colouring. Everyone is staring at me. I feel like a total tit.
‘Thank you,’ I murmur, reaching for his handkerchief before dabbing at my face gently, all ladylike, pretending I didn’t silence a whole room of aristocratic hoity-toity old farts in one of the most famous auction houses in the world. Good God, I’m an absolute disgrace.
When I’m done with my clean-up operation, I muster some bravery and confront my spectators, devastated to see that I’m still the centre of attention. There’s nothing I can do to redeem myself, so I sniff and raise my chin as I straighten my shoulders. I’m squirming on the inside. Positively dying. Humiliated. I bet Becker’s all kinds of regretful for bringing me along. If the auctioneer doesn’t pick up where he left off soon, I’m making a run for it. There’s only so long I can sit here with everyone staring at me.
‘Eleven million.’
The announcement from a couple rows in front of us does the trick. Everyone in the room swings their attention away from me, and I follow their lead. Brent catches my eye and smiles, shaking his head at me. ‘Eleven million,’ he repeats, turning away from me to face the front, raising his paddle.
I gawp then swing my eyes to Becker, looking for his reaction. His attention hasn’t wavered from the sculpture.
‘Eleven in the room. Do I hear twelve?’
‘Twelve.’
A sea of heads swing up to the balcony, then back into the room quickly when Brent shouts, ‘Thirteen.’
The gasps grow louder with each bid.
‘Thirteen in the room from Mr Wilson.’ The auctioneer points his gavel at Brent. ‘Do I have fourteen?’
‘Here.’ Back our heads go again to the balcony, where the guy on the phone is waving his paddle in the air. It’s clear from all the way down here that he’s sweating, his head shimmering under the lighting above. I would be, too, if I were bidding this kind of money on someone’s behalf.
The chatter in the room accelerates, people hushing each other, some holding the arm of the person sitting next to them, bracing themselves. I’m thoroughly caught up in the hype, getting a rush of adrenalin from the tension and excitement. Brent catches my eye again, his profile clear as he looks up at the balcony, scowling at his competitor.
‘Fifteen million.’ He pushes the words through clenched teeth, slowly turning back to the front of the room and lifting his paddle. His bid takes the hype up to another level. Someone at the front stands and looks back at Brent, and someone else whips out their phone and starts frantically hammering at the screen. It’s a frenzy of stunned activity. You can almost hear the heart of every single person in the room beating.
I turn my eyes on to Becker, desperate to see what he’s making of this. Why hasn’t he bid? He’s still simply staring at the glass cabinet showcasing the sculpture. I nudge his knee discreetly with mine to get his attention. He doesn’t look at me, choosing to keep his focus on the lost treasure.
‘Fifteen,’ I breathe, taking a cautious peek around me to ensure no attention is on me. I have nothing to worry about. All eyes are on the two men in the bidding war.
‘The people on the phone are a museum in Florence,’ Becker says quietly, not breaking his focus from the sculpture. ‘They can’t go any higher than sixteen.’
I swing my eyes up to the balcony, just as the man on the phone yells, ‘Sixteen.’
But Brent yells, ‘Seventeen,’ in quick succession, putting the museum in Florence out of the game. I look up to the sweaty guy on the balcony and see him shaking his head, confirming what Becker’s told me.
‘Seventeen in the room.’ The gavel points to Brent.
‘Becker.’ I turn into him, my sensible side kicking in. ‘You can’t spend this kind of money.’ Especially if this is a war of the egos between him and Brent. It’s crazy. I don’t care if it’s a Michelangelo. ‘Let—’ My mouth snaps shut when I catch his finger rising slowly to his mouth.
‘Shhhh.’ He hushes me, the low, seductive whoosh silencing me in an instant. ‘Calm your britches, princess. I’m not that crazy.’
Everything in me relaxes. ‘Good, let the idiot blow his fortune.’
‘Precisely.’ Becker looks at me and lets a small smile crack the corners of his mouth, then I watch in confusion as he slowly raises his paddle into the air. ‘Twenty million,’ he bids.
My mouth drops open. What the fucking hell?