He stares at me, that boyish, cheeky smile gracing his beautiful face, while I gape at him, feeling the attention in the room divert to us. People cry out in delight, in shock, in awe.
‘Twenty million in the room.’
‘Becker, what are you doing?’ I ask, unbothered by the sound level of my voice. There’s not a chance anyone could possibly hear me through the hustle and bustle.
He brings his paddle down and leans into me, putting his lips at my ear. My eyes close and everything around me fades to nothing. ‘I hate him, Eleanor.’
I frown into my darkness, totally confused, but when I open my eyes, Becker is smiling, getting comfortable in his seat again. He winks at me and returns his focus to the glass cabinet.
‘Your hate must be of epic levels if you’re prepared to part with so much cash, just to stop Brent from getting hold of the sculpture.’
‘Epic doesn’t cover it,’ Becker says.
Swallowing hard, I settle in my chair and work hard to ignore the excited faces glaring at us. All excited, except Brent. He’s scowling.
The auctioneer looks over his glasses to Brent. ‘Do I have twenty-one?’
Brent’s shoulders are tense, nearly touching his earlobes. He wasn’t happy at fifteen million. I can only imagine he’s absolutely insane with frustration at twenty-one. Being outbid by such a huge amount and by his arch-enemy, no less? Fucking hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he launched himself over the chairs and attacked.
‘Twenty-one,’ Brent spits, reaching up to his face with his paddle-free hand. I expect he’s wiping the sweat from his brow.
‘Thirty,’ Becker says coolly.
I don’t move. I don’t say a word. I mimic Becker’s poise and stare at the priceless sculpture. Why does Becker hate Brent so much? His explanation in the garage this morning seems feeble now. Keep your enemies close? He’d rather burn a priceless object than see Brent Wilson get his hands on it? What, even if it costs him millions? There’s more to it, there has to be, but now really isn’t the time to ask.
‘Thirty-one,’ Brent bellows in response. The room is silent. Not even the auctioneer can recite the bids before the counter bids are declared.
‘Forty million.’ Becker spells it out clearly and concisely without a hint of his mental state, which I’d say is fucking crackpot right now.
There are screams this time. The whole damn place plummets into complete chaos. It’s hardly surprising. Nothing would stop me from reacting to that one, either. Forty million? Who has that kind of money? I should laugh at my silent, stupid question. The Hunts. That’s who. Becker isn’t messing around. Brent is creeping up in pathetic one million-pound increments, while Becker is slamming down fucking colossal bids. He really doesn’t want Brent to have Head of a Faun.
Amid the madness of people surrounding us, Brent flies up from his seat. He’s furious. ‘Fifty million,’ he yells. His hair is in disarray from his jerky movements. He looks a state, whereas Becker looks perfectly composed and together.
Things are getting out of hand, and I start to wonder where this ends. Becker wants that piece, and so does Brent. I don’t expect either man to relent and lose face, so I settle in, looking ahead to the treasure that’s sent this auction room into pandemonium.
The auctioneer points at Brent. ‘Fifty million from Mr Wilson.’
I wait for it. It’s coming.
Any.
Moment.
Now.
Except it doesn’t. Becker is silent beside me, and while I know the money being bid here is astronomically stupid, even for a long-lost Michelangelo, I’m suddenly overcome by an unreasonable wish for him not to let Brent win. Maybe it’s the wicked glint in Brent’s eyes as he looks over. Or maybe it’s because that piece belongs somewhere special, like a museum or at The Haven. Or maybe it’s simply because I want Becker to win and really want Brent to lose. For me, that would be the best slap in the face, even if I’m not technically delivering it.
‘Going once.’
I look across and find Becker staring blankly at the cabinet, oblivious to all eyes on him, waiting for his counter bid. He looks like he’s in a trance. Or is he thinking? I can’t be sure, so I nudge his knee. He turns his face slowly to mine. ‘It’s on you,’ I prompt, nodding my head towards the auctioneer.
‘Going twice.’ The auctioneer is looking at Becker like everyone else, his gavel hanging limply in his hand.
I have no idea what to make of the expression