‘Becker—’
‘Dad signed the papers to switch off the life-support machine. I didn’t want him to, but he said even if she survived, she wouldn’t be his Lou any more. Wouldn’t be my mum.’ I want to tell him to stop, but I realise that sharing this with me, albeit almost robotically, is a huge breakthrough for him. I need to let him do it, no matter how hard I’m finding it to listen. Hard, but not as hard as it would be to live it. I’ve had my own loss, but the burden of such a decision to turn off your loved one’s life support doesn’t bear thinking about. Or, more to the point, not having that decision. Becker didn’t want to give up on her. ‘I couldn’t watch,’ he whispers.
My eyes flood with tears that I’m fighting so hard to hold back. ‘I’m so sorry.’
I feel his head nod a little. ‘She was on her way to the bank to put the map in Dad’s safety deposit box.’
This piece of information comes from leftfield, and I spring from his arms, looking up at him with all the shock that statement deserves. ‘What?’
‘Dad kept the map here at The Haven,’ he tells me, void of emotion. ‘Mum found it and wasn’t happy. She said it should be somewhere secure and took it upon herself to take it to the bank before Dad could stop her. Someone went into the back of her car at the lights. Pushed her onto the crossroads.’
I don’t like his vacant expression. Or what he’s just said, because after everything I’ve just heard, my mind is spinning with where this is leading.
‘She didn’t stand a chance.’
I flinch. It would be so wrong for me to cry when Becker’s forcing himself to keep it together.
‘When Dad got her belongings back from the hospital, the map was gone.’
My stomach bottoms out, and I gawp at him as he watches me, totally stoic. So many questions are whirling around in my head, but I’m not sure which one to fire at him first. Plus, I need to be able to string a sentence together, and I’m incapable of speech right now. But my vision seems to have become hypersensitive, and I can see with frightening clarity what’s lingering behind Becker’s angel eyes. All of that anger and hurt, resentment and turmoil, it’s all there and it’s more potent than ever before.
‘The Wilsons,’ I only manage those two words, but it’s all I need. Becker nods his head, and as if I need the horror story to continue, he goes on.
‘I know it was Brent’s father. He killed my mum and took the map.’
‘How do you know?’ I whisper, worried.
Becker watches me closely, doubling my worry, because right now he’s monitoring my face for a reaction to what he’s going to say next.
I step back, swallowing. ‘How?’ I ask. I’m ready.
‘Because my dad stole it back.’
Or not ready. ‘Oh God.’ I grab the nearby clock for support, but my evident shock doesn’t hold him back. He’s on a roll now, bombarding me with it all.
‘After Mum died, Dad may as well have been dead, too. He was ruined. Consumed by guilt. The police put it down to a tragic accident. Case closed. They refused to look into any of the evidence we gave them.’ His lip curls at the mention of the police. ‘Dad went away for a while. Said he needed to be alone. That’s what he told me and Gramps, anyway.’
I look at him in silent question.
‘He followed Brent’s father to Florence.’ He speaks with a hatred that’s terrifying. ‘Why do you think Brent’s father was in Florence, princess?’
Fuck me, I’m shaking, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. ‘Because the missing piece of map includes Italy. Florence is in Italy. The garden of San Marco was in Florence.’ I mumble it all mindlessly. ‘And the Garden of San Marco is where the Magnificent discovered Michelangelo’s talent for sculpting. Brent’s father was taking an educated guess without the missing piece of the map.’ Good bloody God, this is getting more real by the word. ‘But there’s Rome, there’s Bologna, there’s Venice. Michelangelo travelled with his commissions.’
Becker nods his agreement. ‘I told you. They’re amateurs. I spent three years between the three cities and found nothing. Dad tracked Brent’s father to Florence. Found him chasing his tail. He stole the map back and posted it to me.’
I drop my eyes to the carpet, trying to rummage through the chaos in my mind, trying to get it all straight. That missing piece, so small but so significant. Head of a Faun can’t be found without it, if it even exists. It might not exist. Chances are it doesn’t. But only the missing piece can clear up the mystery. I consider, just for a moment, whether I should tell Becker that I know where he’s hiding the map. The words tickle the tip of my tongue, but I suck them back. His mother and father died because of that map. I can’t blame him for wanting to keep it secret and hidden, if only for his own sanity.
‘That was the last we heard from Dad,’ Becker exhales and takes his fingers under his glasses, rubbing into his eye sockets. ‘Then the Italian authorities found him.’
I blink my wide eyes, my mouth drying up. ‘Mugging gone wrong,’ I whisper, everything falling into place. I need to sit down. My legs are wobbly, and my head could explode with information overload. Stumbling across his office, I land in a chair with a thud. The families’ rivalry, the hate, the suspicion, the ramifications of it all.
‘No police help again,’ Becker grinds on. ‘The only thing that would have brought my father back to life after my mother died would have been finding the missing piece of the map and finding the sculpture. It gave him the purpose he needed. He felt she died for nothing.’
I get that, but more frightening is the fact that Becker feels the same as his father, except probably on a more intense level. He’s lost both of his parents. He has double the resentment. And old Mr H’s fear is now all too reasonable. He doesn’t want to lose his grandson – his only living relative – like he did his son, daughter-in-law, and his own wife, albeit in different circumstances. But it all boils down to that map. Mr H is prepared to sweep all of the awful circumstances under the carpet, try to make peace with the Wilsons, in order to keep his grandson safe from the curse of the map? No wonder he was so mad with Becker when he found out he’d conned Brent. Becker’s lied to him. He promised his gramps he was letting it go, but he did that to protect the old man. My Lone Ranger wanted to find that sculpture to avenge his parents’ deaths and to fulfil his dad’s wish. He wanted to do it with no risk of further heartache to his grandfather. So he closed himself off, limited any emotional attachment to his gramps, and anyone else, for that matter. My poor, vulnerable, complex man.
‘The Wilsons are the immoral ones here, princess. Not me.’ Becker’s eyes cloud over. He goes to his desk and slumps in the chair, his tall body reclined back. He looks so tired all of a sudden, worn down, as he pulls something from his pocket and studies it, soon becoming lost in a daydream. ‘She was so beautiful,’ he says quietly, taking his index finger to his top lip and brushing lightly from side-to-side, deep in thought. ‘My dad worshipped the ground she walked on. Was broken when he lost her.’
My tummy flutters with nerves that befuddle me. He looks peaceful now, at ease and stable. It throws me. I should be relieved that he’s finally sharing his heartbreak with me, but while there’s gratitude, there’s a massive cloud of apprehension fogging it.
I watch him as he studies what I assume to be a photograph of his mother. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispers to himself, and then he looks at me. The hurt in his eyes nearly knocks me from the chair to my arse, and I realise that statement was meant for me. ‘Just the thought of not having you around feels unbearable.’ His face twists, like he’s pissed off that he’s found himself thinking like that, let alone feeling like it.
This should spike the most incredible sense of satisfaction in me. But it doesn’t. Becker Hunt prides himself on being impenetrable. He’s a lone wolf. Lets no one get close to his heart in an extreme attempt to prevent himself from getting hurt, t
o stop him from experiencing the same devastation that his father did when he lost his mum. To let nothing get in the way of his mission to find that sculpture. It would be easier for him to walk away from me, rather than deal with these feelings that have caught him off guard. It would be easier for him to let me go and continue his search for the sculpture. I thought he’d turned a corner, come to terms with me and what’s evolved between us, but seeing his turmoil, seeing the despair on his face, makes me realise that accepting this is a constant challenge for him.
‘I feel like you’ve performed a smash and grab on my heart, princess.’ Becker pulls his glasses off and chucks them on his desk, along with the picture, before taking his palms to his face and rubbing furiously. ‘You’ve proper screwed me over. You weren’t part of my plan.’
‘And you weren’t part of mine, either.’ It’s true. There have been plenty of times I could have walked away – and sometimes did – but Becker always brought me back round, or simply brought me back. It’s instinctual. For both of us. Like a magnetic force keeping us close. I’m so over fighting with what nature intends. And it clearly intends that we be together. No matter who he is and the secrets he has to tell, I’m supposed to be here with him.
His face appears from behind his palms. ‘I have a question for you,’ he says, startling me.
A question for me? Lord, I could think of a thousand for him. ‘What?’ I ask warily.
He points to his secret room, indicating to the place where he carved the forged treasure. ‘Do you love me any less?’
‘No.’ My answer topples past my lips with not a shred of hesitation, and he visibly loosens up in his chair.
‘I’m still me, princess,’ he whispers. ‘I realise this is a lot for you to take on board, but you need to always remember one thing. The most important thing.’
I don’t ask what that is. I already know, but he tells me anyway.
‘I love you.’
I nod mildly. I never doubted it. I’ve been corrupted for love. He must know that nothing will chase me away. As long as he gives me his all, I’m going nowhere. All of him, all of his secrets. Beneath his confident outer layer is a scared boy. A man who dreads losing anyone close to him, so he’s always kept himself emotionally detached and worshipped inanimate objects instead, and given no time to anything that could make him waver in his determination to find what he’s looking for.
And, God, if all that doesn’t make me love him even more.
I stand and wander over to him, feeling the tug between us getting stronger the closer I get. He pushes away from his desk in his chair and pats his lap. ‘Jump on.’
Offering a small smile, I sit on his lap and rest my back against his chest, melding myself to him on a sigh. Strong arms come around me and hold me tightly, his face disappearing into my neck. ‘I’ve been searching for that sculpture for years, Eleanor. But I’ve found something more precious. More valuable. Something I want to cherish more, admire more, love more.’ He squeezes me. ‘I found you. And you’re far more important than a piece of stone.’
This moment in time. This is magic. The fact that all of our turmoil and conflicting feelings were worthwhile. That I have something to show for it after going through so much. I have Becker. And he has me. It’s a win–win, but something else is frightening me now. He wants revenge, not by hurting anyone, but by finding what his father searched for and what both his parents died for. It’s like a strange kind of peace-finding mission. I’m scared he’ll never be able to move forward, get on with his life with me, until he finds what his whole family has searched for. Everything he’s done to this point would be meaningless if he gives up now. I understand the deep part of him that needs to find that treasure or find out if it even exists. Not wants to but needs to. But I love him too much to risk losing him. Like his father lost his mother, like his granddad lost his son . . . like Becker lost his parents. While he’s willing to put himself in the thick of danger, he’s not willing to expose me to it. And that’s another reason why he’s stopped.
That’s the crux of it. The danger. He fears for me. It should comfort me. Should. It doesn’t, though. Because I have serious doubts that Becker can walk away. I see the longing in his eyes, no matter how much he fights to hide it from me. I’ll always see it and always wonder whether he regrets making his vow to abandon his search. Will he come to resent me?
I don’t want to be a regret. I don’t want him to look back and wish he’d chosen the treasure and not me. But . . . could he have both? I hold my own breath, pondering that. ‘Promise me something,’ I order, lifting from his lap and turning around, straddling him. He looks wary. It’s a bit insulting. ‘Promise me if you change your mind, you will tell me.’
His head tilts, interested. ‘Change my mind?’
‘About finding the treasure.’
He breathes in, looking a little shocked. ‘I’m telling you I don’t need to find it.’
‘And I’m telling you I think you do. I don’t want you to hate me.’
‘How could I hate someone who’s shown me how to love?’ He leans in and kisses my shoulder, smoothing my red hair with his palm. ‘I adore you, woman. Your strength, your bravery, your devotion.’ On a smile, he ghosts his finger over my eyebrow and down my cheek, reaching my chin and tipping up my face. Dropping the gentlest of kisses on my lips, he hums quietly, ‘You consume my thoughts now, Eleanor. My mission in life from the moment you hijacked my heart was to love you. Cherish you. To devote all of myself to you. It’s all that matters to me now. You are the most priceless, precious treasure of them all.’ Another sweet kiss lands on my open mouth. ‘I don’t need anything else.’
I could cry for him. ‘I love you.’
‘Super.’ Becker hauls me forward and holds me tightly. ‘I feel like I’ve been for a double session with my therapist.’ He nuzzles in my neck as he stands and detaches me, using brute force when I put up a fight. ‘Are we good?’ he asks.
How could we not be? He’s just spilled his heart; told me things I know he hates to even think about. It’s a massive step for him. Nevertheless, I need to make one thing clear. ‘No more sneaky stunts.’
‘What’s classed as a sneaky stunt?’ he questions, smirking as he dips and munches on my cheek ravenously.
I giggle, squirming, relishing in his lightened mood. I feel enlightened and relieved, and I know Becker must feel the same. ‘Secrets, Becker. No more secrets.’
‘Right.’ After kissing my cheek, he takes his chair back up, and I settle opposite him, hands in my lap. A lovely eye is narrowed on me before he goes to his computer and starts typing. I wait patiently for him to finish, remembering why I came here in the first place.
‘I was heading for the kitchen, but it struck me that I didn’t know what I might be faced with.’
‘Dorothy and Gramps, I expect,’ he answers easily, reclining in his chair.
I lob him a tired expression. He knows what I mean. ‘Do they know why I wasn’t here yesterday?’
‘What do you think?’
Okay. Stupid question. ‘Do they know . . .’ I mull over my words, unsure how to say what’s on my mind. ‘Do they know . . .’ My finger waggles between us, trying to help me along with actions rather than the words – words that I’m struggling to find.
‘They know you’re back. They know you’re sleeping in my bed.’ Becker helps me out, but only a little. Sleeping in Becker’s bed wasn’t quite along the lines I was thinking. ‘And that I haven’t behaved like this with a woman ever,’ he finishes tentatively.
I smile. ‘Okay.’ I sound smug. I am. ‘And is your gramps talking to you yet?’
His hands come up and scrub at his face. ‘Hardly.’
I’m not surprised. While Becker’s beloved granddad has hoped all this bad feeling regarding the Wilsons was in the past, Becker was keeping it very much in the present. ‘I won’t tell him,’
I say, nodding to the secret room behind the bookshelf, feeling the need to voice it. Regardless of Becker’s instinct to distance himself emotionally from his only living relative in a silly attempt to protect himself from heartbreak, he still cares enough to shield his gramps from the stress or anger that will be stoked if he knew his grandson sculpted the fake that Brent Wilson paid fifty million for.
When I think he might toss his NDA in my face, Becker smiles at me. ‘I trust you, princess.’
I beam my understanding, fully comprehending how big a deal that is. My Lone Ranger doesn’t want to be a loner any more.
I stand. ‘I should go say hello to them.’
Becker stands, too, placing his palms on the desk and leaning across. I regard him with interest, loving the serious edge his stare takes on. A small cock of his head tells me to go to him, and I mirror his pose, leaning into him. Reaching forward with his lips, he plants a gentle kiss on my mouth. I breathe in, like I could inhale him into me.
‘Thank you,’ he says, his soft flesh vibrating against mine. ‘Thank you for . . .’ he tails off, searching my eyes.
‘Listening?’
He nods, grateful for my prompt, even if it’s not exactly what he was trying to say. His gratitude is more because I’m still here. Because I haven’t run away after learning so much. He has nothing to fear. I’m staying. Love makes you do the craziest things, and you don’t get crazier than this.
Becker pulls away, leaving me suspended over his desk in a daze. ‘You may go.’
My trance is soon broken when the clean crunch of him biting into an apple yanks me from my happy place, dumping me right into another one of my happy places. I smile as I push myself off the desk, walking backwards with my eyes travelling back and forth to Becker’s mouth with the apple.
He picks up the phone and dials before holding it to his ear. ‘Percy. There’s a vintage car auction coming up,’ he says down the line. ‘I need all the specifics.’
I leave Becker and his lucky apple to it and make my way to the kitchen.
Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology Book 2) Page 9
