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)
He homes in on my slip-up like a wolf. ‘Well, since I’m not at the auction house and someone is working on my behalf, neither you nor he could know of my intention to buy the Ferrari. So who did Hunt fuck to get that information?’ The question pierces my itchy skin like a hot poker.
‘I guessed.’ I slam the boot shut and head for the driver’s door. ‘Since your life’s ambition is to try and get the upper hand.’
‘Try?’ Brent muses. ‘It didn’t take much trying. In fact, I just took a call to congratulate me.’
My heart sinks. He got the car? Something tells me Becker wasn’t as gracious in defeat today as he was when Brent won the fake sculpture. Shit, he’s going to be in a foul mood. ‘Why are you here, Brent?’
‘Well, I heard you’ve been talking to Stan Price. Throwing accusations around.’ He strolls casually to the other side of the Audi and stares across the roof at me.
I’m blank for a moment. He looks pissed off, understandably, I guess. ‘There were no accusations. I merely advised Price that I saw you at Sotheby’s that day. Because I did.’
He smiles. It’s salacious. ‘I thought, working for Hunt and all, you would’ve learned how to keep it zipped.’
‘I have no loyalty to you, Brent.’ Go. I should just leave. ‘Why are you here? Why are you doing this?’
‘Because this is what Hunt and I do, Eleanor,’ he answers simply, knocking me back a bit.
‘Not any more.’ My retort isn’t nearly as curt as I wanted it to be, more a breathy gasp. My nerves are frayed. ‘Becker’s done with this game you’re playing.’ It seems ludicrous to describe this madness as a game. Lives have been lost. Crimes committed.
‘You believe that?’
‘Yes.’ I open the car door, eager to escape. ‘He wants no part of it, and neither do I.’
‘But you are a part of the game, Eleanor. Like it or not. And you’re a surprisingly appealing pawn to win.’
I bristle, pausing by the door. ‘You’ve got the sculpture, you got the painting, you don’t get me, too.’
He shakes his head on a little laugh. ‘He really does have you fooled, doesn’t he? But, for the record, I’d trade the sculpture for you. I’d even throw in my new Ferrari. The one Hunt was so desperate to add to his collection.’
I laugh lightly in disbelief. He’s amassing all of these things, all things that Becker wants, and he thinks he can trade them all in? For me? And worse still, I sense he thinks that Becker would take his offer. ‘You can’t buy me,’ I snipe.
‘Anything can be bought, Eleanor.’
‘Not me,’ I affirm with grit. Besides, Brent may have the car Becker wanted, but he doesn’t have the sculpture. Not that he knows that. ‘Brent, do yourself a favour and stay away from me.’
‘Or what?’
I take a moment to consider my or what. ‘Or you’re going to push Becker too far, and, trust me, you really do not want that.’ I jump in the Audi and race off down the road, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. Because I get the feeling that Brent is doing exactly that. Pushing Becker to get the reaction. To keep the game up.
Chapter 26
After driving back to The Haven, stupidly recklessly, taking all of my frustration out on my fellow drivers, I leave the car in the factory unit and walk around to the front, my unease settling with every step I take into Becker’s sanctuary.
When I break into the courtyard, I stop for a moment and breathe the last piece of air I need to bring me back down to calm.
‘Is it frogspawn?’
I look across to the fountain where Mrs Potts is hunched over the water with old Mr H, her nose wrinkled.
‘Don’t be daft, Dorothy.’ Becker’s grandfather pokes at the surface of the water with his posh walking stick. ‘Frogs wouldn’t take up residence in a fountain, and where would they come from, anyway?’
‘They might have flown here.’
‘Flying frogs?’ His old face crinkles in disbelief.
‘You can get flying frogs,’ she protests on a shrug.
‘They don’t fly, Dorothy. They glide, and you won’t find any in central London.’
She raises an indignant nose. ‘Then what do you suppose it is?’
‘Some kind of algae, I expect.’
I laugh as I watch the old pair. Yes, I’m back in my sanctuary, and it’s such a relief. ‘Afternoon,’ I call, and they both swing around.
‘Eleanor.’ Old Mr H leans on his stick for support. He’s smiling brightly, his old hazel eyes flashing with sparks of true happiness, so much so, I have to blink to protect my eyes from the brightness. I cast my eyes over to Mrs Potts and notice she has a fond smile gracing her lips, too. They both look significantly peaceful. Accepting.