True Colours (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  ‘You’ve got our numbers?’ Dan asks, sliding a laptop onto the breakfast counter.

  The beef monster does its best to nod.

  ‘How has he got my number?’ I demand.

  With a shrug, Dan brushes off my question. ‘I’d like you positioned outside the door. If Maya decides to go out, you accompany her at all times. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And if you notice anything out of the ordinary, contact me immediately.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I curl up my legs and grab my knees. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘And you.’ Dan aims a finger at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Spare laptop.’ He taps the computer. ‘Username and password.’ He makes a show of writing something onto a piece of paper and lays it on the laptop. When he’s finished, he reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a set of keys.

  ‘Catch.’ He throws the keys onto the sofa. ‘House, apartment, car.’

  ‘Car?’

  ‘Car. It’s back from the pound. And you’re booked in with a personal shopper at Harrods this afternoon.’ He checks his watch. ‘Three o’clock. First floor.’

  ‘What?’

  Where the hell did that come from? I’m definitely not happy about the way things are going now. If I’m not very much mistaken, deciding that my clothes aren’t good enough for my new, lavish lifestyle is the very epitome of controlling behaviour.

  ‘Why would I want a personal shopper at Harrods?’

  ‘Clothes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those things that stop you being naked. You can’t live the rest of your life in jeans and combats.’

  ‘I think you’ll find I can.’

  He marches over, pulls me up from the sofa and lays a finger on my mouth. ‘Presents,’ he announces, giving me a boyish grin. ‘It’s romantic. Fill your boots.’ He plants a quick, chaste kiss on my lips. ‘Oh, and get something formal. You’re coming to a charity event with me on Friday night.’

  ‘Am I now?’ I bristle at that. Now this is really bossy and seeing as he’s not my boss any more, I’m determined to put an end to it.

  ‘Of course.’

  And that’s it. I’ve had enough.

  ‘Stop it,’ I shout. ‘Just bloody stop it! I don’t want to go to a sodding charity event.’

  Without taking his eyes from mine, he addresses the muscle monster. ‘Beefy, could you wait outside please?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  While Beefy slopes back out into the lobby, Dan raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Problem?’ I ask.

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, for a start, I’d be seriously pissed off if you didn’t want to attend this particular charity event with me, seeing as it’s for a charity that supports children’s homes.’

  ‘Oh.’ My stomach swirls. Gazing into the eyes of a man who spent two years of his life in a children’s home, I suddenly feel like a complete idiot.

  ‘And then Lily would be seriously pissed off, seeing as she runs it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh,’ he mimics.

  But then again, I remind myself, the bloody man could have told me that up front. He’s up to his same old tricks, withholding information.

  ‘You could try asking, you know. That’s the usual way.’

  ‘Is it?’ He feigns confusion. ‘Fair enough. Would you be so kind as to accompany me to a charity dinner at the Savoy on Friday night, Miss Scotton?’

  And now his expression is so earnest, I know I can’t refuse.

  ‘I would love to, Mr Foster.’

  He smiles at that, a full-on, no holds barred, wide-open smile, the kind of smile that’s always going to melt me.

  ‘Sorted. Wear a dress.’

  I flump into his chest. A hand snakes its way around my back.

  ‘A black dress,’ he whispers into my ear, drawing me in tight. ‘Long, with a plunging neckline so that I can ogle those beautiful breasts all evening.’

  I pull my head out of his chest, trying my best to look repulsed. But in reality, it’s impossible. I love it when he’s crass.

  ‘And preferably with a slit up the side,’ he goes on, ‘so that I can poke my fingers into your knickers.’

  ‘You’re a disgusting, filthy pig.’

  ‘And you love it.’

  ‘So, what will you be wearing? A dirty rain mac?’

  His lips curl into a grin.

  ‘With nothing underneath.’

  With a second swift kiss, he releases me and makes his way out into the lobby. Struggling to believe that within the space of a few minutes, he’s managed to transform me from righteous fury to full-on, doe-eyed lust, I follow, taking the opportunity to admire his magnificent backside as he saunters towards the lift. He steps inside, punches a button and pivots round just as the door slides to a close.

  ‘See you later, sweet pea.’ He smiles … and he’s gone.

  I stare at the door, grinning for England, repeating his words over and over again in my head. Sweet pea. He just called me sweet pea … and that’s a pet name, a lovey-dovey name, the sort of name you use when you’re in love. And he used it with me. Shit, he’s got me again. I’m beaten.

  ‘Are you alright, miss?’

  Still grinning, I look at Beefy. His muscly face contorts itself into something that might just pass for fear. The poor man clearly thinks he’s landed himself a job with a pair of nutcases.

  ‘Never better.’ I grin some more.

  Obviously touched by nerves, the bird-like eyes blink and suddenly, out of nowhere, I seem to be softening towards my bodyguard. There’s no way he can spend all day standing in a bland, expensive lobby. And besides, I could do with a strong pair of hands.

  ‘Beefy.’ I wave at the doorway. ‘You’re coming inside with me. A nice cup of tea, and then you can help me get my life in order.’

  I spend the best part of an hour stuffing clothes into empty spaces. Bras, knickers, jeans, combats and T-shirts: I shove them randomly into any drawer I can find, vowing to sort it all out later. With Beefy roped in to carrying the junk upstairs, we make quick work of it. Finally, every last bit of chaos is concealed and I take myself into the studio, pleased to discover that my bodyguard has emptied out the contents of the crate and arranged them for me on the sideboard. Not only that, but he’s also displayed my latest painting on the easel.

  Slumping onto the sofa, I stare at the stormy depiction of Southwark, relieved that I actually managed to finish the picture before those feelings of anger dissipated. And now there’s a new blank canvas is waiting for me. I’d love nothing more than to make a start on it, but I’m not in the right frame of mind. Out of nowhere, my thoughts are consumed by images of the man who surfaced yesterday, and the fact that it turned me on. Shifting uneasily on the seat, I remind myself that he’s left me with a laptop and an open invitation. He’s researched my life, and now it’s time to return the compliment.

  Minutes later, I’m in position on the bed, staring at the search bar of the laptop and wondering what on Earth to begin with. Prompting my brain into action, I type in BDSM, and immediately I’m bombarded by images of men and women bound and restrained in a whole variety of ways – with straps, tape, rope, manacles – and they’re all either blindfolded or gagged, or both. I scroll further, click onto suggested websites, working my way through more pictures and videos. Women suspended from the ceiling, fixed to walls, manacled to tables, even the floor. Women being fucked viciously, aroused with vibrators, spanked, whipped, or flogged.

  Involuntarily, I suck in a lungful of air, conscious of the familiarity of some of those scenes, knowing that others bother me deeply because while some of those women are undeniably in pleasure, there are plenty of others who are definitely in abject pain. I have no idea what’s staged and what’s not, but I have a vague understanding of why they’d willingly put themselves into these situations. After all, I’ve already exper
ienced the rush, the arousal of being at a man’s mercy. But why does that turn me on? In spite of my little research session, I still have no idea.

  I close the laptop. For now, I’ve had my fill of Dan’s past and, anyway, time’s marching on. Faced with a hideous trip to Harrods, I decide that I’m going to need some decent back-up. And there’s only one person who’s capable of taking on that job. Changing into combats and a T-shirt, I shrug on a denim jacket and head back downstairs where I find Beefy settled at the breakfast bar. I collect my handbag, the new set of keys, and breeze towards the door. In a sudden panic, Beefy shoots up from his stool, latching on like a limpet.

  ‘Where are we off to?’ he asks in the lift, taking his mobile out of his jacket pocket.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  He looks up. His heavy forehead furrows a little.

  ‘I like to think ahead.’

  Even though I know exactly where we’re headed, I shrug my shoulders.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Let’s just treat it as a walk for now.’

  As the lift door opens onto the lobby, he’s still tapping out a message, probably informing my control freak of a boyfriend that his woman is on the move. Shooting out of the lift and giving a brisk wave to the concierge, I head for the revolving doors. Beefy’s still with me as I come to a halt, waiting for a gap in the traffic before I sprint across the road and begin the now familiar walk eastwards along the embankment. Staying a good ten feet behind me, he maintains exactly the same speed, whether I slow down or quicken up. I cross the Golden Jubilee Bridge and track my way northwards, past The National Gallery and Nelson’s Column, aiming for Leicester Square. At some point, I hang a left, hoping to stumble over the beginnings of Soho, but it’s evidently the wrong left. Coming to a halt outside a deli and dodging a delivery van, I glance up and down an unfamiliar side street, realising that I’m completely lost, yet again. I’d better sort this out pretty quickly. The sky’s darkened and rain’s beginning to spot. We’re going to have another downpour soon.

  ‘Are we still just having a walk, miss?’ Beefy asks, turning up the collar of his jacket, as if that’s going to stop him getting wet.

  ‘No …’ I squint at a sign. ‘Actually, we’re going to Frith Street. I think I might be lost.’

  He produces his mobile.

  ‘Shall we use the sat nav?’

  ‘I think so,’ I mutter, feeling like a total idiot.

  He enters the details and finally points in the direction of the receding van.

  ‘This way, miss. It’s not far. I’m afraid I’ll have to walk next to you.’

  ‘That’s not a problem.’

  With an embarrassed smile, I set off again, strangely reassured by Beefy’s presence by my side. Along the way, I decide to find out more about my new companion but he’s giving very little away. By the time that we make it onto Frith Street, I know that he used to be in the army, that he’s been working in Germany and that he flew in especially for this job. And by the time that I push open the door to Slaters, I’ve managed to glean one little snippet of personal information: he has a wife and a three-month old son.

  ‘Darling.’ Reclined on a sofa with a catalogue on his lap, Little Steve beckons me over. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I lean down, allowing him to plant a soggy kiss on my cheek.

  ‘I’ve just come to see Luce.’ I straighten up. ‘Is she around?’

  ‘Downstairs, sorting through business from Friday. She’ll be up in a minute. We’ve got a cheque for you …’

  As soon as I move to one side and sink onto the opposite sofa, Little Steve’s attention is gripped by something near the door. Clearly, I’ve just revealed the presence of Mr Beefcake.

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ Little Steve gasps. ‘Who’s this delectable creature?’

  ‘Beefy.’

  Little Steve’s eyes flip back to me.

  ‘But I thought you were with Dan.’

  ‘I am with Dan. Beefy’s my …’ I falter. This is going to sound distinctly strange. ‘He’s my bodyguard.’

  ‘Oh, dear God. A bodyguard?’ Little Steve clasps a palm to his chest and purses his lips. ‘He can guard my body any time.’

  ‘Behave,’ Big Steve calls, emerging at the top of the stairs. ‘Nice to see you, Maya.’ He inspects Beefy as he prowls past. ‘Is this because of those shenanigans last Friday?’

  ‘Yes.’ I grit my teeth. ‘Dan’s insisting on it.’

  I ought to invite Beefy to sit with us, but he quickly takes himself off to the far end of the room, positioning himself on a red velvet bench.

  ‘Who was that man?’ Big Steve enquires, emphasising each word with a grimace. ‘He was an awful Scottish prick.’

  ‘An ex-boyfriend.’ I look out of the window. I really could do without talking about Boyd.

  ‘With a severe personality disorder,’ Lucy intervenes, joining us from the basement. ‘He’s been stalking Maya.’ She plonks herself next to me, gawping across the room at Beefy. ‘And Dan’s come over all protective by the look of things.’ She nudges my arm. ‘Is that actually Hulk Hogan over there?’

  I shrug her off.

  ‘Don’t stare,’ I whisper. ‘It’s rude.’

  ‘We ought to celebrate your first sale, Maya,’ Big Steve announces. ‘I’ll fetch the vino.’ With a flirty glance in Beefy’s direction, he lumbers off to the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t know why we’re bothering,’ I grumble. ‘It was Dan who bought it.’

  ‘There was plenty of other interest.’ Little Steve throws the brochure onto the coffee table. ‘The sex god just made sure he outbid the others.’ He folds his arms. ‘So, how’s the painting coming along, my love?’

  ‘I’ve finished another canvas.’

  ‘Ooh, what is it?’ He claps his hands together. ‘Do tell!’

  ‘The South Bank. Southwark Cathedral. Around there.’

  He studies me quizzically.

  ‘It’s a personal thing,’ I explain. ‘I probably won’t put it up for sale.’

  ‘I’d still like to see it.’

  I nod, although I’m pretty sure I’m never going to sell. Before he can push me any further on the matter, Big Steve returns with the wine, glasses are poured and we drink a toast to me.

  ‘So,’ Big Steve begins. ‘Lucy’s told us all about the big dramatic thing at your parents’ house.’

  I choke on a mouthful of wine. ‘Pardon? Why?’ I watch as Lucy drowns in shame.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters.

  ‘And she told us about the intervention.’ Big Steve grins over the rim of his glass.

  ‘Is anything private around here?’ I demand. ‘And I don’t know what that look’s for.’ Suddenly, Lucy seems incredibly proud of herself. ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘Well …’ She shrugs. ‘You should be thanking me. It did the job.’

  And she’s right, of course. Deciding to drop the ‘affronted cow’ act, I slip her a smile.

  ‘Thank you for being a sneaky bitch.’

  She raises her glass.

  ‘Turns out I’m good at it. Anyway, I’m sorry I lied to you, but it had to be done. You love him and he loves you. Anyone can see that.’

  So why can’t he say the words, I wonder. I have no idea why he’s holding off, but every time I say them to him, he seems to change the subject. And maybe it’s time for me to change the subject too.

  ‘You packed my stuff.’

  ‘Yup.’ Lucy takes a gulp of wine. ‘Dan’s secretary called me yesterday. Me and Clivey packed it all up last night.’

  ‘Clive?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I dealt with your rancid underwear. Your drawers were a complete bloody mess. I hope you’re sorting things out the other end.’

  I think of all those expensive, built-in drawers that are now overflowing with randomly-placed items of clothing, and I scowl.

  ‘Ooh, what’s that face for?’ Little Steve asks, pouting at me.

  ‘What face?’

 
‘Bulldog sucking a wasp, darling. You’ve just moved in with him. Is he cheesing you off already?’

  ‘No.’ I blow out a lungful of air. Instead of brooding over the drawers, my brain has decided to brood over Dan. ‘Well, yes.’ Another lungful. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s all a bit quick. I just wish he’d slow down.’

  I hear a snort.

  ‘It’s like the tortoise and the hare.’ Lucy waves her glass at me. ‘And she’s the tortoise.’

  ‘Is she?’ Big Steve’s eyebrows shift upwards. ‘What’s the problem then? If I remember rightly, the tortoise won in the end.’

  A few moments of silence pass between us.

  ‘So, when’s the sale going through?’ I ask, desperate to shift the conversation away from my love life.

  ‘Probably next week.’ Big Steve eyes me carefully.

  ‘And who’s the new owner?’

  ‘Nobody interesting. Some American chap. He likes what we’ve built up and wants to keep it going. He’s buying the top floors too.’ He points at the ceiling. ‘He wants to expand, but he’s not going to be a hands-on owner. He’s giving Lucy more of a say in the general running of things, day-to-day … and a rise.’

  While Big Steve snakes an arm around the back of Little Steve’s head, Lucy rubs her thumb and forefinger together.

  ‘Now, honey buns …’ With a squeeze of his partner’s shoulder, Big Steve stands up. ‘Let’s get back to work. We’ve got a camper van to buy.’

  The two men set about hanging a landscape in the gallery, roping in Beefy to hold the canvas up against a wall while they bicker over its exact placing. And I take my opportunity.

  ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  Lucy’s face lights up with excitement.

  ‘Shuffle round a bit. Put your back to them. I don’t want thunder thighs seeing this.’

  Once Lucy’s in place, I reach into the side pocket of my handbag and lay out the pieces of card between us on the sofa.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I found it in his bin,’ I whisper, making sure that Beefy’s still fully engaged by the faffing Steves. ‘It’s Dan’s birthday on Friday.’ Rearranging the pieces, I slot them into place, revealing the message.

  ‘This is a birthday card from one of his sisters.’