Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology Book 2)

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  Pushing myself up by my palms, I straighten my shoulders and clear my throat. ‘Good afternoon,’ I say, forcing my feet into action to take me away from this God-awful awkwardness.

  I could be drunk, if my stability is anything to go by. I’m shaking with embarrassment. I wish I was drunk. In fact, I’m going to find some alcohol right this minute and drown my humiliation.

  Shutting the office door behind me, I find the nearest wall and let my forehead meet it. Repeatedly. Nothing can redeem me. It’s bad enough that they warned me against getting personally involved with Becker. They didn’t like the thought. I bet they positively hated the sight.

  Chapter 16

  I drag my dejected body down the corridor, through the Grand Hall, and into the courtyard. I need fresh air. Or water so I can drown myself. The round stone fountain catches my eye as I wander across the cobbles. ‘Too shallow,’ I say to myself, as I rest my arse on the edge, performing my customary flinch at the soreness. I look over my shoulder into the water again, gauging the depth as my reflection shimmers up at me. I only need a few inches. It’s doable.

  ‘Hi.’ Another reflection appears, one of a woman, and I swing around to find an immaculate blonde clad in an impeccable trouser suit. I look around, wondering where she’s come from.

  ‘Hello,’ I say warily. ‘Eleanor.’ I offer, taking her hand. ‘You are?’

  ‘Emma,’ she sings, but says no more, leaving me still wondering who she is and where she came from. Dropping my hand, she gestures around the courtyard. ‘I’ve never had the privilege. He always comes to me.’

  Why is she talking in riddles? ‘You mean Becker?’

  ‘Who else?’ She laughs, sending her hand into the beautiful Stella McCartney handbag that’s suspended from the crook of her arm. She drags out her phone and starts tapping on the keys while I stand like a plum before her, admiring her well-turned-out form. ‘He’s just gone to check the delivery,’ she says, keeping her focus on her phone.

  I’m beginning to get irritated. She’s said plenty and told me nothing, except her name. ‘What have you bought from him?’ I ask, curious. I don’t recall any mention of an Emma and I haven’t seen one in the endless client files that I’ve encountered here at The Haven.

  She laughs and drops her phone back into her bag. ‘Oh, I don’t buy from Becker. He buys from me.’

  I frown, just as the man himself appears from the showing room across the courtyard. He looks pleased with himself. That could change when he finds out what I’ve just endured in his office.

  ‘Emma.’ Becker gives her a devilish grin, and she giggles, turning her full attention onto him. Why wouldn’t she? He looks heavenly, as always, but he’s changed out of his suit and is now in a pair of grey sweatpants and a white T-shirt that accentuates every line on his chest and stomach. Is it even possible for him to ever look like a bag of shit? A shadow on his cheek catches my eye – a grey smudge. He’s been in his secret room again. What’s he up to in there?

  ‘Anything take your fancy?’ Emma asks, returning his devilish grin.

  ‘A few options.’ He stuns me when he snakes his arm around my waist and pulls me into his side. Emma, surprisingly, doesn’t bat an eyelid. She just smiles at me, like she’s privy to something secret. I cock my head and flick my eyes between the two of them, not liking her obvious discretion. ‘Invoice me for what I’ve taken.’ Becker tells her. ‘And good call, by the way.’

  Emma smiles and backs towards the alleyway. ‘This way?’ she asks, pointing over her shoulder.

  ‘That way,’ Becker confirms. ‘Thanks, Emma.’

  ‘Anytime.’ She bashes her lashes and saunters off, disappearing down the alleyway.

  ‘Who was that?’ I ask, reaching up to wipe the smudge of dirt from his face.

  His eyes follow my hand to his cheek, and he holds still until I’m done. ‘Emma.’ He takes my hand and leads me to the showing room.

  ‘And who’s Emma?’

  ‘That woman you just met.’

  He’s being vague. ‘Have you . . .’ I don’t know why the hell I’m asking. I’m a glutton for punishment.

  ‘Yes.’ He doesn’t hesitate, astounding me.

  My stomach bottoms out. Nice. I break our held hands. ‘I truly relish the thought.’ My quip sounds as sarcastic as I meant it to.

  ‘About as much as I relish the thought of your ex-boyfriend.’ The enhancement of the word boyfriend is piercing. And like my previous quip, meant to be. I skid to a stop, as does Becker. My face is outraged, whereas his is deadpan.

  ‘One man, Becker,’ I point out, holding a finger up in demonstration. ‘Just one.’ I can’t bring myself to even think of all the women who have had a piece of him. It would be pointless; I’d lose count. ‘You cannot compare.’

  His jaw tightens. ‘One is one too many.’

  ‘Are you for real?’ I ask on a laugh.

  He pushes his face to mine, stopping my amusement with the flash of fire in his eyes. ‘How many times have I told you? I am very real, princess. Would you rather I lie to you?’ He looks angry. His audacity stokes my irritation, and I draw breath, prepared to let loose on him. But a firm palm slaps over my mouth, silencing me. ‘He had your heart, Eleanor. Before you, no one has ever had mine.’

  I gulp behind his hand and press my lips together, even though my chances of speaking are limited with his hand firmly wedged against my mouth.

  ‘So yes,’ he continues. ‘One is one too many.’

  I have no come back to that. Not a jiffy. So I reach up and take his hand, slowly pulling it down. I need to get shot of this silly possessive streak. I can’t change his past, and, actually, I should be grateful that he’s being so honest with me. Even if it stings. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too.’ Becker steps into me and takes my cheeks with both palms, squeezing, before raining kisses all over my face.

  I sigh, letting him at me. ‘What have you been up to in your secret room?’ I ask quietly, aiming for a complete subject change.

  ‘Trying to relax.’ Becker answers, pulling away and finding my eyes. Trying. He obviously failed. He’s been on edge since I told him who I saw at Sotheby’s the other day. Has he found out anything? Surely the police would want to talk to anyone there, including me.

  ‘The police have been in touch.’

  He’s a mind reader. It scares me. ‘And . . .?’

  ‘And they want to take a statement from you.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ve told them what I know. Which isn’t much.’

  ‘Are they coming here?’

  He snorts. ‘Not a chance. Hell will freeze over before I let a copper inside the walls of The Haven. They’re lucky I talked to them at all.’

  I wince, seeing the article I found on the internet about his father’s death. A mugging gone wrong. It’s ridiculous. And his mother? The police weren’t exactly helpful then, either. ‘And what should I say to them?’

  ‘The truth, Eleanor. Just tell them why we were there and what happened.’

  Easy for him. I can’t help but worry that he’s not going to let this slide. Brent didn’t want that painting. He knew how much Becker wanted it and that’s the only reason he’s acquired it. Yet I keep going back to . . . how? How does a businessman like Brent Wilson steal a bloody Georgia O’Keeffe from Sotheby’s?

  ‘Becker,’ I start, but his finger covers my mouth and he delivers that sexy shush.

  ‘I’m over it.’ He moves his palms to my shoulders. ‘Paula is proud of me.’

  Paula? Dr Vass, his therapist? ‘You’re still seeing her?’ Voices in my head remind me of that conversation between Becker and his granddad, the one where old Mr H demanded his grandson sought therapy instead of using me as his medicine. So he’s doing both? Is that a good thing?

  His expression takes on an edge of anno
yance, his hand going to the back of his neck and stroking at his nape. ‘Yes. She’s like a dog with a fucking bone now she knows about you.’

  I laugh on the inside, recalling her surprise when she learned of my trip to Countryscape with Becker. ‘And what does she make of us?’ I ask.

  ‘She was quite shocked when I told her that I’m kind of attached to you.’

  ‘Attached to me?’

  ‘Yes, like one of my treasures.’

  ‘Is that what she said?’ I can see her now, analysing how Becker sees me. Like one of his prized treasures.

  ‘Yes.’

  I’m offended. ‘Does that mean you’d rather burn me than let someone else have me?’

  The look of disgust that invades his face is profound. He could be chewing mud. ‘Pretty much, yes.’

  ‘That’s so romantic.’ I laugh, bringing my palm to my forehead to smooth out the wrinkles caused by my frown.

  ‘I never claimed to be romantic.’ Becker snatches my hand from my head and starts pulling me across the courtyard towards the showing room. ‘But I’m going to try.’

  ‘You are?’ This should be interesting.

  ‘Yes. Paula has given me a few pointers.’

  ‘You asked your therapist for relationship advice?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Like what?’ My mind is racing.

  ‘Like what dress you might like,’ he tells me nonchalantly. Really? Oh God, this could be a catastrophe. Did Becker tell her that my colouring isn’t exactly versatile? Did he tell her that I have a rather curvy arse? ‘Why did you have me take Paula’s calls those times?’ I ask.

  His steps stutter slightly, and I glance up to find him pouting to himself. ‘I wanted her to get to know you before I declared my situation.’

  ‘What situation?’

  ‘You, princess.’ He sighs tiredly, as if bored of the conversation. ‘You are my situation.’

  ‘You make me sound like a burden,’ I grumble, pouting.

  ‘You kind of are.’

  My slighted state just got even more slighted. That’s charming. ‘You’re a situation for me, too, you know? Being mixed up with your boss isn’t ideal. Especially one who’s a con artist, forger, and has you sworn to secrecy.’

  He stops us and circles my neck with his big palms, looking down at me with a slight edge of tiredness. ‘Nothing about this is ideal, Eleanor. That much I’ve figured out.’ His expression softens and he loosens his grip of my neck a little, forcing a smile. ‘Just keep stumbling with me, princess, and I’ll keep stumbling with you.’

  ‘Will we ever stop stumbling?’ It could get tiring, wear us both down.

  Becker’s forced smile transforms into a genuine, cheeky one, and he drops a chaste kiss on my forehead. ‘I fucking hope not. I love stumbling with you.’ He opens the door to the showing room, and music penetrates my hearing. I throw him a questioning look as Miike Snow croons ‘Silvia’.

  ‘Your therapist really gave you advice on what dress I might like?’ I ask, thinking this situation will probably tell me everything I should know about Paula and her intentions. I’m suddenly feeling threatened by the woman whom I haven’t met, and who sounded so sincere on the calls I had with her. Someone casting a negative light on our relationship is the last thing I need. She compared me to one of Becker’s treasures. She’s also a woman, so should naturally fancy Becker. She has a heartbeat and a vagina. It’s a given. Forgive me, but my faith in womankind isn’t the strongest it’s ever been.

  Becker nods slowly. ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘And what did she say?’ I ask warily.

  ‘She said to pick what I would like to see you in.’ My faith in womankind is restored again as he coaxes me into the showing room and points to the huge white wall at the back of the room where three dresses hang from hooks – the dresses he’d like to see me wearing. ‘I picked these,’ he declares proudly. My faith in womankind might have been restored, but my faith in Becker plummets.

  My feet stutter to a stop. I’m speechless. Nearly. ‘Wow.’ I’m faced with some seriously racy dresses, not anything I would expect to be seen in at a posh gala at Countryscape. One is black . . . and leather . . . and short. The other is green, with a plunging neckline and it’s even shorter than the short black number. And the blood-red one? Well, I can barely see it.

  ‘My final decision depends on a few things,’ Becker tells me, wandering slowly over to his carefully exhibited display. I keep my eyes glued to the dresses. There’s a metre of white wall between each, and my eyes are jumping between them, worry plaguing me. I can’t say that I’d feel comfortable in any, but something tells me that my comfort isn’t high up on Becker’s list of priorities.

  Just like when Becker has one of his priceless treasures on display in the showing room, there is nothing else to focus on, other than these dresses. Except, of course, my filthy-minded boyfriend, but I dare not look at him now. It’ll confirm how serious he is about me wearing one of these napkins. So I stare at the dresses instead, hoping that at least one will miraculously double in size.

  I won’t ask. I refuse to ask the question. I don’t want to know. Because I’ll be horrified. But I’ll also be delighted. ‘What does it depend on?’ My inquiry sails from my mouth before I can stop it. I know what his final decision depends on. I take a risky peek at him, finding that adorable, mischievous grin. He has an apple in his hand. A big, green, shiny apple that’s being casually tossed into the air and caught with ease as he stares at me. After taking a big bite of the lush green fruit, he starts to chew slowly, as he lowers and places the apple gently on the floor. I smile on the inside. He’s not done with that apple.

  Keeping his hazel eyes low, he prowls towards me, pulling his T-shirt up over his head. My knees are instantly weak. Will the day ever come when my knickers don’t flood with desire at the sight of him? Part of me hopes not, but the sensible side of me appreciates the inconvenience it may cause.

  I stiffen when I feel the heat of his body closing in, my upper body bowing, my throat drying.

  Then his mouth is at my ear. ‘Let’s take off your dress,’ he whispers, before biting my lobe and grazing my skin as he drags his teeth down my flesh. I can smell apple mixed with his clean cologne, creating that unique Becker scent. Electricity surges through me, crackling and stabbing at every sensitive part of my body, most significantly between my legs.

  ‘I have work to do,’ I murmur.

  ‘Me too.’

  I open my eyes as he takes the hem of my floral sundress and slowly, so very slowly, painfully slowly, drags it up my body, looking deeply into my eyes as he does. I don’t put up a fight. As I feared, I follow his orders like a faithful dog, swallowing and lifting my arms so he can rid me of my dress. And then the underwear goes – bra, knickers, the lot – leaving me a blank canvas for Becker to play with, my nipples buzzing and hard.

  After casting my underwear aside, he weaves his fingers into the hair at my nape, playing gently for a few moments before circling my naked body until he’s poised behind me. Soft lips meet my shoulder, my head automatically tilting, my eyes closing. ‘You smell heavenly.’ He inhales deeply, sliding his hand to my front, his palm spanning my tummy. I’m tugged back. ‘Taste so sweet.’ His tongue trails a firm lick up the side of my throat to my ear. My hand finds his on my stomach and clenches hard, my eyes rolling in pleasure. ‘Look amazing.’ He grips my jaw hard until I open my eyes. ‘Feel incredible.’ Flexing his hand on my tummy until I release it, he slides it down my skin and delves into the wetness awaiting him. My arse flies back on a distressed cry, crashing into his groin. He hisses. ‘We need to try on these dresses before I abandon our fitting and fuck you to Italy and back.’ He rips his body from mine, causing physical pain. ‘By the wall.’ Taking my upper arm, he pulls me over to the bare wall opposite the dresses and positions me at the foot, right i
n the centre.

  I’m aching for his touch. Aching for him. It takes every scrap of willpower to stay where I am, and a bit more when he abandons me and makes his way over to the dresses, his inked back being waved like a red flag. I can see him adjusting his groin as he goes.

  ‘This one first,’ he says, unhooking the black dress from the hanger and unzipping it as he wanders back to my pulsing form. No amount of deep breathing is steadying my shakes, or my thrilled heartbeat. I know what’s coming, yet I have no inclination to hinder Becker’s intentions. Even my backside is tensing excitedly in preparation. Whether business or pleasure, this man thrills me no end.

  Making a point of keeping his eyes on my reddening face, he sinks to his knees before me and holds the dress open at my feet. I get no vocal order, just a sharp nod of his head, so I step in and pray to every resistance god to help me hold it together as Becker pulls the black leather up my body, arranging it slowly around my boobs. He then turns me to face the wall. The sound of the zipper being fastened is the only noise as he calmly pulls it up. Until my restricted lungs drain of air. The irony of this whole situation doesn’t escape me. I’m panting like a dog on heat, like he could be slowly stripping me rather than dressing me.

  My red locks are gathered and tied up meticulously. ‘Shoulders,’ he says simply, kissing one before the other. I bring my palms up to the wall before he can demand it, relaxing. It doesn’t matter if I close my eyes or force them to remain open. Either way, my arse is taking whatever Becker decides to dish out.

  Placing steady hands on my hips, he walks me back until I’m in position. ‘It’s tight,’ he muses, crouching behind me and resting a fire hot fingertip on my ankle bone. ‘Could be tricky getting it to where I want it to be.’ That fingertip trails up the inside of my leg, past my knee to my inside thigh as he rises with it. I swallow down the scratchy dryness in my throat. ‘Let’s try.’ Smoothing his hands down my hips, he reaches the hem of the leather and takes hold but tortures me by delaying his next move. Crazily, I’m silently pleading for him to hurry things along. His lips meet my neck and suck gently, pushing a strangled moan past my lips. ‘Does my filthy princess want me to spank her?’