told her I went with you.’
‘I bet.’ He laughs under his breath. ‘She’ll love that.’
‘Why?’
‘Stepping stones, not leaps,’ he says to himself, drifting off somewhere.
‘What?’
‘I refused to take her. She’s a keen historian. Loves all things Italian and old.’
‘Who is she?’
‘My therapist.’
I go rigid in my chair. ‘Your therapist?’ I’m shocked, for two reasons. One, I’ve unwittingly chatted with her on the phone a few times, and one of those times Becker had me answer the call. He basically set that conversation up. What was the purpose? So she could try to figure me out? Do her research? I feel violated again, and, again, not in a delicious way. The second reason I’m sitting here all quiet is because Becker just told me himself that he’s in therapy, and I don’t know how to react. Yes, I knew, but he doesn’t know that. ‘What are you in therapy for?’
A tired look is pointed at me. ‘Really, princess?’
‘Well, I don’t know what else to say,’ I exclaim, exasperated.
‘We say nothing. That’s why I’m in therapy. To talk.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Waste of fucking time, anyway.’
Oh? So that’s why he made an emergency call to her the other day, is it? I can’t help wonder what I might say to Paula next time I happen to take her call. Ask her what the verdict is on Becker and me? Does she have an opinion? I inwardly laugh. Of course she does. But she’s not likely to tell me. God, what I’d do to be a fly on the wall during one of their sessions.
‘Oh.’ Becker turns to face me, and I quickly wipe away any traces of my curious mind spinning. ‘Call Sotheby’s. There’s whispers of a few Picasso pieces coming to market.’
‘Sure, I’ll get . . .’ I fade off. ‘Crap.’
‘What?’
‘My new phone is being delivered today, and I’m not there.’
Wandering across to his desk, Becker pulls a drawer open. ‘Hunt saves the day.’ He slides an iPhone across the table. ‘I’ve had your new SIM programmed with your details, so you still have the same number and all your contacts from when you last backed up your phone.’
I stare at it for a few moments, a bit taken aback. ‘You replaced my phone?’
‘Yes.’ His answer is quick and dismissive, but I still don’t receive an apology for him smashing my old one to pieces. ‘It’s all set and ready to go.’
‘How?’ I ask, looking up at him. ‘You’d need my password to transfer all the data.’
‘I have my ways.’
‘Percy,’ I breathe. ‘He hacked my account.’
‘Accessed.’
‘He hacked, Becker. Unlawfully.’ He really is a whizz kid. For the love of God. I pick up the phone on a sigh and scroll through. I haven’t called my mum for a few days. I need to do that. But, again, he hacked my damn account?
‘Who’s David?’
My thumb pauses on the screen at the mention of my ex-boyfriend, and I look up at Becker, finding an apprehensive face. ‘You went through my phone, too?’ I ask, horrified. Oh my God. The texts? Can he see the text messages?
‘He sounds sorry.’
That answers my question. ‘Of course he’s sorry,’ I spit. ‘He got caught with his trousers around his ankles with my best friend.’ The moment I see pity on his face, I regret telling him. I don’t need his pity. I don’t need anyone’s pity.
‘She sounds sorry, too.’
I recoil. ‘Did you read all of my messages?’
‘He sounds like a prick.’
‘He is.’
‘He doesn’t know where you are?’
‘No,’ I snap. The mention of his name has me fired up. I start hammering away at my phone, trying to expel some of my rage, as I power through, deleting messages and contacts. I don’t know why I didn’t do this before. It’s long overdue. But as I’m scrolling through my phonebook, I notice something. I look up at him in disbelief. ‘You deleted Brent’s number?’
‘And blocked him.’ He shows complete indifference. I’m staggered.
‘This is taking things a bit too far.’
‘You don’t need his contact details.’
‘That’s not the point. You’ve violated my privacy.’
‘I bought that phone, so technically it’s a work perk. Which means I’m perfectly within my right, as your employer, to monitor activity. I’ll remind you of the NDA.’ His straight face is hovering on the edge of humour, and my eyes bug at his cheek. There’s nothing funny about this. This is being much too controlling. ‘And if we’re going to talk about violating—’
‘No.’ I hold up a hand before he can head down that road.