Page 9 of Stroke of Shadows
He just had to be patient.
Chapter 3
Harper
“No.”
Harper sat frozen, the back room Mr Beckett had hired uncomfortably small with only a thin wall separating them from the main club. “No?” she repeated, raising her voice over the music. She swung her gaze to the first guard, and then to the second, before settling back on Mr Beckett. The guards were unnecessarily large, their muscles dramatically bulging to the point they couldn’t actually cross their arms. They would likely be scary if she hadn’t grown up surrounded by people who were far more terrifying in business suits and dress shoes.
“I’m sure you’re not used to being told this, Miss Beauchamp, but the answer is no. I’ve changed my mind.” He smirked, reminding her of a wolf about to devour a sheep.
Harper dug her nails into her palms, hidden beneath the table. “This wasn’t a negotiation, Mr Beckett. You agreed to meet with me to finalise the details of the sale.”
“I agreed to meet with Angel, not you.” He lounged back in his chair, his clothes expensive and perfectly tailored. Even his security were well dressed, their white shirts pressed to perfection, despite the fabric straining at their biceps. She wasn’t sure why he thought he’d need not one, but two ‘I can kill you with my bare hands’ guards. Not to mention choosing a highly public place for a meeting. Out of character from a man who supposedly preferred privacy.
A small closet-style room with a table and a few chairs at the back of a club was not private.
Harper made sure her smile was friendly, noticing how his own strained slightly.
“My uncle is expecting the painting, so what can we do to make sure we both leave happy this evening?” she asked, keeping herself as professional as possible despite the weight on her chest. She couldn’t fail, not when she’d been working towards complete confidence in her ability to serve the family. She didn’t need to give her uncle something else to use against her.
“I don’t trust a man who went back on his word. I was supposed to be meeting with him, not you.”
“I can assure you that I’m more than qualified to deal with this, considering it’s my job to authenticate the piece.”
“Authenticate?” he snorted. “Are you insulting me?”
“It’s standard procedure to have someone authenticate such artwork—”
“You’re barely an adult, and you think you have the experience to authenticate such a piece? Not to mention the audacity to accuse me of selling something that wasn’t real.”
Harper controlled her spike in temper. “We agreed one million for the single Nivo Pilkinson piece,” she continued, trying to get the sale back on track. “Including the original gold frame. Half payment once the painting’s been validated, and the rest once delivered.”
“I’ve told you, I’ve changed my mind. One million for the painting isn’t enough, not for a Nivo in his expressionism era.”
Harper swallowed the words she really wanted to say, knowing how fragile a millionaire’s ego usually was. “The highest we’re willing to go is 1.5 million.” She was surprised with how relaxed her voice sounded, as if she was in control of a situation that was clearly spiralling.
Mr Beckett leaned forward, his silver cufflinks clanking against the table between them when they hit the wood. “Tell Angel to come back to me with a real offer, or I’ll sell it to someone else.” With a click of his fingers, he stood, the two guards following him out like trained dogs.
Harper pursed her lips, the weight on her chest not lessening as she adjusted her skirt. Grabbing her bag, she made her way out onto the main floor. The music was just as intolerable as before, the dancers doubling in size and moving in a sweaty frenzy. She forced herself to walk straight, purposely not looking for the tall, handsome man with dark, messy hair.
He was a mistake.
An error in her judgement.
A bad luck charm, even if he was the single best sexual experience of her life.
Harper finally made her way out into the open air, pausing when a car pulled up, the windows tinted.
“Evening Charles,” she said as the driver stepped out, opening the back passenger door with a simple nod.
Forcing a smile, Harper slipped inside the car, allowing him to close it softly behind her. Charles had been with the family since she was a little girl. Almost twenty years, and she could count how many words he’d spoken to her on a single hand.
Frustration weighed heavy on her shoulders, threatening to break the mask she wore. She wondered if Charles would pull the car over and comfort her if she cried? Or if, like everyone else, he’d simply pretend he’d seen nothing. Because that was all she was, nothing, unless her uncle said otherwise.
But she couldn’t break, not yet. Not until she was alone, where no one could witness it. She’d worked too hard to be where she was to give it all up before the final act.
A bump in the road, drawing her out of her own thoughts. Harper hadn’t even noticed passing through the tall iron gates until she recognised the familiar lions perched at the entrance of the estate. They roared, magnificent beasts that were once her family’s emblem, a sign of strength and courage, her father once said. Which was clearly a sick joke, considering what remained of the family were neither of those things. An old family with more skeletons in their closet than most, the corruption likely dating back hundreds of years, if not longer.