descend the steps of the Tube station. ‘Come on. Let’s get ready and drink wine. I need to get you when I can, since he’s taking you away from me.’
‘He’s not taking me away from anything.’ I say, reclaiming my arm and holding on to the handrail. That’s not true. He’s taking me away from my conscience and my senses.
I glance at my apartment door momentarily while Lucy finds her keys. I feel no sentimental pull towards my little home. I feel nothing. I thought perhaps my lack of missing it was simply because of all the distractions at The Haven. I was wrong. I never want to step foot in there again. I shudder as Lucy pushes her door open, and I get my phone from my bag. ‘I need to call Becker,’ I say, dialling as she heads straight to the bathroom.
‘To check in?’ she calls over her shoulder, sarcasm tinging the edges of her question. No, I’m calling to pick his brain on Price.
‘So, she’s alive,’ he says when he answers as I drop to the couch. ‘How’s your arse?’
His question prompts me to wriggle a little, instantly feeling the burn. ‘Sore.’
‘Good.’
Lucy’s head pops out from behind the door. ‘What’s sore?’
I wave a hand dismissively at her and return to Becker, hearing the sound of a sweet laugh from down the line. And it wasn’t Becker’s sweet chuckle. It was a woman’s. ‘Where are you?’
‘At this exact moment in time?’
‘Yes, at this exact moment in time,’ I press, listening carefully for any more background noise.
‘Well.’ He coughs. ‘At this exact moment in time, I have a lady’s hand resting on my inside thigh.’
I’m standing fast. ‘Whose hand?’
‘Henrietta.’
‘Who the hell is Henrietta?’
He laughs lightly. I don’t know why. Let me tell him that a man has his hand on my inside thigh. See how he reacts. ‘She’s my seamstress, princess, and currently measuring my inside thigh.’
Mental images of Becker’s sturdy, thick, strong thighs invade my mind. And a woman holding a tape measure there. ‘I might learn how to sew.’
He laughs, a heavy, full-on burst of amusement. ‘I only have thighs for you.’
‘Oh, you’re hilarious,’ I breathe, but on the inside I’m laughing along with him. ‘I hope you have your trousers on.’
‘Actually, it’s very hard to measure a thigh with too much material in the way.’
‘Is that what she tells you?’ I ask, sitting back down and relaxing a little with our playful banter.
‘Thanks, Hen,’ Becker says, and then I hear the sound of footsteps, followed by a closing door. ‘You’re jealous.’ There’s laughter in his tone, and definitely satisfaction.
‘Yes, I am.’ I openly admit, no shame or holding back. ‘I want to be touching those thighs right now.’
‘But you need girl time,’ he reminds me, cocky as can be.
I roll my eyes to myself. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Seems you also need some Becker time.’
Now I’m full-on scowling down the line. I’m not playing his game. ‘I had plenty of Becker time yesterday in the showing room. And last night. And this morning.’ I shift on the sofa, getting a cool, hard reminder of what Becker time entails.
‘Don’t pretend you wouldn’t bend over for me if I was there,’ he says with totally warranted confidence. ‘Have a good night, princess.’
‘Wait!’ I blurt out. I’ve been so caught up in his playful banter, I’ve totally forgotten why I called him in the first place. ‘Someone from the NCA stopped me outside Lucy’s office.’
I don’t like the lengthy silence that follows.
‘Becker?’
‘Who?’ He’s not happy.
‘Price. Stan Price.’ I give him his answer without delay. ‘Showed me a picture of a woman. Asked me if I recognise her.’
‘And did you?’
I recoil, glancing over to the bathroom, hearing the whoosh of Lucy’s shower and her singing over the top of it. ‘Yes,’ I confess. ‘I saw her picture in a file on your desk. Lady Winchester.’ More silence. My mind races. ‘But I told Price she wasn’t familiar to me.’
Becker lets out an audible gush of relieved breath. ‘Good girl.’
‘Who is she?’
‘She’s a filthy rich old lady who’s rumoured to be involved with a collection of forged Picassos.’
What? Oh God. ‘Why do you have a file on her?’
‘She bought a Ming vase from the Hunt Corporation a few years ago. Don’t get any ideas. Gramps got the file out to destroy it. We can’t be associated with crooked people. Bad for business.’