You Don't Know Me Read online

  ‘No man is perfect. And this man is far from it. He shuts down factories without batting an eyelid, he treats his staff with utter contempt, and he’s so far up his own arse, he can’t have seen daylight in a month. He’s an arrogant bastard and I’m not ready for this.’ In one swift move, I pull the dress up over my head.

  ‘Oh come on, Maya. He’s your boss.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He might sack you and we need the rent money.’

  ‘God.’ My chin sags towards my chest. ‘I can do without this. I feel like a prostitute.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘How come? If I’m going out with this man to stop him sacking me, then I’m going out with him to make sure I get a pay packet, which means that I’m going out with him for money, which makes me a prostitute!’

  Lucy’s on her back now, howling with laughter.

  ‘Come off it. You’re going out with this man because he makes your lady parts do a special dance.’

  ‘Shit.’

  She’s right. I could easily have backed out on this before now, but I didn’t. I could have gone straight back to my ridiculous office and fired off an email to Mr Mean and Hot and Moody, telling him to sling his ridiculously mean and hot and moody hook.

  ‘Put the dress back on.’

  ‘I can’t.’ I drop it to the floor. ‘I can’t go through with this. Yes, he makes my lady parts do a special dance, but he’s a bastard.’

  ‘He owns a massive company, Maya. The man’s got to be a bastard. Have you ever heard of a business magnate who’s a complete teddy bear?’

  ‘Alan Sugar.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You can’t back out. You haven’t even got his mobile number. You agreed to go out with him.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You didn’t say no.’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance.’

  ‘Look, just go out to dinner with him and be boring. He won’t come back for more. And don’t get feisty. He’ll probably like that. He’ll see you as a challenge if you get all feisty with him, and then he’ll definitely want to fuck you.’ She turns on her back and stares at the ceiling, dreamily. ‘Oh God. He’s a rich, powerful business magnate, and he’s going to fuck you.’

  ‘Stop it. He’s getting nowhere near my … thing.’

  ‘I bet he’s one of those control freaks. Oh God, he’ll definitely want to dominate you. Shit!’ She shoots out the word and rolls onto her front. ‘I bet he’ll tie you up and everything.’

  ‘Nobody’s tying me up. I don’t need controlling. Not after what I’ve been through.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell, Maya, I’m sorry.’ Suddenly earnest, Lucy pushes herself up onto her knees. ‘I wasn’t thinking. It’s just that I thought you were over that, what with Tom and everything.’

  She stares at me in silence, knowing that she’s touched on a subject we rarely discuss.

  ‘Tom helped me forget for a while.’ Leaning down, I pick up the dress. ‘He didn’t make it go away. Let’s not talk about Edinburgh.’

  ‘You can’t just block it out.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that I can.’ I gaze at myself in the mirror and a demon raises itself in my brain. ‘If Mr Mean and Hot and Moody thinks he’s going to control me, he’s got another think coming.’ Throwing the dress at Lucy, I skitter over to my wardrobe, delve through its contents and pull out a pair of jeans.

  ‘You can’t go out in those,’ Lucy snarls.

  ‘Why not? I’ll do what I like.’

  My mobile pings, announcing the arrival of a text. Retrieving the phone from the clutter on my dressing table, I open up the message. It’s from a number I don’t recognise.

  Don’t forget the dress. And store this number. The name is Dan.

  What? How has he done that? My brain wheels for a second before landing on the obvious answer. I already know that he’s taken the trouble to go through my file. Why wouldn’t he take my number?

  ‘He’s got your number?’ Lucy’s eyes are agog. ‘How did he get your number?’

  ‘He’s my boss, shit head.’

  ‘Oh my Lord. This is serious.’

  Of course it’s serious. He knows my number, my address, and plenty about my past. He’s got all the details he needs to stalk me good and proper.

  ‘Tell me about it. I’m texting him now. I’m backing out.’

  Leaping up from the bed, Lucy grabs the mobile out of my hand.

  ‘No, you’re not.’ She waves the phone in the air. ‘Just one night! See how it goes!’

  ‘No, Luce!’

  ‘Promise not to bail.’

  ‘Why are you so eager for this to happen?’

  ‘Because it’s about time you started dating again. Even if it is with some sort of sociopathic sex fiend.’

  ‘Look. I’m not going to bail. Just give me my phone for God’s sake.’

  At last, she hands it me back to me. I read the message again, everything bristling at his arrogance. I’m certainly not about to follow his orders. For a start, I won’t bother storing his number because after tonight, he won’t want to see me again. I’m going to be queen of boring. And who the hell does he think he is, ordering me about like this? He may well be my boss between nine and five o’clock, but right now he’s just a man who seems to have asked me out on a date. I will not be ordered around. I text him back.

  I’ll wear what I like, if you don’t mind.

  My fingers quiver at my own audacity. He won’t like that. I’m pretty sure he’s not told to back off all that often. The reply comes quickly.

  Of course I don’t mind, as long as it’s a dress.

  Jesus. What’s this all about? Is he after easy access? A quick fuck somewhere up an alleyway. Is that his thing? Well, no way am I giving in to any demands from this man, boss or not. I chuck the mobile onto my bed and decide once and for all that he’s not getting his way. The mobile begins to vibrate and then it begins to ring. I lurch forwards, snatching it up before Lucy can get anywhere near the bloody thing. If that’s Mr Foster insisting that I dress appropriately for a quick one up an alley, then I’m going to tell him that he can get stuffed right here and now. I check the screen and register a surge of disappointment. It’s Mum.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she purrs.

  ‘Mum. I haven’t got much time. I’m going out.’

  ‘Ooh, have you got a date?’

  Should I tell her? No, I’ll keep that one to myself. Ever since my life with Tom fell to pieces, she’s been on at me to get back on my bike.

  ‘No, I’m going out with friends.’

  ‘Well, you should really think about it sometime soon, darling.’

  Lucy’s coming at me now with a make-up bag. ‘No!’ I snap, batting her away.

  ‘Oh Maya, don’t be like that.’

  I sigh. I can’t be bothered to explain who the ‘No’ had really been aimed at.

  ‘You’ve left it too long. You need to get back on your …’

  ‘Mum! I’ll date when I’m good and ready.’

  ‘You’ll be good and ready when it’s too late,’ she complains. ‘When all your bits are starting to sag and your egg timer’s run out …’

  ‘Is there a purpose to this call?’ I demand, rummaging through my cupboard for a T-shirt. The first one that comes to hand is a plain white thing. ‘Only I’m in a bit of a rush.’

  ‘Well, it’s your dad.’

  I slam to a halt.

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Of course he’s okay. He’s out in the garden cleaning out the fish pond. No, it’s about the party.’

  Party? What party? I rifle my way through my mind, only to find that it’s a complete mess. Somebody’s been through it like a whirlwind, chucking stuff all over the place. Nothing’s where it’s supposed to be, and I’ve got the distinct feeling that it’s all down to Daniel Foster.

  ‘Your dad’s sixtieth.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ I lie. Bugger it, I need to buy him a present, and a decent one at that
.

  ‘Two weeks tomorrow, Maya. You’ll be there, won’t you? Sara’s coming with that disgusting husband of hers and the kids. The whole family’s going to be there: Auntie Betty, Uncle Brian, all your cousins. Why don’t you bring Lucy? She’s always a laugh.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Mum. I’ll call you nearer the time.’

  Chapter Seven

  He’s standing in the doorway, twiddling his car keys, and my God, he looks gorgeous. His fair hair is freshly styled. Slightly overlong, his fringe curls down over his forehead, giving him the appearance of a naughty schoolboy. He’s obviously taken the time for a shave and he’s wearing an expensive black suit with a crisp white shirt. His black tie is loose, his collar unbuttoned at the top. I don’t care if he is a complete bastard who’s about to ruin the lives of over two hundred people, he is so fucking fuckable. Reminding myself that all of this lust stuff can land you in no end of trouble, it takes every last remnant of my self-control not to gawp at him like an idiot. I clamp my mouth shut and will my body into submission. It’s not easy. At the very sight of him, just about every part of me has decided to tremble.

  He frowns slightly and his eyes travel up and down my outfit. ‘You’re not ready yet.’

  Oh God, what do I say? Open, mouth! Open!

  ‘I am ready.’

  ‘But I told you to wear a dress.’

  Okay, I remind myself. Whatever you do now, don’t get feisty. ‘I don’t own any dresses.’

  ‘You could have bought one.’

  ‘I don’t wear dresses.’ I’m really quite pleased with how I’m handling this. Not feisty at all.

  He glances down at my faded jeans, back up at the white T-shirt, his gaze resting on my breasts, and I squirm.

  ‘At least go and put on a skirt and a blouse. And don’t tell me you don’t have any. You wear those for work.’

  Jesus, this is going to be hard. I need to force the words out in the most unfeisty manner possible.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ I explain. ‘It’s Friday night and I don’t want to wear my work clothes.’

  ‘Maya.’ His harsh tone startles me. His eyes have travelled up to my face now. ‘I want you in a skirt.’

  What the hell? Did he really just mean what I think he means? Well, if that’s his intention, he can bugger off.

  ‘I’m wearing this, and if you don’t like it, then I guess you won’t be taking me out to dinner.’

  He sighs an audible, pissed off sigh. He seems to think for a moment or two and finally, he holds out a hand.

  ‘Okay,’ he breathes at last. ‘You can have your own way this time.’ I place my hand in his and feel a tremor of electricity running straight up my arm. It flings itself through my body and hits me straight in the heart. ‘But I have to warn you,’ he says darkly. ‘You’ll regret this later.’

  Shit. I’ll regret this later? How will I regret this later? If he is one of those all-powerful domineering types then he’ll only want to tie me to his bed and spank me. And no way is he doing that because I’m going nowhere near his bed in the first place.

  He leads me away from the front door, quickly, giving me just enough time to shut it behind me. He practically drags me to his car and I gasp. Well, I could have predicted it. A black Mercedes-Benz. Opening the passenger door, he lets go of my hand and motions for me to get in. I comply, sinking myself into the leather seat and gazing round in awe at the surroundings. The door is slammed shut and I start. A good beginning to the evening. I’ve pissed off my date.

  ‘So …’ He lowers himself into the driver’s seat and pulls the door shut. ‘Would you like a little music on the way?’

  ‘Music?’

  ‘Music. It’s that stuff people do with guitars and drums and things.’

  ‘Oh that. Yes I’d like a little music, please.’ At least that way I won’t have to talk to you.

  ‘So, what can I give you?’

  His eyebrows arch. Oh bloody hell. That was definitely a double-entendre.

  ‘I don’t know. What have you got?’

  Oh shit, no! That was definitely a double-entendre returned. I’m being too flirty by far. I wince, hoping to God that he’s not going to pick up on it. But when I look up at his utterly handsome, completely ruddy gorgeous face, my heart thuds with panic. He’s smiling across at me and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  ‘Plenty.’ He fixes me again with those blue eyes. And I realise that he could lean over and take me right here, and I wouldn’t really mind. ‘How about this? He flicks a button on the steering wheel and as the engine roars into life, the car fills with the sound of violins.

  ‘What’s the song?’

  ‘You Don’t Know Me. Ray Charles.’

  I listen for a moment or two, taking in the melancholic rise and fall of the strings.

  ‘It’s sad.’

  ‘It is.’ He keeps his eyes fixed on the road. ‘Listen to the words. He’s utterly in love with the woman he’s singing to. He can barely speak, his heart’s beating so fast.’

  I take a peek at his chest, trying to work out if this is an intentional choice, to see if his heart really is beating so fast he can barely speak, but I can’t make out a thing. His black jacket covers everything. And anyway, I’m being ridiculous. It can’t be a message. It’s just a random choice of a random song.

  ‘But he’s forced to hide himself from her,’ he adds.

  ‘Why?’

  He chews at his bottom lip. ‘Because he has no choice.’

  I gaze at his profile. What’s he thinking about? I couldn’t even begin to work it out. Instead, I swim away into a curious blur as the streets of North London flash by. Just go with it, a voice urges me from somewhere at the back of my head. Just let go and lap it up, woman. Enjoy! I’m in a daze, but at some point, I’m vaguely aware that Regent’s Park has flashed past us. But where are we now? Is this the Bayswater Road? Are we in Kensington? I have no idea. All I know is that the buildings to either side of us look distinctly intimidating now, and the car has slowed to a whisper.

  ‘We’re here.’ The car draws to a halt at the kerb. He casts a glance at me. ‘I’ve booked a table.’

  His eyes flicker momentarily, and he nods towards a building on my side. I turn to take it in. It all seems pretty expensive. A uniformed valet waits patiently beneath a canopy and behind him, a second figure stands guard by a black door. To the right of the door, there’s a single gold plate on the wall. Daniel Foster gets out of the car, hands over his keys to the valet and circles round to the passenger door. It’s pulled open and a big, strong hand appears in front of my face. I put my hand in his, feeling a shimmer of excitement run through my arm at the physical contact. I’m trembling as he gently lifts me from the car. I straighten up. He’s still holding my hand, gazing down into my eyes and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me right here on the pavement. He snaps his eyes shut, flicks them open again, and the moment’s gone. In silence, he guides me up the steps and through the doorway.

  My mouth falls open as soon as we’re inside. My brain struggles to take it all in. In front of me, a sea of tables stretches out beneath a vaulted ceiling that’s clearly been hand-painted. I gaze up in awe at the delicate flowers that intertwine above me, and then back down at the tables, each one covered with a crisp white tablecloth, adorned with silver cutlery and cut glass. It’s only then that I’m able to take in the rest of the room: a set of high windows to the left, edged with thick curtains, complete with huge swags and tails; three vast chandeliers hanging from the centre of the ceiling; walls that are decorated with vast mirrors; and here and there, in an alcove, a marble statue or a man-sized fern nestling in a golden pot. Opulence just isn’t the word for it.

  ‘Where are we?’ I gasp, cursing myself for not bothering to read the sign outside.

  ‘Carlton’s,’ he says curtly. ‘It’s one of the most expensive, exclusive, elite restaurants in London.’ He catches the attention of the maître d'. ‘And I called in some favours to get us a t
able here tonight, but don’t let that bother you.’

  I stare at the floor, shame washing over me for my childishness.

  ‘So, are you regretting your choice of outfit yet?’

  ‘I might be.’

  ‘There is, of course, a dress code in this place, but I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Mr Foster.’

  A small, black-suited, black-haired, black-moustachioed man approaches us. The maître d'. He takes Dan’s hand and shakes it, and then turns to stare at me in horror.

  ‘Good evening, Raoul. Can I have a word?’

  He moves away with the maître d', talking into his ear, smiling here and there, shrugging his shoulders, frowning at one point, and I realise he’s doing his damnedest to use his reservation. I could kick myself for being such an idiot. At last, the maître d' looks me up and down, a slight scowl appearing on his face and I could sink to the floor with embarrassment. So, he wasn’t demanding a dress for easy access after all, but the idiot could have told me the reason for his demands.

  ‘Is he letting us in?’

  He nods.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told him that you’re a filthy rich American heiress with connections to the Mafia.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘I did. I told him that you’re a little eccentric, but utterly determined to have dinner here tonight. I told him that if he were to throw us out, then you’d be highly likely to see to it that he sleeps with the fishes.’

  ‘No.’

  He takes off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.

  ‘At least we can hide a little of the crime scene with this.’

  And then the hint of a grin appears at the corner of his mouth. His eyes seem to twinkle with life for a moment and I realise that he’s actually enjoying my discomfort. Is this a sense of humour? He leads me to a table, a table right at the centre of the room, and the maître d' pulls out a chair. Well-dressed women and well-dressed men are seated all around me, and I can feel their eyes on my clothes. It’s not long before I sense the beginnings of anger in my gut. It’s curled up into a ball for now, but I know it won’t take much to set it free. After all, is this really necessary? He didn’t have to insist on keeping this reservation. He could have taken me somewhere else, somewhere a little less up-market, a little more fitting to my current choice of clothing. But he seems to be determined to belittle me. I look up to find that the smile has disappeared again. He’s deep in thought.