around, hunching over a little, like making myself smaller will reduce the risk of being heard by them. ‘Don’t princess me. The countess has brought a relative along.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh?’ What does he mean, oh?
‘I feared she might.’
I gasp. The bastard. ‘You knowingly put me in this position?’
‘It’s a massive sale, princess. If you can pull this off, you can pull anything off.’ Is he testing me again? ‘Anyway, she’s less likely to pounce on you than she is me.’
‘Which one?’ I ask, checking over my shoulder. ‘Auntie or niece?’ They’re still looking at the splendid painting.
‘Both.’
I cringe and force myself to ask the question that keeps molesting my mind. ‘Becker, tell me you haven’t . . . with . . .’
‘I haven’t, though she’s tried plenty.’
I grimace, looking up to the heavens. I bet she has, and I bet she scared Becker to death. It’s quite a feat. ‘You wanker.’
‘Now, now, princess. Let’s not get personal.’
‘Fuck you, Hunt. You knew damn well Alexa would be here.’
‘Sell the painting, Eleanor. Not a penny under thirty million. Make me proud.’ He hangs up, and I close my eyes, calling on all of my willpower. Sell the painting. Just sell that painting for a cool thirty million and kick her out of here. Just not literally. Escort her out. Or better still, call Mrs Potts to show her the way, because putting myself in a dark alleyway with that woman could be fatal.
My head drops back in mental exhaustion at the thought of being professional and courteous. Never a dull fucking moment. The phrase ‘the things you do for love’ is being tested to the limit here. ‘You’re a bastard, Becker Hunt.’ But I’ll show him.
Filling my lungs with plenty of air, I whisper encouraging words to myself as I wander back into the showing room. Both women turn to me when they hear my steps, and both sets of eyes narrow to evil slits as they follow my path to the foot of the painting.
I remember Becker’s approach to showing a piece. He stood back silently and let the work speak for itself, let the client silently study it, but the atmosphere is too heavy to do that. Plus, I expect the only thing in this room they’ll study is me. So I adopt a different approach. ‘Oil on panel,’ I begin, searching deep and shifting everything I know about Rembrandt and this painting to the front of my mind. ‘Amazingly preserved, and I think you’ll agree it’s stunning in the flesh.’ I ghost a finger delicately over the frame. ‘Dated 1635, and until now its whereabouts was unknown.’
‘And where was it?’ The countess asks, throwing a spanner in my works. That’s the only thing I don’t know, damn it.
I smile tightly, ignoring Alexa’s amused smile. ‘Lost in history,’ I reply coolly and finally.
‘The paperwork? Certification?’
‘All present,’ I say, glancing over to the file in the corner. I take a few steps back, giving them space, and also because being too close to Alexa is giving me hives. ‘I believe Mr Hunt sent the papers to the National.’ What am I doing? ‘I’ll ensure you have access to them once they’ve been returned.’
Her head whips to mine. ‘The National?’
I smile on the inside. ‘The National Gallery,’ I confirm, for no other reason than relishing in making her hear it again. ‘They have the companion portrait of Philips Lucasz. They’re keen to have the two pieces back together.’
Urgency springs into her eyes. ‘Price?’ she demands.
I join my hands in front of me, remaining calm and collected. ‘Thirty-five.’ I reel off my price confidently, keeping a perfectly straight face, even when her eyes slightly widen. She wants this painting, and not even the National will stop her.
‘Thirty,’ she counters, slipping some glasses on and leaning towards the painting, her eyes travelling across the oils slowly.
‘Thirty-five, Lady Finsbury,’ I affirm, glancing at Alexa. She’s silent, watching me in action. I expect she knows fuck all about art, which begs the question why she’s here. Becker. Becker is why she’s here, and she can’t hide her disappointment that he’s not. My lips tip into a satisfied smile.
‘Thirty-two,’ the countess counters.
‘The price is thirty-five, Lady Finsbury.’
‘Fine,’ she barks, striding towards me. ‘I want to see the paperwork. In person.’ She looks me up and down, and I take it all. I know what’s coming next. ‘And I want Becker to show me it.’
Of course she does. ‘I’m sure that won’t be a problem.’ I’m being sickly sweet and