‘Lucky Eleanor,’ she quips, giving me her hand to shake. ‘Oh, I’ve seen you before.’
‘Yes,’ I confirm, turning an accusing look up at Becker. ‘Unfortunately, I was late for my interview.’
‘Unfortunately?’ Becker questions seriously. ‘Trust me. You wouldn’t want to work for Parsonson’s. I did you a favour.’
‘Would have been nice to have a choice.’
The lady behind reception laughs at our light banter. ‘Well, Eleanor, if it’s any consolation, many would kill to work for the Hunt Corporation.’
‘Many women?’ I ask seriously.
She laughs loudly, and Becker rolls his eyes. ‘I’m here to see Simon,’ he says, clearly bored with the banter now.
‘You know where you’re going.’ She smiles coyly, and I quickly look to Becker for his reaction. She’s flirting, and Becker is smiling at her, giving her gleaming eyes and that adorable grin. He’s a tart.
‘Thank you, Janet.’ He strolls off to the elevator, leaving me to follow.
‘I want to add something to your NDA,’ I tell him as I come to a stop beside him at the lifts.
He looks down at me curiously as he reaches for the call button. ‘What’s that, princess?’
‘No flirting.’
‘I agree.’ He straightens and pulls the sides of his jacket in, fastening the button. ‘You’re not allowed to flirt.’
‘I’m talking about you,’ I say on a laugh. He can’t expect me to stand by and watch him lap up the drool being dribbled all over him by enchanted women.
‘I don’t flirt,’ he protests as the lift arrives and we step in. ‘I’m building good business relations.’
I snort my repugnance but decide to leave it there. Because I’m at work and I can be professional. Kind of. ‘Oh, so that’s how we build good relations? I’ll remember that.’
He grins, nudging me in the side with his elbow. ‘Don’t get any ideas.’
The lift stops on every floor, people boarding or exiting, while Becker and I stand side-by-side, looking straight ahead to the metal doors. It’s a ploy both of us seem happy to adopt in an attempt to ignore the sexual tension bouncing off the walls of the box containing us.
When we come to a stop on the seventh floor, Becker prompts for me to disembark, and I look up at him, stunned.
‘You going to stand there all day?’ he asks.
‘This floor?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Mr Timms’s floor,’ I say.
‘Correct. Simon Timms.’
‘You’re meeting Mr Timms? That’s who I was due to have my interview with.’
‘Then this should be interesting,’ Becker quips as I step off the elevator, not looking forward to meeting the Rottweiler of a receptionist up here. What was her name?
‘Morning, Shelley,’ Becker says, overtaking me after he’s answered my silent question. She looks up, but she’s smiling today, delighted. Of course she’s fucking delighted.
‘Becker.’ She dives up from her seat and rounds her desk. Becker? Not Mr Hunt? I stand to the side like a spare part while they say their hellos, all smiley and definitely flirty. Building good business relations? Yeah, I bet. I also put money on the fact that my darling boss/boyfriend/con-artist/. . . whatever the bloody hell he is, doesn’t bless his male associates with such charm. ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asks.
‘No, I’m good.’
I thrust my hand forward, disturbing their fond reunion. ‘Hi, I’m Eleanor.’
She flicks an interested look to me, and I assess it carefully, looking for any scrap of evidence to confirm that she remembers me. Will she acknowledge our last encounter, and more to the point, how rude she was?
There’s definitely something there, some recognition. ‘Hi.’ She takes my hand, all friendly, but she doesn’t spend too much time greeting me, quickly returning her attention to my more appealing companion. ‘Simon’s ready when you are.’ Shelley smiles like she’s never seen a man before, let alone a man like Becker.
‘Great.’ He strolls off. ‘Come along, princess.’
I stare at his back, astounded, my fist clenching as I follow him. ‘Don’t push me, Hunt.’ I warn, and he grins as he knocks on the door before pushing it open and stepping to one side. I don’t thank him as I enter Simon’s office, glancing around at the clinical space. Just like the rest of the building, Mr Timms’s office is sparse, with only a minimal desk, a few chairs positioned around it, and a white couch and coffee table.
‘Hunt.’ The noble voice matches the man behind the desk perfectly. He’s kitted out in green tweed, he has a comb-over, and a chubby round face. He gets up and offers his hand to Becker.
As expected, there’s no kissing in this greeting, just a firm, manly handshake before Simon centres his attention on me. His round face lights up. ‘Simon Timms,’ he declares proudly.
I can’t expect Simon Timms here to recognise me because I never made it to his office for my interview. But he might remember my name. ‘Eleanor.’ I offer my hand and he takes it keenly. ‘Eleanor Cole.’
I definitely detect a frown. ‘Eleanor Cole,’ he muses, looking off into the distance. ‘I know that name.’
So he should. ‘I had an interview with you a while ago.’
‘Ah!’ he sings, but quickly frowns again. ‘That’s right. You were late.’
I peek at Becker, seeing him looking at me, his face deadpan.
‘Apologies,’ I say, keeping my stare on my boss. ‘I had an unfortunate incident with a taxi and a less-than-helpful man.’
Becker snorts on a grin as Simon Timms retakes his chair. ‘That’s a shame. I’m sorry about that.’
‘Did you fill the position?’ I ask.
‘Actually, yes, for about a week. Turned out to be all talking no walking. Useless.’
I relieve Becker of my eyes. ‘Maybe I’ll reapply.’ I receive a swift nudge in my side, which I totally ignore, moving forward. ‘I’ll resubmit my application.’
‘You’re not available for hire,’ Becker growls.
‘Everyone is available, Mr Hunt.’
Simon bursts into laughter, slapping his belly. ‘I like you, Eleanor.’
I smile smugly as I round Simon’s desk. I can feel Becker behind me literally quaking at my obstinacy. ‘I like you, too, Simon.’ I’m being outrageously flirtatious as I perch on the edge of his desk. I don’t care. Two can play Becker’s game, and I’m in a winning mood. ‘That’s a mighty fine watch.’ I reach forward and fondle wistfully with the solid silver piece, recognising it immediately. The ‘1973 Oyster Cosmograph?’ I muse. I know I might as well have stripped naked and offered Simon a feel of my tits when he gasps his joy.
‘Yes,’ he hoots, delighted. ‘One of Rolex’s finest.’
I smile. ‘It certainly is.’ I cross one leg over the other. ‘A sturdy watch for a sturdy man.’ I cock my eyebrow suggestively, prompting Simon Timms to dive all over his laptop in a rush.
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 brea
the 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.’
‘Every auction house on the planet wanted that sale. What makes you think that I could manipulate the seller’s decision to take it to Countryscape?’
I could laugh. Becker manipulated every moment of the sculpture’s journey from a worthless lump of marble to the fifty-million-pound price tag.
Simon’s expression changes somewhat, and I have no idea what to make of it. It’s a knowing look, I think. My eyes pass slowly between the two men a few times, trying to gauge what’s being said without being said.
‘You carry more clout in this world than you’re letting on, Hunt,’ Simon says, watching Becker closely. ‘Don’t try to kid me otherwise.’
Becker slaps on a charming smile and shifts in his chair, getting comfier. To an outsider, I’m guessing the smile currently gracing his face would seem genuine, but I’m becoming a master at deciphering his smiles, and this right here is fake. One hundred per cent, it’s fake. Like that sculpture. ‘You’re giving me more credit than is due, Simon.’
‘Am I?’ he questions quickly, not missing a beat.
‘Way . . . too . . . much.’ Becker says slowly. Warningly. I’m wary of the signs of hostility, so I’m floored when Simon Timms ignores them.
‘I don’t think I am.’
Becker’s jaw ticks, and I find myself intervening before this gets out of hand. I lean forward, getting Simon’s attention. ‘Countryscape wanted the sale, and they got the sale.’ I smile sweetly. ‘Becker bid, he lost, and life goes on. Now, Mr Timms, I thought you had some info on the 1965 Ferrari?’
Simon recoils, suddenly speechless, and Becker coughs his throat clear, disguising his laugh. ‘I think you’ve been told, Simon.’ He flashes an over-the-top smile.
I sit back, looking at Simon expectantly as he reaches blindly to the side and retrieves a file, his scowl fierce. He then tosses it to our side of the desk. ‘Here.’
‘Super. Thank you.’ Becker takes the file and flicks through, while I keep my gleaming smile on Simon Timms. Funny. He’s not looking at me lustfully now. He’s looking at me like he holds me in contempt.
I’m desperately trying to maintain my poker face. Any mention of that bloody sculpture makes me nervous, annoyingly. I need to work on that. Timms is making me feel uncomfortable, and it’s in this moment I consider something. Is he wondering, given Becker has just spelled out my status, if I have inside information on the Hunt Corporation, too? Have I got to add him to the list of people who will try to wring information from me? Was it him who broke into my apartment?
‘It’s all there,’ Simon goes on, dragging his eyes off of me and returning them to Becker. ‘I’m sure you’ll be satisfied. I’ll look forward to your bid.’
Becker nods thoughtfully, and then rises from his chair. ‘Indeed. Good day to you, Simon.’
It takes everything in me to stand coolly, as opposed to diving upwards, like an eject button has been pressed. ‘Good day,’ I say tightly, purposely looking him straight in the eye as I leave, hoping he reads my message. I’ll hold no prisoners. Don’t mess with me.
There’s no farewell. Simon Timms doesn’t stand and see us out. But I feel his eyes boring into me as we walk away. ‘Just shout if things don’t work out at the Hunt Corporation, Eleanor,’ he calls, and I turn to find him smiling. It’s a slimy smile. One that makes my skin crawl. Good God, Becker really did do me a favour.
‘I don’t think so, Simon.’ I turn and leave, catching up with Becker. ‘I don’t like him,’ I declare, feeling Becker’s warm palm slide onto my lower back.
‘Me too,’ Becker mutters, directing me to the right when we reach the end of the corridor.
We breach the area where Shelley is sitting, prim as can be, and Becker slaps the hugest smile on his face, knocking her back on her swivel chair. I bet he has payback planned after my BAFTA award-worthy performance in Simon Timms’s office before the tables turned. I inwardly groan. This is going to be torturous. But I can be possessive, too. Bring it on, maverick. Problem is, I genuinely believe that Becker is unaware of his knockout charm. I think it’s natural to him. I think he fails to realise the extent of his appeal after a lifetime of charming the knickers off women. I, on the other hand, threw every effort into my flirting routine.
‘Becker,’ Shelley sings a
s we approach, turning away from her desk to give an obvious flash of her long, bare legs. ‘Can I get you a coffee? Tea? Water?’
‘I’m good,’ Becker replies, coming to a stop, prompting me to do the same. I may as well not be here. Shelley is completely blanking me, and I notice, again, that she hasn’t asked me if I’d like a drink. No, her full attention is on Becker, and it only becomes more acute when my boss places a palm on the edge of her desk and leans in towards her. She smiles demurely. I have to physically restrain myself from muscling my way between them and declaring Becker’s status to this female. ‘I need a favour,’ Becker says, all low and raspy.
It not only piques Shelley’s interest, it also piques mine. ‘Of course,’ she says, shamelessly crossing one leg over the over and leaning back. I grit my teeth and nearly crack them with the force of my bite when Becker gives a knowing, sideways smile. ‘Anything for you, Becker,’ she purrs.
‘Any other interest in the 1965 Ferrari?’
She returns his knowing smile before turning to her computer and tapping a few buttons. ‘This is breaking client confidentiality.’
‘But it’s for me,’ Becker says quietly. Suggestively.
Oh my days, I want to poke the disgraceful philander in the eye. I’m about to step in, to take a leaf out of Becker’s book, when it occurs to me that Becker is fishing for information – information that Shelley can give to him. Me staking a claim could hamper that. For fuck’s sake. So, begrudgingly, I hold my tongue for a few moments while she continues to tap and glance up to Becker every now and then.
‘There,’ she says quietly. ‘Bill Temple and Larry Stein have commission bids.’
‘How much?’
‘Highest is 110K.’
‘Larry?’ Becker questions.
‘Good guess.’
‘American,’ he muses thoughtfully, like that’s a significant point.
‘Speaking of Americans,’ Shelley says, scanning the screen.
Becker visibly stiffens. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘Brent Wilson.’
‘Motherfucker.’ He smashes his fist down on Shelley’s desk, making me jump. I don’t think I need to intercept the flirting now, because Becker’s mood has just taken a nosedive. He’s no longer smiling coyly. Now he’s practically growling at the mere mention of Brent’s name. ‘Block him,’ Becker orders harshly.
Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology Book 2) Page 13
