Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology Book 2), Page 2

  I look at him, the passionate, empowered treasure hunter, and all I can hear are Brent’s words. True words. Don’t let Becker Hunt make you stupid. I need to be smart. Stay smart.

  It’s head over heart now. I raise my chin and force my eyes to remain on him. It’s freezing outside, but his only protection from the chilly winter air is a grey T-shirt and sweatpants. He looks bedraggled. Tired. Stressed. ‘You don’t have to worry any more, Mr Hunt, because now I have nothing to do with you, I should be safe, right?’ I don’t give him a chance to answer. ‘And don’t worry. I won’t ask for a reference.’ My words are calm, not backed by panic, but backed by a pure certainty that not even Becker can question. And when his lips part and his eyes glaze over, I know that he won’t. He spends a while staring at me, possibly waiting for me to stop him from leaving. He’ll be waiting a long time. ‘Go find your precious treasure, Becker. I’m out.’

  I get a sick thrill from his flinch, but he quickly gathers himself and slowly nods his head yieldingly as he backs away, before slowly turning and taking the door handle. His acceptance stirs remorse inside me that I fight to ignore.

  He pulls the door open and hovers on the threshold, his back to me. I can literally hear his mind race, probably thinking of anything to redeem himself, anything he can say to win me over. There’s nothing.

  He opens the door. Pauses. Breathes in. And then he closes it again, his fists clenching by his sides.

  I still, anticipating his next move, my mind not working nearly fast enough to tell me what that might be. He swings around fast, and I back away. ‘Actually, no.’ He points a finger at me. ‘No.’

  He stalks forward, and I kick my feet into action, feeling my way through pieces of furniture, trying to keep the distance between us. There’s nowhere for me to go and my silly move now has me standing in the corner, trapped. A few paces has him right up close. ‘No,’ he shouts again, his angry breath hitting my face. ‘No.’ He slams a palm into the wall beside my head, making me jump. ‘No.’ Then the other hand on the other side of my head.

  ‘Yes.’ I fire the word mindlessly in a panic, with no faith that it’ll have any effect. I’m virtually a prisoner in his arms. I turn my face in a cowardly tactic to avoid his stare.

  ‘No, princess,’ he breathes softly.

  ‘Don’t call me princess,’ I snap, hating how the reminder brings back memories of our verbal tangles.

  ‘Princess,’ he whispers the word against my ear, dropping to an all-time low. My bloodstream ignites and fizzes.

  ‘Go.’ My voice is barely there.

  But he hears it. ‘Make me.’

  I shake my head. I know what he’s doing. He’s going to make me touch him.

  ‘Put your hands on me and push me out, Eleanor.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  His hand leaves the wall next to my head and he grabs my jaw, forcing my face to his. I fight him with all my might, terrified of the consequences should he win. So I slam my eyes shut when my muscles refuse to man-up and sustain his force.

  ‘No,’ he breathes, stepping in, pushing his body to mine. Our chests meld, my heart rate rockets. ‘Open your eyes.’

  I shake my head in his clench, stubbornly refusing to give him what he wants – what he knows will break me. What I know will break me. He’s clever. He’s also a ruthless bastard with no fucking morals. But I always knew that. Loved it to a certain extent.

  His hold of my jaw slides around to my nape and massages firmly, his other hand joining it so my head is captive in his big palms. He tilts, getting my face at the angle he desires, then I feel the tell-tale signs of fire-filled air hitting my lips. He’s moving in. My mind is going into meltdown, shouting and screaming orders at me, rolling them out one after the other in the hopes that I’ll catch one and fulfil it. I can’t. My body is refusing to move and my heart is being reminded of the twisted joy it was filled with each time he infiltrated my defences. I’m fucked.

  ‘Please.’ He blows the word across my skin and gently rolls his groin into my lower tummy. My eyes flutter open with no instruction, and he releases a long breath of air. It’s a relieved breath. ‘You complete me, Eleanor.’ His stare hits me like a bullet to my forehead, his eyes wide and pleading, sincere and distressed. ‘I fucking despise myself that I’ve done this to you. To us. I was trying to protect you. I need to protect you, and I fucking will, whether you like it and accept it or not.’

  I stare at him. Lost. My heart and my head at war. Make me understand. There’s more to understand now than there ever was before. But one thing I do understand without question is the risk of my heart being destroyed at the hands of this man is now greater.

  No, not greater.

  Inevitable. Head over heart, Eleanor!

  I take my hands around to the back of my neck and rest them over his. I don’t need to force them away. Becker flexes under my touch and gradually lifts them. My fingers weave through his, playing fleetingly, feeling them and stroking, before I take a gentle hold and bring them between our bodies, forcing him to break the connection of our chests. The whole time, our eyes are glued, a silent message passing between them. Me telling him that I’m through. And him accepting he’s lost.

  ‘You made me feel so alive,’ I want him to walk away from me knowing what he’s done. But more than that, I want him to walk away knowing that I can and I will move on.

  Becker squeezes my hand lightly and brings his face to mine, nuzzling into my cheek. He’s searching for reassurance that I can’t give him. I take a deep breath and call on my newfound fire and spirit. The fire and spirit Becker Hunt discovered. ‘I will find passion and devotion in my future again. But you will never find loyalty and acceptance.’

  He winces, standing before me with his head dropped and hands hanging lifelessly by his sides. Seeing him struggle to face his wrongs, seeing him hurting, facing the truth, offers me comfort in my desolation. ‘You pulled me in and pushed me away, pulled me in and pushed—’

  ‘I pushed you away because I knew being involved with you would put you at risk!’ He snaps to life, gulping down air as he swings away from me, stalking over to the window and slamming his palms onto the ledge. His back is heaving violently, rising and falling in extended, strained motions. ‘I felt something stir inside of me each time I saw you – the taxi, at Parsonson’s, the cafe. But the second I laid eyes on you in my grand hall, when I was staring down from my apartment, I knew what I had to do.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, peeling my back from the wall and standing firm. ‘What did you have to do, Becker?’

  ‘I knew I had to let you walk away.’

  Walk away? He did the exact opposite. ‘But you didn’t. You gave me the job.’

  ‘I wanted you.’

  ‘You had me.’

  ‘Then I just wanted you more.’

  ‘And you had me more,’ I remind him, gritting my teeth as I fight back the memories of our electric encounters.

  He pushes himself from the ledge and turns around. ‘And then I wanted you even fucking more. I lost sight of my objective, Eleanor. You distorted everything.’ He keeps his distance, but his eyes don’t waver from mine. ‘I had the strongest urge to push you away, but an even stronger fucking urge to pull you closer.’

  I’m unable to process what he’s telling me, and definitely unable to speak. So silence falls and fills the empty space, while Becker trembles, and I try to wrap my mind around what he’s saying. ‘You fitted in perfectly.’ His words are steady and strong. ‘Not with Mrs Potts or my grandfather. You fitted in with me. In my sanctuary. In my world.’

  I look away, fighting off the power of his words. My mind can talk reason. It can tell me that I shouldn’t trust him. My heart, however, will betray me. And so will my body.

  ‘I’ve fucked up, Eleanor. Let me fix it.’ He approaches me, slowly and cautiously. ‘Please.’ He whispers his final
plea, reaching for me again, begging for my permission. His open hand hovers, quivering like a leaf, as he waits for me to say something. I don’t know what to say. My thoughts are centring on one thing, because it’s the most obvious.

  His regret.

  But it’s nowhere close to mine. ‘Goodbye, Mr Hunt.’ I turn and walk through to the back room, my breathing short, my head spinning.

  And when I hear the door close, my coiled muscles relax.

  But the hollowness returns swiftly.

  Chapter 3

  The sight of our cottage offers a twinge of comfort when it comes into view. Nestled in the middle of two other cottages, each bigger than ours, it looks like something out of a picture book. Cute and cosy with tiny windows and a thatched roof. It’s idyllic, not a façade. There are no wicked truths hiding behind its perfection.

  I slide my key into the lock, making extra quick work of it when I hear movement from Mrs Quigg’s house next door. The town’s busybody, there’s nothing that escapes her notice, and she makes a point of making sure everyone knows, too. The whole town will hear I’m back before Mum has a chance to put the kettle on.

  I push my way through the door and slam it shut behind me. Then I drop my bag to the floor and fall against the hallway wall, feeling like I’ve just run the gauntlet. Then I laugh because, technically, I have. I’m still not sure what I was thinking coming back to Helston. But of all the things I feared I would find here, Becker wasn’t one. Nor was Brent. But I’ve handled them. Set the record straight. While they continue with their pathetic games, I have a life to get on with.

  ‘Don’t move, motherfucker!’

  I yelp, whirling around to find a baseball bat being brandished in my face. ‘Shit!’ Staggering back, I blindly grapple for the front door as my heart smashes against my chest. Then the dim, natural light is suddenly replaced with a harsh, artificial glare.

  ‘Eleanor?’ The sound of the gruff voice halts my frantic attempt to escape, and my grappling hands freeze on the door handle. I give my body a few moments to stop pulsing from adrenalin, my mind trying to place the voice. It doesn’t take long.

  ‘Paul?’ I say, slowly turning, my mind all knotted, as if it wasn’t twisted enough already. The baseball bat lowers, and I finally allow my eyes to take a good long look at the landlord of our local pub. He’s a big man, tall and round, and his head is skimming the low ceiling of our hallway. He’s in a pair of underpants, his grey hair mussed, his big nose squished from endless breakages, and his pot belly is displayed loud and proud. The ex-pro boxer is out of shape but still pretty formidable. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask mindlessly, trying to keep my eyes on his usually happy face. It’s not happy now. Now it’s somewhere between surprise and awkwardness.

  Paul laughs under his breath, backing away. ‘Um . . . yes . . . well . . .’ He stutters and stammers all over his words, and my frown lines deepen with each confusing second that passes.

  There’s a sudden burst of activity behind him, and someone crashes into his back, sending him staggering forward a few steps. ‘What is it, Paul? What’s going on?’

  I don’t need a nanosecond to place that voice.

  Mum.

  ‘It’s okay, Mary,’ Paul soothes, calming my alarmed mother.

  She’s pulling in the sides of her dressing gown, her eyes darting, alarmed. Then she finds me standing by the front door, mouth hanging open. I’m blank.

  ‘Eleanor!’ she squeals and dives forward, ready to tackle-hug me. I’m not sure if she suddenly comprehends that something is amiss here, or whether my face tells her so, but she skids to a stop before she makes it to me. Then she takes hold of the wall next to her. ‘Oh . . .’ she breathes, her eyes widening.

  Oh? I can feel my face muscles twisting, yet I find myself chuckling. I don’t know why. ‘What’s Paul doing here, Mum?’ I already know. Something close to an explanation is developing in my tired mind and I seriously do not like what I’m coming up with. Or maybe my mind is playing games with me. Please say my mind is playing games with me!

  Mum starts chuckling, too. It’s a nervous laugh. Just like mine. ‘You never said you were coming home, darling.’ She takes a step back and collides with Paul’s naked pot belly, and his hand comes up and rests on my mum’s arm, steadying her.

  My eyes root to his hold of her and don’t move when I answer my mother’s wary question. ‘Thought I’d surprise you,’ I say quietly, watching as Paul’s hand releases her. I look up at him. He’s evading my questioning stare. The explanation that was developing in my tired mind is suddenly complete. My eyes drift across to my mother. ‘Mum?’

  Her lips straighten, and she exhales. ‘I’ve wanted to tell you for months.’

  ‘Months?’ I cry, my mouth dropping open. ‘But . . . how?’ I’m at a loss. ‘Months?’

  Her whole body deflates before my eyes, and Paul’s hand is back on her arm, this time offering support of another form. ‘Yes, months,’ she sighs. ‘I didn’t want to upset you.’

  ‘Upset me?’ I ask, my fingertips coming up to my head and pushing into my temples. I start laughing hysterically as I stand before my mother and her . . . whatever he is, and study them shifting and squirming before me.

  ‘Tea?’ Mum asks, a little high-pitched as she points to the kitchen, backing away.

  ‘I’ll leave you girls to it,’ Paul says. ‘Just as soon as I’m dressed.’ He disappears up the stairs, and my misplaced bout of laughter dries up.

  I follow Mum into the comfortable kitchen and rest my bum on one of the ancient wooden chairs, watching as she flies into action, busying herself by preparing a pot of tea. My clasped hands rest on the table, my back straight, unable to relax. What do I say to her? What will she say to me? I start to nibble on the inside of my cheek as I contemplate it all. Paul? I can’t make any sense of it amid the fog of crazy that’s clouding my mind right now. ‘How long, Mum?’

  She stands still across the kitchen, and a few lingering seconds of silence falls. ‘Five months,’ she says quietly, turning to face me.

  I let out a stunned exhale of air. ‘Wow,’ I say, wondering how I missed it. I only left for London a couple of months ago. This was going on while I lived here?

  Her lips purse and the sparkle in her eyes dulls a little as she glances away. I can’t understand why I’m disappointed to see the glimmer of happiness disappear. It’s guilt. More guilt added to the guilt I feel where my dead father is concerned.

  She takes a seat, an unsure smile on her face. ‘You know your father was hardly an attentive husband, Eleanor,’ she says, waiting for me to confirm it. I can’t. I’d feel like a traitor. ‘He had a love affair with his shop.’

  ‘I know,’ I whisper. He used to caress the old furniture he restored like he was caressing a woman’s body. Except he wasn’t, God love him.

  ‘I never ever betrayed him,’ Mum says resolutely. ‘You have to know that. Not once in our forty years of marriage. I was devastated when he passed, Eleanor. Broken.’ She reaches across the table and takes my hand, squeezing gently. ‘I’ll never stop loving your father, darling. But I can have room in my heart for another love.’

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to reason with myself, and in my darkness, I see that sparkle in my mum’s eyes. Because it is that bright. Almost blinding. She’s happy. Who the hell am I to take that away from her? She was a good wife. Dutiful. She accepted that Dad’s passion was his worthless treasure. She accepted that she came second to that.

  ‘I felt so guilty,’ she says quietly. ‘Felt bad for feeling happy.’

  ‘Mum, stop.’ I shake my head, cursing myself. I know how that feels. ‘You don’t have to explain.’

  ‘But I need you to know, Eleanor. I need you to understand.’

  ‘I understand,’ I say softly, fighting to appreciate just how content she is. She might be my mother, but she’s still a woman. A
beautiful one, who was never really made to feel that way.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mum says, spiking even more guilt. ‘Paul’s really a very lovely man. Big, strong, sociable.’

  It doesn’t escape my notice that my father was none of those things. Paul is the polar opposite to him. ‘It’s nice to see you smile.’ I force the words through my inner turmoil – more turmoil, different situation – striving to sound as sincere as possible.

  She blushes. In my twenty-eight years of life, I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother blush. It takes a decade off her sixty-three years. I also notice now that her hair is different. More shaped and with lots of swishing layers, and it might be morning, but she has make-up on. She’s like a new woman. Reborn. ‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘What are you doing home? You never said.’

  I clam up automatically. ‘I was homesick.’ I grimace and mentally kick myself for not thinking of a more feasible reason. I’ve spoken to her often and never once given any indication of missing home. Add the minor fact that I couldn’t wait to get out of Helston, she’s quickly all over me with a questioning look. She’s also picked up on my stiffness. Her constricting hold of my hand tells me so.

  ‘Homesick?’ she repeats, watching me closely.

  ‘I missed you.’ I try again.

  ‘You missed me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You turn up out of the blue at the crack of dawn, and you expect me to believe that it’s because you missed me?’

  I snatch my hand away from my mother’s, feeling like she’s delving into my mind through our touch. ‘Yes, exactly that.’ I slide my chair back and get up, heading for the sink to wash my mug. The drama since I walked through the front door of Mum’s cottage has been the perfect distraction. Now that I’ve had a sharp reminder of how I came to be here, I can feel the hurt churning in my gut again. ‘And I need to sort Dad’s shop.’