His question prompts me to wriggle a little, instantly feeling the burn. ‘Sore.’
‘Good.’
Lucy’s head pops out from behind the door. ‘What’s sore?’
I wave a hand dismissively at her and return to Becker, hearing the sound of a sweet laugh from down the line. And it wasn’t Becker’s sweet chuckle. It was a woman’s. ‘Where are you?’
‘At this exact moment in time?’
‘Yes, at this exact moment in time,’ I press, listening carefully for any more background noise.
‘Well.’ He coughs. ‘At this exact moment in time, I have a lady’s hand resting on my inside thigh.’
I’m standing fast. ‘Whose hand?’
‘Henrietta.’
‘Who the hell is Henrietta?’
He laughs lightly. I don’t know why. Let me tell him that a man has his hand on my inside thigh. See how he reacts. ‘She’s my seamstress, princess, and currently measuring my inside thigh.’
Mental images of Becker’s sturdy, thick, strong thighs invade my mind. And a woman holding a tape measure there. ‘I might learn how to sew.’
He laughs, a heavy, full-on burst of amusement. ‘I only have thighs for you.’
‘Oh, you’re hilarious,’ I breathe, but on the inside I’m laughing along with him. ‘I hope you have your trousers on.’
‘Actually, it’s very hard to measure a thigh with too much material in the way.’
‘Is that what she tells you?’ I ask, sitting back down and relaxing a little with our playful banter.
‘Thanks, Hen,’ Becker says, and then I hear the sound of footsteps, followed by a closing door. ‘You’re jealous.’ There’s laughter in his tone, and definitely satisfaction.
‘Yes, I am.’ I openly admit, no shame or holding back. ‘I want to be touching those thighs right now.’
‘But you need girl time,’ he reminds me, cocky as can be.
I roll my eyes to myself. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Seems you also need some Becker time.’
Now I’m full-on scowling down the line. I’m not playing his game. ‘I had plenty of Becker time yesterday in the showing room. And last night. And this morning.’ I shift on the sofa, getting a cool, hard reminder of what Becker time entails.
‘Don’t pretend you wouldn’t bend over for me if I was there,’ he says with totally warranted confidence. ‘Have a good night, princess.’
‘Wait!’ I blurt out. I’ve been so caught up in his playful banter, I’ve totally forgotten why I called him in the first place. ‘Someone from the NCA stopped me outside Lucy’s office.’
I don’t like the lengthy silence that follows.
‘Becker?’
‘Who?’ He’s not happy.
‘Price. Stan Price.’ I give him his answer without delay. ‘Showed me a picture of a woman. Asked me if I recognise her.’
‘And did you?’
I recoil, glancing over to the bathroom, hearing the whoosh of Lucy’s shower and her singing over the top of it. ‘Yes,’ I confess. ‘I saw her picture in a file on your desk. Lady Winchester.’ More silence. My mind races. ‘But I told Price she wasn’t familiar to me.’
Becker lets out an audible gush of relieved breath. ‘Good girl.’
‘Who is she?’
‘She’s a filthy rich old lady who’s rumoured to be involved with a collection of forged Picassos.’
What? Oh God. ‘Why do you have a file on her?’
‘She bought a Ming vase from the Hunt Corporation a few years ago. Don’t get any ideas. Gramps got the file out to destroy it. We can’t be associated with crooked people. Bad for business.’
I gape down the line, astonished. ‘Are you for real?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you? I’m very real. We don’t associate with carelessness. The police sniffing around isn’t ideal.’
Yes, I can appreciate that, given the secret room where Becker loses himself from time-to-time and carved a fake Michelangelo. ‘Just promise me you have nothing to do with the Picassos,’ I beg, needing absolute clarification.
‘I promise you,’ he replies sincerely, and I sink into the couch, relieved.
‘Why didn’t Price just ask you?’ I ask.
‘Because he knows I’ll tell him to fuck off.’
I gawk down the phone. ‘Don’t hold back, will you?’
‘They weren’t exactly helpful when Mum and Dad were killed. Why would I help them?’
I tingle from top to toe as a result of Becker’s spat words, feeling resentment bubbling in my veins, my lip curling. My protectiveness stuns me. I’m so very glad I played dumb. To hell with the police. They weren’t there for Becker. Why the hell should he ever cooperate for them? ‘He also asked about my relationship with you,’ I go on.
‘And you said?’
‘I told him you’re my boss.’
Becker laughs hard. ‘Don’t you think the whole fucking world knows that we’re fucking, Eleanor?’