True Colours (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2) (20 page)

‘So, what else is bothering you?’ he asks.

I’m going to need all my resolve now.

‘Why are you so cagey about the way you used to be?  The whole BDSM thing?’

‘I’m not cagey.  It’s in the past, that’s all.’

‘Is it?’

He narrows his eyes.

‘I saw that change in you.  When we got rough the other day, I saw it.  You were exactly like you were with Claudine.  It was like you were someone else.’

‘It was a slip.  A mistake.’

‘The cold, hard dominant.  The man you used to be.’

‘A role I used to play,’ he corrects me.  ‘And I don’t want to play it any more.  I don’t want to be that man.  I don’t want to hide behind him.’

‘But you spent a fifteen years hiding behind him.  What were you hiding from?’

Dropping the fork, he sits back and stares at a glass.  His eyes flicker.  At last, he says one word.

‘Hurt.’

So, that’s it then?  He behaved the way he did to avoid being hurt?  I’m about to ask for a little clarification when he flips my thoughts upside-down.

‘If you never get close to anyone, you never hurt them.’  Still staring at the glass, he avoids all eye contact.

‘Who have you hurt?’ I demand.

Suddenly, I’m beginning to suffer from a serious attack of the heebie-jeebies, and as if he’s trying to push straight past it, the answer comes immediately.

‘Too many people.’

Moving quickly, he picks up the glass, takes a sip of water and places it back down, but I’ve seen enough: his hands are shaking.

‘Who have you hurt?’ I repeat, raising my voice.

‘There’s a time and a place for everything.  This isn’t it.’

And if you think you’re dictating every single one of our conversations, you’re very much mistaken.

‘Your sisters?’

‘Drop it,’ he snarls.

‘And who’s to say you won’t hurt me?’

‘That’s never going to happen.  I’m different now.’

‘Really?  Do I just have to trust you on that one?’

He levels his gaze at me, breathing quickly.

‘Yes.’

‘It works both ways,’ I remind him.  ‘Trust.  And I can’t trust you until I know everything.’

His jaw tightens.  Suddenly, he’s like a coiled spring.  I should back off a little, take my time, tread warily.  But now I’m thinking about Boyd and Tom and every single lie I’ve ever been told, every single deception that’s ever screwed me over.  It’s all there at the back of my mind, urging me on.

‘Tell me something,’ he grumbles.  ‘How did we get from the subject of where you’ve been to the subject of me?’

‘I don’t know,’ I grumble back.  ‘And why don’t
you
tell me something while we’re at it?’

‘What?’

Fuelled by anger, I steel myself.  I’m going to get to the bottom of this if it kills me.

‘Why won’t you see your sisters?’

The colour rises in his face.

‘I told you.  It’s complicated.’

And maybe it’s not.  Maybe he’s worrying over nothing.  After all, even if he did behave like a complete bastard with Layla, she’s ready to forgive and forget.

‘What harm could it do?’

A vein throbs in his neck.  His shoulders seem to tense.

‘All you need to do is meet them and talk.  You might even find out …’

‘What?’ he snaps.

My entire body gives a jolt.  ‘Don’t push him,’ the sensible half of my brain warns me.  ‘He’s about to blow.’  And as usual, I ignore it.  I’m just not prepared to give in.

‘They might have suffered too,’ I offer.  ‘After you left.’

He shakes his head.

‘Have you ever thought about that?  Who your stepfather turned on next?’

He stares into space.  ‘No one,’ he mutters.  ‘I’d gone.  He must have had a fucking party.’

‘Dan …’

It comes out of nowhere.  In one swift movement, he swipes his plate onto the floor.  The smash of crockery echoes round the room, leaving absolute silence in its wake.  A waiter appears, hovers for a few seconds, and then he’s gone again.  In a panic, I stare at the mess on the floor, and then at the man in front of me.  Barely able to breathe, he’s holding on to the edge of the table, glowering at nothing in particular.  I have no idea what he’s about to do or say.  All I know is I don’t want to be around to witness it.  I need to get out of here.

As I get to my feet, he looks up, suddenly alarmed.

‘Don’t go.’

He’s moving now, and I don’t have time to hesitate.  Breaking into action, I bluster out through the front of the restaurant, yanking open the door and flinging myself into the night.  I register the car, the bodyguard standing ready on the pavement, the fact that it’s raining.  And then I begin to run.

I hear Dan’s voice calling.

‘Maya!’

I don’t stop.  With my pulse in top gear, I make for the lights of the embankment.  If I can get to the river, I’ll be able to find my way back to Camden, and sanity.  But I don’t get very far.  It’s all over in seconds.  I feel a hand on my wrist, an arm around my stomach.  I’m grabbed from behind and hauled into the shadows of a side street.

Swinging me round, he presses me against a wall, pinning me into place with his chest and holding my arms against my sides.

‘Let me go,’ I growl.

‘Never.’  Tightening his hold, he brings his face to mine.  ‘We agreed.  No more running.’

‘And maybe I’ve changed my mind,’ I shout.  ‘Maybe I can’t deal with this.  I need answers and you … you …’

The sentence can’t find an end.  My throat constricts.  And damn it, I’m sobbing.

‘Listen to me …’

I hear the voice, but I don’t want to acknowledge it.  Closing my eyes, I lower my head.

‘Listen.’

I feel his fingers under my chin, gently urging my face upwards.

‘Open your eyes, Maya,’ he whispers.  ‘Open them.  Please.’

With the full intention of telling him to piss off, I simply do as he wishes.  But I’m stunned by what I see.  His face is half in shadow, half illuminated by a street lamp, but it’s clear that he’s struggling to control himself.  And those aren’t just raindrops on his cheeks.

‘You’re crying.’

‘No shit.’  He half-laughs.  ‘Look what you’ve done to me.  Happy now?’

‘Why are you crying?’

Fighting back my own tears, I reach up and touch his face.

‘Because I can’t lose you.’  He swallows, blinking into the rain.  ‘I need to make this right.’

‘I shouldn’t have pushed.’

I feel his chest rise and fall.

‘You have every right to push.’  He gives me a weak smile.  ‘You need answers.  I understand.’

‘Then give them to me,’ I beg.

We’re silent for a while, gazing at each other.  At last, he begins to speak, slowly, in the quiet tones of a confession.

‘I’ll see my sisters, I promise.  One day, I’ll get back in contact.’  He tips his head forwards.  ‘But I can’t rush it.  Okay?’

I nod.

‘And as for Italy … I was a mess back then.  It wasn’t a good time.  I’d just rather forget.’

I look into his eyes, picking up on silent desperation, and resolve to leave the subject of Rome behind.  He lived with a woman.  It was an arrangement.  Nothing more.  I just need to take his word for it.

‘But Lily was right,’ he goes on.  ‘When I came back, I closed myself off.  The club served a purpose.  Every time I visited, I played a role.  I wasn’t Daniel Foster and I wasn’t Daniel Taylor.  I was someone else.  No baggage.  No past.  No connection.  No hurt.’

I trace a finger down his cheek.

‘It’s an addiction for me, Maya.  You need to understand that.  The more I played the role, the more I needed it, the further I went.  Claudine was the wake-up call.  After that, I thought I was done with it.  But I slipped the other day, just like any addict can slip … and it freaked me out.  I didn’t think I needed it any more.  I don’t want to need it any more.  This is all I want.’

He kisses me gently.  And suddenly, I find myself panicking.  Jesus, if he wants to leave all that behind, then we might have to go vanilla.

‘No more kink then?’ I ask.

I catch the hint of a smile in the shadows.

‘That’s not what I’m saying.  Plenty more kink.’  His voice is warmer now.  ‘More kink than you can shake a stick at.’

I giggle and he touches my lips.

‘But always with this.’

‘With what?’

‘Smiling, laughing, talking.  Feeling like I’m a part of you, and you’re a part of me.’  He takes my hand and lays it over his heart.  ‘With this.’

He’s out on the terrace.  Dressed in grey sweat pants and a white T-shirt, he’s leaning against the parapet, coffee in hand, watching the morning unfold over the Thames.  Conscious that he doesn’t know I’m here, I observe him for a minute or two, wondering what he’s thinking about.  His past, perhaps?  I wouldn’t be surprised, especially as today’s his birthday.  Clive’s words come back to me:  I wouldn’t mention it if I were you.  And I won’t.  I’ve already stirred up too many memories and now it’s time to calm things down.  As soon as I move forwards, he’s conscious of me.  Putting down the mug, he motions me into his arms.

‘Morning, sweet pea.’

He kisses the top of my head and I grin.  Realising I should have some sort of lovey-dovey nick name for him by now, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

‘Morning, shit head.’

‘Shit head?’

I wince, shrug apologetically.  ‘It was all I could think of.’

‘I’m sure it’ll grow on me.’  He squeezes my arm.  ‘Are we good?’

‘We’re very good.  In spite of the fact that you fucked me to death last night.’

And he did … for at least three hours.  After Wednesday night’s row, we simply called a truce, swept the problems back under the rug and slept in each other’s arms.  But last night was an entirely different matter.  With my period almost over, it was open season, time to make up for lost sex.  And we did it with a vengeance.

‘I fucked us both to death.’  He smiles knowingly, brushing his lips across mine and sending a rush of warmth to my core.  ‘I’m knackered.’

‘So take a day off.’  I may be totally spent, but I’m also totally up for a day of solid sex.

His eyes glint in the early morning sunlight.  ‘I’d love to.’  He touches the pendant.  ‘But I can’t.  Too much on at work.’

While we gaze at each other, lost in our own private bubble, the seconds seem to stretch out into an eternity.  Finally, he speaks.

‘It’s the Savoy tonight.  The car’s picking us up at seven.  I’ll be home by six.’

And then, without warning, he swings me round to take in the scene.  Sunlight glistens across the water, glowing against the limestone of the Houses of Parliament, catching on the ironwork of Lambeth Bridge.  And I’m thinking about a time when we can both face the past and move on into the future, without any shadows.

‘The colour’s back,’ I murmur.  ‘Every day’s a new beginning.’

‘It is.’  I hear him breathing slowly, calmly.  ‘Food,’ he says at last.  I feel his hands on my hip bones.  ‘I’m not having my woman turning scrawny on me.  Come on.’

While Dan sets about making me tea and popping bread into the toaster, I rummage through my handbag and find my mobile.  I’ve got Layla’s number now, but I’ve been careful, storing it under the name of ‘Fiona’, an acquaintance from university I never kept in touch with.  As yet, there’s no communication from her, and I’m relieved.  As far as I can see, he’s just not ready to meet her yet.  But there is a text from Sara.  I groan.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘My sister.  She wants to meet up.’

He shrugs.  ‘Does she know we’re back together?’

‘Yes.’  I watch as he leans against the counter, fixing me with the pools of blue.  ‘It’s going to be complicated,’ I warn him.  ‘You can’t just carry on as if nothing ever happened.’  I slide the phone back onto the counter.

‘Why not?’

I stare at him, perplexed.

‘Dan, she made your life a misery.  She’s got a lot of explaining to do.’

‘Not to me.’  With a shrug, he makes his way over to the fridge, opens the door and takes out the milk.  ‘It’s all in the open now.  I’m not interested in what made her behave that way.  If there’s anyone she needs to explain herself to, it’s you.’

The kettle flicks off and while I try to work out what on Earth he’s going on about, he makes the tea and brings it over to the counter.

‘Why would she need to do that?’ I demand.

He nudges the mug towards me.

‘Because you doubt yourself.’

My mouth opens.

‘Don’t kid yourself, Maya.  It’s obvious.  You have no idea how wonderful you are.  I want to see you confident, afraid of nothing.  I want to see you to blossom.’

He straightens up and I throw him a smile.

‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr Foster.  Thank you so much, but we’ve already sorted it.’

‘Have you?’  He cocks his head.  ‘Does she really know what she’s done to you?’

I twist the mug around on the top, resolving not to get annoyed with him for bringing this up.  After all, I’ve forced him to confront a thing or two about his own life in recent days.  And anyway, he’s pushing in exactly the right direction.  I’ve never really discussed anything with Sara.  She has no idea what she’s done to me.  Finally, I shake my head.

‘Then I’d say you need to talk.’  He stares at me, utterly determined.

‘Fair enough.’

With a satisfied nod, he sets about preparing my breakfast.  He’s just sliding a plate of toast under my nose when the doorbell chimes.  I watch as he answers the door.  I don’t get to see who’s on the other side, but I recognise Spencer’s voice.

‘This was delivered for you.’

Without a word, Dan closes the door and returns to the breakfast bar, clutching a small black box in his hands.  He opens the box and immediately snaps it shut again.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

‘Cufflinks,’ he answers with a quick smile.  ‘I need to get going.’  Suddenly distant, he gives me a quick peck on the lips before taking himself upstairs with the box and his mobile.

Sipping at my tea, I wonder what he’s hiding from me now, because those certainly weren’t cufflinks in that box.  A gift, perhaps?  A little trinket?  Resisting the temptation to follow him and indulge in a touch of snooping while he’s in the shower, I finish off my breakfast and wait until he reappears, looking ridiculously delectable in a tailored grey suit.  He slips his briefcase onto the counter and sets about rearranging his tie.

‘I’m going to take you away next week,’ he announces, completely out of the blue.

‘What?’

‘I told you I would.’

‘But next week?’

‘Next week.  I’ll get Carla onto it today.  Bermuda.’  He gives me a flash of his eyes. ‘You need to find your passport.’

I prod at the remnants of my toast.

‘I don’t really fancy it.’

‘You don’t really fancy finding your passport?’

‘I don’t really fancy Bermuda.’  I tut.  ‘I don’t even know where it is.’

‘In the Atlantic.’

‘Can’t we just go to Cornwall?  That’s in the Atlantic.’

‘No.’

My nerves are getting the better of me now, and he seems to notice.

‘The flying thing?’ he asks.

‘It’s dangerous,’ I explain solemnly.

‘Statistically speaking, it’s less dangerous than driving to Cornwall.  You’ll be perfectly safe.  Find your passport.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’  Just thinking about all those messy drawers is putting me into a grump, let alone worrying about a huge, airborne lump of metal.

‘First thing, Maya.  I’ll get Carla to call you for details.  I want this booked.’  Eyeing me for a moment, he seems to melt a little.  He leans down and kisses me.  ‘Let’s not argue.  I want to treat you.’

‘I know that.  But I’m not just going to accept everything your way.’

‘And I know that.’  His mobile vibrates.  Taking it out of his jacket pocket, he checks the caller identity.  ‘Passport.’

I watch the door close behind him, and silently resolve to get my own way.  If he wants to whisk me away, then he’ll have to be content with Cornish rain and cream teas.  Instead of hunting for my passport, I’ll simply get on with my day.

After taking a shower when I’d rather have a bath, I pull open the walk-in wardrobe and survey a mound of clothes that were chosen for me by someone else.  Ignoring them all, I tug on a pair of trusty combats and one of my favourite tatty T-shirts, noting with delight that at least my drawers are still an unholy mess.  And then I come to a halt, looking round at a bedroom that just doesn’t feel like mine.  For a start, in spite of all my best efforts, it’s far too tidy.  Ever since I moved in I’ve been busily dumping my clothes on the floor, only for Dan to pick them up again and store them neatly away.  Suddenly missing my tiny, chaotic bedroom back in Camden, I wonder how the hell I’ve managed to end up in a super-tidy, ultra-posh penthouse world.  I may well be in love with Daniel Foster, but this just isn’t me.  And however long I spend here, I can’t imagine it ever will be.  There’s only one way to avoid the strangeness of it all.  With a quiet sigh, I take refuge in the studio and bury myself in the triptych.

I choose my colours, squeezing a good amount of each onto the palette, thinning them with linseed and blending until I’m satisfied.  And then I start on the left-hand panel.  Using charcoal browns, deep reds, hints of gold and bronze, I add definition to the woman’s body, breathing life into her flesh and watching in amazement as her pain becomes ever more apparent.  It’s everywhere: in the tension of her muscles, the position of her head, the closed eyes, the bared teeth.  But even more evident is the fact that she wants it.  I have no idea how long I’ve been painting for when I’m interrupted by a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ I call, half expecting the Terminator to show his face.

But it’s not the Terminator at all.  As the door’s eased open, I’m presented with a grey-haired woman, in her fifties maybe.  Dressed in jeans and a pink blouse, she’s clutching a mobile.

‘I’m sorry to bother you.’  Clearly embarrassed, she wafts the mobile in front of her face.  ‘I’m Geena.’

‘Geena?’

‘Dan’s housekeeper.’

I drop my brush onto the palette and stride over to greet the poor woman.

‘And I’m Maya.’

‘I know.’ She smiles warmly.  ‘Dan’s warned me about you.’

‘Has he now?’  I grin.  ‘Look, I’m sorry.  I’m a bit of a walking disaster when it comes to keeping things tidy, but I promise I’ll do my best.’

‘Oh, you just carry on being yourself.’  She glances past me at the canvases.  Her eyes widen.  ‘He’s increased my pay.  He says it’s danger money.’

I laugh.  ‘As long as you’re happy with that.’  Suddenly, an idea occurs to me.  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.  Do you want to clean in here?’

‘No, not just now.  I just thought you should know.  Your phone.  Well, I think it’s yours.’  She holds it out.

‘Yes, it’s mine.’

‘It’s been pinging and buzzing like mad for the last half an hour.’

‘Oh, bugger.’

Taking the mobile out of Geena’s hands, I open up the screen: three missed calls from an unknown number, probably Carla, and two from Dan, followed by a text.

Answer your phone, sweet pea.  Carla needs your passport details. Xxxx

And then another.

We’re going to Bermuda whether you like it or not.  Details.  Now.  Xxxx

And finally.

Don’t make me come home and spank you. Xxxx

Grinning at the fact that I’m getting four kisses today, I text him back.

You wouldn’t. X

The reply comes immediately.

I would. Xxxx

And that does it.  In spite of the fluttering sensation between my thighs, I can’t let the man get me anywhere near the spanking bench until he’s sorted things out with Layla.  I’ll sing like a canary.  And that means I’ll just have to humour him with the whole Bermuda thing.  But never mind.  As soon as he gets me anywhere near a plane, he’ll be regretting his control freak tendencies.  Without bothering to tidy up, I hurry back to the bedroom and rummage through the boxes at the bottom of the wardrobe, searching for my passport.  I find it eventually, shoved into a shoebox, and take a moment to gaze at my passport photo: taken five years ago when Lucy finally convinced me to take a holiday abroad … shortly before I chickened out.

My phone pings.  Another message.

You’ve got one more chance, sweet pea.  Carla’s about to phone you.  Xxxx

I type in my reply and fire it off.

Back off, shit head.  I’m onto it. X

‘Just not in the way you think I am,’ I muse out loud.

Suddenly, alongside feeling utterly flustered, I’m also feeling utterly determined to give the big kahuna a piece of my mind.  Ignoring the calls from my mobile, I clean up in the bathroom and return to the wardrobe for a change of clothes.  My T-shirt’s already spattered with paint and I’d like to look half-way respectable for what I’m about to do.  Opening up one drawer after another, I gasp and growl and curse.  Somehow, within the space of the last couple of hours, every last scrap of my messiness seems to have been eradicated.  In its place, T-shirts are neatly folded in one drawer, knickers rolled up in a second, bras arranged in third.  Swapping the ruined T-shirt for a clean one and shoving my mobile into my pocket, I skitter downstairs to find Geena busy in the kitchen, cleaning out cupboards that already seem to be perfectly clean.  She turns and smiles.

‘Off out?’ she asks.