Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology #2) - Jodi Ellen Malpas Page 0,72

line, princess.

I recoil in disgust. ‘I’m barely walking at all, thanks to you.’ My bum cheeks sing their agreement as I exit the screen, casting my mind back to the library, when I confessed my knowledge of the secret book and the map. Three strikes and I’m out? The map. The piece of art with a story amid the beautiful design. The missing piece. The key to Becker’s mission.

I pull up Google. And I stare at the search bar, fighting the urge. This is becoming a habit. My fingers work mindlessly, typing in ‘Head of a Faun’ and I scroll the results. Of course, the results are limited and tell me nothing I don’t already know. What did you expect, Eleanor? Directions to the missing piece? A diagram of where it can be found? My shoulders slump, my mind wanders, and not for the first time, I sense the frustration Becker must feel over the mystery of the lost piece of the map and the sculpture. Where would one even begin to look for it? God, to have confirmation that Michelangelo really did destroy it himself. That would be the perfect outcome. But, also, what a travesty that would be. Old Mr Hunt’s words come back to me. Getting your hands on something that is thought lost in history gives you a rush like nothing else. I smile. I bet.

Stop it, Eleanor!

I toss my phone into my bag and jump a little when some feet appear in my downcast vision, just a few inches from mine – feet graced with black shoes that need a good polish, the leather riddled with scuffs.

I glance up, wary, and recoil a little, taken aback by the sheer size of the man looming above me. He’s as tall as he is wide, suited but scruffy, and his face is crabby, his thinning hair slicked back with too much wax. Or it could be grease. I can’t be sure.

He smiles at me, and I try to force one in return but fail miserably. I must look as bewildered and cautious as I feel. ‘Hello,’ he says politely, his voice gruff and deep, like he smokes forty a day.

‘Hi.’ I find myself withdrawing, leaning back a little on the wall. I want to stand; I feel threatened sitting under his towering, overweight frame, but I’ll never get to my feet without having to brush past him, and something tells me he knows that.

‘Eleanor Cole?’

My worry intensifies. How does he know my name? ‘You are?’ I don’t confirm who I am, since I have no idea who this is and why he’s here.

‘Stan Price.’ He reaches into his inside pocket and pulls something out, flashing it at me. A badge. ‘NCA.’

I just about manage to hold onto my heavy jaw to stop it hitting the pavement. NCA? National Crime Agency?

‘You are Eleanor Cole?’ he goes on, moving to the side, my eyes following him.

‘Yes, is this about the stolen O’Keeffe?’

He smiles. ‘No, actually. A colleague is dealing with that case.’

‘Oh.’ Then what on earth could this be about? Naturally, my mind goes straight to the fake sculpture, which is bad because if it doesn’t thrill me, it makes me anxious. And now I’m anxious. ‘So, how can I help you?’ I’m at a loss where my even tone is coming from, because on the inside I’m stressed. All I can see is Head of a Faun and Becker with sculpting tools in his hands. And then that vision changes. Becker with handcuffs on his wrists.

‘You work for the Hunt Corporation, yes?’ He lowers himself next to me on the wall, never letting his eyes leave mine. I feel like he’s assessing me, gauging my persona and disposition.

‘Yes,’ I answer short, sweet and quickly, fighting not to show a shred of my nerves. I’m so fucking nervous. ‘I’m sorry, what’s this about?’

Stan Price smiles. I’m not sure if it’s genuine or forced. ‘We’re investigating some suspicious activity in the art world,’ he says, and every muscle in my body stiffens, though I fight with all my might to hide it. ‘I wondered if you may be able to help.’ His eyebrows raise expectantly.

‘You’re investigating suspicious activity, but not the stolen O’Keeffe?’ My nerves are becoming more frayed by the second. Fuck, I don’t know how the frigging hell to handle this. All I can see is the evil, almost amused face of Head of a Faun.

‘Yes, like I said.’

I breathe in discreetly. ‘If I can help, I will.’