Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology #2) - Jodi Ellen Malpas Page 0,165

I hate him. Hate him! I take a few moments to calm myself down. Now I don’t feel guilty for doubting him. My instinct didn’t let me down.

I start inching my body down the bed as far as I can and gripping my jeans between my feet. I have to virtually bend my body in two to get them above my head, but I manage. It takes some serious patience and time, but I eventually position my pocket by my hand. And, with a smug smile, I pull out the little silver key that I found in his bag.

Fuck you, Becker Hunt.

Chapter 41

It seems that was the easy part. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here wrestling on the bed to get the right angle. A few minutes? A few hours? Every tiny noise I hear beyond the door has my heart beating faster as I hiss in pain, the metal of the cuffs cutting into my flesh. What if Brent’s in Rome? What if he finds Becker? My thoughts are spiralling, my anger fast converting into worry. What if I never see him again? Annoying tears of frustration start to pinch the backs of my eyes, hindering my task. It’s getting the better of me.

I try to force my strung muscles to relax, my neck aching terribly, straining to see what I’m doing. ‘Goddamn it,’ I yell, stretching that little bit more, my muscles screaming. But then a noise from outside freezes me, and I hear a lock click. My eyes land on the door just as it moves a fraction, pushed open a little way. Oh, thank God. My veins drain of apprehension. He’s back.

Yet when the door opens the rest of the way, I find I’m not looking at Becker at all. ‘Brent?’ I gasp.

He stands at the threshold of the room, looking at me shackled to the bed, his face a picture of perplexity. ‘Eleanor?’ he questions, taking in my cuffed hands.

Fuck. What now? My mind starts to sprint, but it doesn’t give me a clue of what to say. What I do know, though, is that he can’t make me talk. I won’t say a thing. And I’ve quickly looped into the fact that if Brent is here, he isn’t tailing Becker’s arse.

‘Where’s Becker?’ he asks, approaching the bed.

I slam my head back down to the pillow defiantly. ‘Fuck off, Brent.’

He chuckles, and it’s cold. ‘Your sass. I love it.’

I want to close my eyes, but that would be stupid. I need to keep my eye on him. Jesus Christ, I’m helpless.

‘Where is he?’

I find myself laughing. It’s as sarcastic as a laugh can be. I refuse to let him see me scared. ‘Call yourself a treasure hunter?’ I goad, landing him with a wicked smile. ‘You’re here, and Becker . . . is not.’

‘Don’t test me, Eleanor.’

‘Why? You gonna kill me, too?’

His hand comes up and feels my hair, and it takes everything I have not to cower or flinch. Everything not to vomit. I have no idea where my valour is coming from, but I’m just letting it flow, my hatred for this man unstoppable. ‘Get your filthy hands off me.’

He sighs, releasing my hair, and reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. ‘I did warn you,’ he says, pulling out his phone as I hide my frown. He presents me with his screen, and there is a photograph of Becker. Kissing a woman. A woman with glossy, straight black hair to her shoulders. ‘He met her on the piazza for coffee earlier.’

My round eyes remain fixed on the picture, my mind a jumble. I try to encourage some tears of despair to come. Holy fucking shit, where’s that wig? I peek up to the chair in the corner where Becker threw it, seeing it hanging off the arm.

‘I knew he’d hurt you, Eleanor. I did try to tell you.’ He stands and tucks his phone away. ‘He’s always been a womaniser. You owe him nothing. Now, where is he?’

I blink repeatedly, plotting my next move while Brent smiles down at me, like he’s just divulged the world’s biggest secret. He looks smug. Satisfied. I want to smash his stupid face in. How long can I keep him here? I conclude very quickly that it won’t be for long.

I rest my head back down and look at the ceiling.

‘Where is he?’

I remain quiet, not blessing him with my eyes.

‘Eleanor.’ His tone is warning, and I completely ignore it. Then there’s