Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology Book 2)

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  ‘Thank you, Frank.’ I go straight to the computer and pull up Becker’s private bank as I call them back. ‘Hi, yes, I’m—’ I’m cut dead in my tracks when he door swings open and Becker appears.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  Damn. He must have found a parking space. I cringe as I tap in his login details. There goes my hope of fixing the problem before Becker knows I’ve fucked up. ‘No problem,’ I sing, returning my attention to my phone as Becker rounds the desk and joins me. He looks at the screen. Frowns. Gives me the eye. I can only shrug, and he sighs, catching the gist of the problem.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he breathes. ‘People will think—’ He stops talking abruptly when a security guard flies past the glass door, and both our eyes follow, both our foreheads wrinkling. ‘What’s going on?’ Becker asks, walking to the door and looking out. I join him, hearing the commotion. Frank hurries past, and Becker stops him. ‘Frank, is there a problem?’

  ‘No,’ he squeaks, carrying on his way. ‘Good to see you, Mr Hunt.’

  I look at Becker, getting a funny feeling.

  ‘I have a funny feeling,’ he says, reading my mind. He follows Frank, and I quickly grab my bag and follow Becker, but as I’ve nearly caught up with him, I remember something. Shit! I backtrack, dashing back to the office and deleting the digits from the login screen before catching up with Becker. The commotion has heightened, and I arrive to find Frank throwing curses left and right, turning the air in the posh auction house blue.

  And Becker looks absolutely savage, staring at Frank incredulously. ‘What do you mean, the O’Keefe is gone?’ he asks, and I baulk. What?

  Poor Frank looks like he’s about ready to pop under the pressure. ‘It was on the van, and now—’

  ‘Goddamn it, Frank.’ Becker slings his arm out and sends a pile of paperwork on a nearby table wafting into the air. ‘I’ve been trying to acquire that painting for years, and now you’re telling me the moment I buy it, it disappears?’

  I stand silent, as Frank’s sweats increase and Becker’s rage grows. And all I can think about is Brent. The rivalry. The game of one-upmanship going on between the two men. I bite my lip, not liking the nasty feeling in my gut.

  Becker takes my hand and tugs me out of the room. ‘That’s the last time I do business with Sotheby’s,’ he mutters over his shoulder, making Frank bury his head in his hands.

  ‘Becker,’ I say as I’m pulled along, but he doesn’t stop, just continues, annoyed. ‘Becker, Brent was here.’

  He stops in a heartbeat and swings stunned eyes my way. ‘What?’

  ‘When I went to the ladies, I saw him. You don’t think . . .’

  His lips twist, his eyes close, and then he stalks away, giving me my answer. Oh my goodness.

  Shit. The word is running on repeat in my mind. Shit, shit, shit.

  Chapter 15

  I wasn’t about to ask Becker where he keeps his tux, so as soon as we were back at The Haven and he’d disappeared in his office to sulk about his stolen painting, I used his distraction to my advantage and performed a ram-raid on his apartment in a panic, flying through the wardrobe in his bedroom like my life depended on it. I eventually found it tucked away in a closet in the corner of his bedroom, lost behind a mountain of other suits. After I pulled it free, I made a hasty dash, praying that the dry-cleaner’s would have it ready for Friday at the latest. I struck gold. Giles at Fosters knew exactly who I was, or who Becker was, and responded to the sweetest smile I could muster, telling me he’d have it ready tomorrow. After thanking him profusely, I made my way back to The Haven, calling Mum on my way to check if it’s still convenient – since she’s a social butterfly these days – for me to go home next weekend. After an excited yes, I hung up and made a mental note to book my train ticket.

  The next day, I stroll into Becker’s office to collect some files and find his granddad at his desk. Mr H looks up over his glasses, holding a broadsheet with slightly shaky hands. ‘Eleanor.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr H.’ I wander over and take a seat opposite him, resting my phone on the desk ‘Where’s Becker?’

  ‘He’s taking a delivery.’

  ‘A delivery?’ He never mentioned any deliveries today, and I certainly haven’t organised any.

  ‘I don’t ask.’ Mr H looks down at the newspaper, shaking his head. ‘In broad daylight, too,’ he muses, and he turns the sheet so I can see. Not that I need to. The theft from Sotheby’s has been a hot topic, as you’d expect. It turns out me screwing up the bank transfer was a blessing in disguise. ‘Becker mentioned you saw Wilson there moments before the painting was discovered missing.’

  ‘I don’t trust that man.’ I admit. ‘Becker seems happy to move on, but Brent doesn’t.’ I know my man. He won’t let Brent get away with turning him over like that. His ego won’t allow it. Neither will his fierce need for revenge. And that’s left me wondering with growing worry where that leaves us.

  ‘Becker doesn’t need much encouragement to play Wilson’s game.’ He huffs and tosses his paper to the side, and I glance over to where it’s landed, noticing a file that’s been knocked askew, dislodging a few papers from inside. I wouldn’t usually take much notice, but this file is blue. All the files in The Haven are red.

  The tilt of my head is discreet as I try to zoom in on the image in the bottom left-hand corner of one of the strewn sheets. It’s a woman. An old woman, with jet-black hair that’s cut into a very harsh, unflattering bob. The colour is equally unflattering against her pale skin, and her eyes are feline-like, a suggestion that she’s indulged in a little too much surgery.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Mr H asks, pulling my attention back to him.

  ‘She’s good. She has a new . . .’ I pull up when I fail to locate the right word to reference Paul, my face twisting when mental images of him brandishing a baseball bat, naked in my mum’s hallway, assault me.

  ‘Chap?’ Mr H offers, sitting forward in his chair.

  ‘I guess.’ I shrug.

  ‘You seem bothered.’

  ‘I never imagined my mum with anyone except my father.’

  Mr H nods in understanding, and I watch as his old eyes fall to the file that his newspaper’s landed on. He’s quick to tidy up the strewn papers, tucking them neatly back inside. ‘Is she happy?’ he asks, glancing back at me.

  I’m not quick to answer, despite the answer being easy. My eyes are on that file, until Mr H coughs and snaps me from my staring. ‘Deliriously.’ I can tell by the way the old man is looking at me that he knows my mind is racing, wondering what that file is. So what is it? And why is he trying to conceal it?

  When his eyebrows raise on a small grin, I feign casualness, reaching forward and stroking the beautiful double-pedestal desk that deserves the admiration I always give it. ‘I love this desk.’

  Mr H smirks. ‘You recognise it?’

  ‘Of course,’ I confirm. I recognised it the moment I stepped foot in here on that fateful day when Becker Hunt became my boss. And later my lover. Or boyfriend. ‘It’s a replica of the Theodore Roosevelt desk.’

  ‘It is,’ Mr H says, caressing the surface with a quivering palm. ‘Looks just like it, I agree. An amazing imitation.’

  Now I’m studying his hand more than I am the desk. Some days his shakes are better than others, and today they are particularly bad. He shakes off his shakes, still chuckling, before it fades and silence descends. He’s looking at me with a knowing smile as he slowly pushes his glasses up his nose before joining his hands and resting them on his stomach. ‘That fire in your eyes is blazing, Eleanor. Nearly matches your hair.’

  I feel that fire reach my cheeks and start pointlessly faffing with the hem of my dress. ‘I’m happy.’

  ‘That’s very apparent.’

  ‘I’d be happier if you and Becker made peace,’ I tell him, not liking the so
ur expression that passes over his face at the mention of his grandson and their rift.

  He looks across the super desk over his glasses. ‘Shall I tell you why I want to tan that boy’s arse?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘Okay,’ I agree warily, unable to resist the temptation of being indulged in any information that concerns his grandson.

  ‘Getting your hands on something that is thought lost in history gives you a rush like nothing else,’ he tells me, nodding his head. The old man is speaking of the lost sculpture, the one he’s forbidden his grandson to search for. The one Becker says he doesn’t need to find any more.

  ‘You sound like you’re talking from experience.’

  ‘I’ve found a few little things in my time.’ He winks cheekily.

  ‘But not the sculpture.’

  ‘No.’ His answer is short and clipped. Resentful. ‘I gave up on that after I lost my wife. But Becker’s father didn’t give up after he lost Becker’s mother, Lou.’ He smiles, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites. They are far too flawless to be real, especially on a man in his senior years. ‘And you know what happened because of that, don’t you, Eleanor?’

  I nod. That lost sculpture has a lot to answer for. ‘You were so mad.’ I state the obvious because I don’t have a clue what else to say. I don’t blame the old man for going off the deep end when he found out that Becker tricked Brent Wilson into buying a forgery. Lord knows what he’d do if he found out Becker sculpted it, too.

  ‘Of course I was mad. I lost my son and his wife as a direct result of that damn sculpture. I’ll take an arrow before I willingly let my Becker boy follow in their footsteps.’ Sadness washes over him, and I quickly feel so very guilty for being so fascinated and curious about Head of a Faun. ‘My beloved Becker was twenty-two when it happened.’ He goes on without the need for me to press. ‘Travelling the world and filling that smart head of his with a wealth of information. That boy’s mind is like a sponge. Soaks up everything.’ He smiles to himself, that proud edge back, before quickly slipping back to sour. ‘Stupid boy is more obsessed than his father ever was.’

  Is. Not was. ‘But he said he’s letting it go,’ I tell him quietly, almost hesitantly. ‘He told me he doesn’t need to find it any more.’

  Becker’s granddad’s smile is sympathetic. I don’t like it. ‘I have lost my reckless son and my innocent daughter-in-law because of a silly family competitiveness that goes back nearly a hundred years.’ There’s a bitterness in his tone that I just cannot comprehend. The word reckless is on the long list of words that I would use to describe Becker. Along with maverick. Both signify elements of risk. Becker takes risks. I’ve considered them to be calculated. Now I’m not so sure. While Becker’s father was pushed to take the risks that resulted in his death, I don’t think Becker needs that push. I think he takes risks without thought. Like it’s inbuilt.

  ‘Becker promised me he had both stopped looking for the sculpture and stopped provoking Wilson,’ Mr H goes on. ‘He did neither, so I’m mad with him. He lied to his own grandfather,’ he finishes, leaving that last statement lingering. What he means and hasn’t said, is that if Becker would lie to his flesh and blood, then he wouldn’t think twice about lying to me.

  ‘Right,’ I murmur dejectedly, my eyes dropping to my lap.

  ‘You know him by now, Eleanor. Everything about him. You don’t need me to tell you, but I will tell you this.’ Struggling forward a little, he smiles. ‘Life is more precious than anything,’ he almost whispers, but I hear it like a foghorn. ‘I hope Becker realises that quicker than I or his father did. He has you, and I can see how fond he is of you. It fills my heart with joy. But I’m not delusional. And you shouldn’t be, either. He’s like a dog with a bone, and not even you can make him let go.’

  I stare at the old man, absorbing everything he’s told me. Life is more precious. I’m certain Becker thinks that now, but what if he won’t give up on that sculpture? What if this is something I have to accept? And if I do accept it, am I prepared to watch him self-destruct? Or fail? Or end up like his father? Dead. I flinch. And what about me? Will I end up like Becker’s mother? I’m flinching again. Life is more precious. I’ll never forget Becker’s words and the sincerity in them when he told me the tortured tale of his parents’ deaths. I’m more important to him than that sculpture. That’s what he told me. But I also appreciate his passion. His addiction to the thrill. And I can’t lie, there are moments more regular than I will ever admit that I myself wonder. I wonder if it can be found. I wonder what Becker’s face would look like if he did find it. Wonder where it is. Wonder how it would feel. My heart skips and I fight to control it. It’s not worth the risk. But the bigger the risk, the bigger the reward. Finding Head of a Faun would be the ultimate reward for Becker. And him finding the peace he’ll get from that would be the ultimate reward for me.

  I’m not sure how long I’m lost in my thoughts, but when I finally glance up, Mr H is staring intently at the computer screen, as if he knows what I’ve been pondering and doesn’t want to disturb me. ‘What have we here, then?’ he muses quietly.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, craning my neck to try and get the screen of the computer in view.

  ‘Just rewinding through the CCTV footage. Winston was chasing something up the corridor last night. I worry about rats.’

  I grimace on a shudder, hoping I misheard him. ‘Rats?’

  He hums his confirmation. ‘Central London, sewers, and old buildings unfortunately attract the little blighters.’

  I shiver, like I could have an army of them crawling all over my skin right now. ‘Ewww.’

  ‘Goodness Goliath!’ Mr H hollers, flying back in his chair like something has jumped out of the screen and slapped him. I recoil, shocked, as he starts grappling with the keyboard. ‘Lord above, make it stop.’ He surrenders the keyboard and covers his glasses with his palms. I’m about to go to his aid, help him out and shut down the screen, when I remember what he was looking for. I remain in my seat. Rats. My mind starts to conjure up the image of a filthy great big rodent. If he’s spotted one, then I don’t want to see it. Oh God, we have rats?

  I’m useless in my chair while Mr H repeatedly peeks through spread fingers, groaning in anguish each time he does before snapping them shut and shaking his head. He’s going to have a seizure.

  The power. Cut the power. I start to search for the socket, set on wrenching the plug out so I don’t have to face what’s clearly a monster of a rat on the screen of the computer, but with no obvious cables leading anywhere, I drop to my knees and scramble under the desk.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mrs Potts voice makes my head lift, relieved, until it collides with the underside of the solid desk with an almighty crack.

  ‘Ouch!’ I yelp, my hand going to the top of my head and rubbing frantically as I drag myself to my knees. Mr H is still mumbling nonsensical words behind his palm, and Mrs Potts is standing at the doorway, taking in the mayhem that she’s walked in on. I keep my hand on my pounding head and point to Mr H with my spare. ‘He’s found a rat on the CCTV footage,’ I tell her, hoping she isn’t as squeamish as me and will rid the screen of the horror before Becker’s gramps passes out.

  ‘A rat?’ She’s barrelling towards me fast, rounding the desk and thrusting her face in the screen. ‘Oh I say,’ she breathes, moving back. She actually moves away, making me wonder how big that damn rat actually is. I’m moving back to my apartment immediately.

  I watch in stunned silence as she, too, slaps a palm over her eyes. Her other hand rests on Mr H’s shoulder, offering support in his moment of need. ‘I don’t know how to work these damn fancy computers, Donald.’

  Great. So now it’s down to me to sort this out. I drop my head back on a moan while I summon some bravery to face the horror movie playing out on the monitor. ‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter, trudging across the office and rounding the desk. My eyes a
re half closed as I muscle past Mr H and Mrs Potts, trying to distort the images as I search for an off button.

  Half closed, but they are also half open, and they can see the screen like my eyes have a magnifying glass held in front of them. My string of motions cut dead. As does my heartbeat. There’s no rat, but what I’m looking at makes that more of a regret than a relief. ‘Oh . . . my . . . God,’ I choke over my swelling tongue. ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘Make it stop,’ Mr H cries.

  I can’t. I want to, but I can’t, no matter how loud my brain is screaming the orders to shut down the computer. I’ve been rendered incapable of movement. Through shock.

  Because what’s on the screen is certifiably shocking.

  Me.

  Palms spread on the wall in the corridor outside this office.

  Naked.

  Make it stop!

  With Becker smashing into the back of me like a wild wolf on speed.

  And I just stare at it, mouth hanging open, eyes set to pop out of my head, while his dear old grandpa and Mrs Potts hide behind their hands next to me. There’s no sound coming from the footage, but that is only a mild consolation.

  Make it stop!

  I fly into action and reach behind the screen, grabbing the first cable I lay my hand on and yanking it out. I could collapse to my arse in relief when the screen finally dies, leaving blackness. Though the mental images will never leave me.

  The silence is agonising. My palms are resting on the desk, my eyes closed, as I try to catch a breath. I should leave – hope that this will never be mentioned or thought of ever again. It’s a big hope. I’ll never be able to look old Mr H or Mrs Potts in the eye again. I’m mortified. I want to open the drawer of this desk, shove my head in, and shut it repeatedly. It’ll probably be less painful than the embarrassment I’m feeling right now.

  ‘Well,’ I laugh like a blundering fool. ‘At least there are no rats.’ I want to cry. I’d take a million rats, dog-sized rats, and let them crawl all over my naked body if I could rewrite the last five minutes of my history. But I can’t. And I’m devastated.