He starts the engine and makes Gloria roar in delight. ‘Did I tell you about the time I skydived off the Burj Khalifa?’
‘Really?’ I gasp sarcastically, and he grins. I shouldn’t humour him when he’s being so reckless. Becker Hunt is pretty damn hard to dislike when he’s being a total twat. When he’s all playful, daring, and roguish, it’s impossible. He’s a maverick for sure. Today has proven that. The risks he’s taken are reckless, but I’ve no doubt his plot has been deeply thought through. He’s spirited too, just like his grandad said. Wild and audacious. Passionate and loving. Sex appeal exudes from every pore of his gorgeous body, and his face is so handsome it should be classified as dangerous. Which it is. I can attest to that.
But setting all those silent summaries aside, I really should be asking myself something. Something important.
What does his grand gesture mean?Chapter 22I’m surprised when Becker pulls off the country road into a pub car park and declares we need to eat. I don’t argue. Apparently, being an accomplice to a con artist builds up quite an appetite.
We chat non-stop over dinner about Rome, the couple of years Becker spent there studying Italian Renaissance art, and I listen in awe and envy. We touch briefly on me, and I find myself shutting down, wondering what my straight-laced father and all his junk would make of what I’ve been involved in today. I should be back at his shop trying to keep his memory alive, not getting myself caught up in con jobs. Because that’s exactly what it is. Illegal.
It seems that Becker detects my mental torment at that point, because he coolly diverts the conversation, sending my nagging conscience sailing into the distance with his animated stories from his days in Paris, Madrid, Buenos Aires, Moscow . . .
The list goes on and on. He’s been everywhere, and he talks with passion about each and every place. I could listen to him for ever. There’s been only playful banter, no pokes or . . . I stop my direction of thought immediately. There have been pokes. Lots of them, but both of us have bounced them right back on a grin or a laugh. It’s different today. I don’t know what is different, or why, but there’s been a huge shift in our relationship, and I can’t help but think it’s for the best. I’ve come to love the Hunt Corporation, my sense of belonging, my job, Mrs Potts and Mr H, and not even the events of today has made that waver, and that really is crazy.
I feel revitalised, and I can’t take that away from myself. Becker Hunt is thrilling and daring, and it feels so good to be thrilling and daring with him. I just need to get past those moments of rhapsody whenever Becker touches me or gets too close. I can do that. To maintain this exhilarating, belonging, and purposeful feeling within me, I can do that.
I should do that.
Can I do that?
The ride home from the pub goes too fast, assisted by Becker actually driving too fast. The evening air is bitter and at eight o’clock, it’s already dark. When we pull up outside my building, I choose not to look at him, concentrating on pulling my coat in and my scarf up my neck. My actions say more than I’m cold. They say I’m distracting myself, maybe even trying to use my clothing as a protective shield from . . .
I don’t know what. Him? My uncontrollable and unreasonable attraction to everything he represents? I’m instinctively protecting my heart from being broken. Because the tiny vulnerable part of me is worried he’ll infiltrate my defences again.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say, keeping it short and sweet and, most importantly, professional. It’s taking so much energy. ‘Thank you for taking me. And for dinner.’
‘Was it everything you hoped it would be?’ he asks, turning off Gloria’s engine.
I brave looking at him, sensing genuine curiosity. I could laugh. ‘And a whole lot more, but you know that, don’t you?’
He seems to drift into thought, his eyes falling to my lap. Something tells me he’s seeking my approval. Or acceptance. Can I give him that? ‘Coffee?’ he blurts out of the blue.
Coffee? Is that code for sex? Be wise, Eleanor. Be professional. ‘I think I’ll pass,’ I say, giving him a small smile when he starts nibbling his lip, his mind clearly whirling. Is he wondering how he can convince me? He can’t. I’m not making that mistake again. He’ll have to wait for Alexa. He can pick her up on his way home. ‘You should go,’ I add, worried he might find a way to sway me. I’m not at my strongest when Becker unleashes his charm on me. I take the handle of the door. ‘Thanks again.’