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 annoyance, 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.