True Colours (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2) (22 page)

‘Well …’  His eyes sparkling, his fingers tightening around my thigh, he drives into me again. ‘I love your skin.’

I let out a tiny, involuntary yelp of delight before gathering enough wits to battle on.

‘That’s not enough.’

‘And your tight little cunt.’

‘Filth.’

‘And your tits.’  With a grin, he drives again.  ‘I love every last bit of your body.  I love tasting it.  I love fucking it.’

‘How romantic.’

‘Not enough?’

‘No.’

Digging his head into my neck, he picks up the pace, increasingly breathless, pushing out his next statements between thrusts.

‘I love spanking your backside … I love making you come … I love fucking your arse.’

My muscles clench.  I’m already teetering on the edge, and so is he.  Putting a temporary stop on the list of things he loves about me, he tightens his grip again and pounds into me relentlessly.

‘Fucking hell,’ he rasps at last.

Sensing the moment, I let go, digging my fingers into his broad shoulders and groaning in pure ecstasy as I contract around him.  A flood of warmth pulsates through my crotch, and I’m spent.  I’ve had it.  I’m done.  In a state of pure bliss, I relax into his arms.

‘I love that.’  He slows the pace, wrestling his breath back under control and leaning his forehead against mine.  ‘I love the fact that we come together.’

At last, he withdraws, tucks away his cock and zips up his trousers.  Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he sets about cleaning me up.

‘I love wiping my cum from you.’

I lean down, scooping up my combats and the latest pair of ruined knickers.

‘I love the fact that you love all this stuff,’ I inform him, pulling on the combats and stuffing the knickers into my pocket.  ‘But it’s still not enough.’

‘Okay,’ he sighs.  ‘I love the fact that you leave the top off the toothpaste, that you can’t cook to save your life, that you leave your clothes all over the bedroom floor.  Still not enough?’

‘No,’ I smile.

He takes his phone from his pocket and taps in a contact.

‘I love your eyes.’  He raises the mobile to his ear.  ‘They’re so green.  What colour eyes do you think our kids are going to have?’

‘Stop it.’

A muffled voice interrupts the conversation.

He replies.  ‘Dave.  Fix the lift.’

Almost immediately, we begin to move.  Depositing the phone back in his pocket, he folds his arms, leans against the opposite wall and studies me.

‘So that’s it?’ I ask.  The lift doors open at the twelfth floor.  Mrs Kavanagh enters, stops in her tracks and backs out again.  The doors close and we continue downwards.

‘I love the fact that you’re incredibly talented.’

‘And?’

‘I love your spirit.’

The doors open again.  He shakes his head at a man.  The doors close.

‘Just fucking say it, Dan.’

‘I love your potty mouth.  You swear like a navvy.’

‘Still not enough.’

He smiles and shakes his head.

‘Okay.  I love your intelligence, your wit, your sense of humour.’

This time, the lift continues uninterrupted.  He watches as the numbers count down.

‘I love the fact that you love me, in spite of everything I’ve done.’  As if he’s wafting away everything he’s done, he waves a hand.  ‘And now I think about it, I love the idea of you being my wife.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Yes, that’s definitely the way ahead.’

‘But …’

The lift judders to a halt.  We’re at the ground floor.  The doors slide open.  Before I know it, I’m tugged away from the wall and propelled out into the lobby while Dan stays put.

‘Oh, and Maya!’ he calls.  ‘One last thing!’

I stagger to a halt and turn, just as the doors begin to close.

‘I love
you
.’

Fiddling with the dress, I rearrange it for the umpteenth time.  Eight thousand eight hundred pounds’ worth of black silk, very badly laced up at the back.  But what am I supposed to do?  Arriving home nearly half an hour late, Dan greeted me with a quick kiss, apologised and jumped straight into the shower, leaving me to struggle into the dress by myself, nearly dislocating both arms in the process.  I stare at myself in the mirror.  The low neckline reveals far too much of my cleavage, and the whole thing is threatening to come away at any minute.  At least I’ve managed to tweak my hair into an up-do and apply the usual smattering of make-up.  And then there’s the Tiffany necklace, resting against my chest.

I don’t hear the en-suite door open.  He slips into view behind me, stunning in his black dinner jacket, his hair still a little damp, his bow tie undone.  He curls his hands around my waist, drawing me in tight and I drink in his scent.

‘You look amazing,’ he murmurs against my neck.

‘It’s too loose,’ I murmur back.  ‘I can’t reach the laces.’

Releasing me, he steps back and inspects my handiwork.

‘Mmm,’ he muses.  ‘It does look like it’s been done up by a two-year-old.’

He sets about tightening the bodice.

‘Did you paint today?’ he asks.

‘A bit.’

In fact, in between my trip to Fosters and getting ready for the big night out, I managed another four hours, concentrating on the right hand panel, adding colour and depth and definition, choosing from a range of blues: Prussian, cerulean, cobalt.  After Dan’s admission, it was the obvious way to go.  I spent the afternoon in the company of sheer pleasure.

‘So, did you have a good day at work?’ I ask casually.

‘Fine.’  He shrugs, re-threading a lace.  ‘The usual.  Sealed a big deal with a Chinese billionaire.  Fucked a beautiful woman in the lift.’

And told her you love her, I’d like to add.  Those three little words have been hanging around in my brain all afternoon, teasing me and causing my stomach to trip over itself.  And I want to hear them again.  I can only hope he’s forgotten the weird marriage proposal bit.  No way am I ready for that.

‘You love me then?’ I venture.

‘Looks like it.’  Still focussed on the lacework, his blue eyes dance.

‘Since when?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.  Monday the twentieth of June.  About two o’clock in the afternoon.  There, that should do it.’  He pats the dress and slides his arms back around my waist, smiling at me in the mirror while I process this new information.  That was the first day I showed up at Fosters.

‘Love at first sight?’

‘If you like.’

I grin like a prize idiot.

‘Say it again.’

He leans in, his mouth next to my ear.  ‘I love you,’ he whispers.  ‘I’m in love.  With you.’

I’m reeling again.  It was one thing having those words fired at me from behind a closing lift door, but now he’s standing behind me, his blue eyes flashing with delight, I’m in Wonderland.  That’s the second time I’ve heard those words from his disgustingly wonderful mouth.  It makes my heart trip, and I’m pretty sure it always will.

‘Aren’t you supposed to …’  He straightens up.  ‘Say it back?’

I gather my senses.  ‘Oh that.  Yes.  I love you too.’

‘So, we’re in love?’

‘Yup.’

‘It’s a nice feeling.  I’ve never felt it before and I’ll never feel it again.  Not with anyone else.  You’re definitely the one.’

‘I am?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘It is.  In fact, I love you so much, I’d do anything for you.’

‘Flash your cock at Mrs Kavanagh.’

‘First thing Monday morning.’  He grins.  ‘And you should do anything for me.  It’s only right.’

‘Okay …’

He stares at me.  Don’t say it, I will him silently.  Don’t go there.  Not yet.  It’s madness.

‘Marry me.’

And oh, he’s done it.  Bugger.  He hasn’t forgotten the weird marriage proposal bit at all.  I’d better knock this on the head, and quickly too.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re going too fast.  Again.’

‘Oh come on, Maya.  It’s the next logical step.’

‘And it can wait.’

‘Why?’ he demands.  ‘I’ve done the small talk thing.  I’ve done the big talk thing.  I’ve given you stuff.  I’ve told you I love you.  What more do I have to do?’

Sort your shit out.  That’s what I’d really like to say.  If you want me to face my demons, then you can face your own while we’re at it.  But this isn’t the right moment to open up yet another can of worms.  It’s his birthday, we’re off to a party and he’s in a good mood.  And I’m not about to ruin any of that.  Instead, I go for an easy answer.

‘Be patient and wait.’

He rolls his eyes.

‘It’s going to happen.’  He smiles, one of his slow languid specials.  ‘I’ll drag a yes out of you soon enough.’

‘Try your best.’

‘I will.’  He gives me a mischievous grin.  ‘And now I’ve got a little present for you.’  Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a little black box.  It must be the same box he took delivery of this morning.  My stomach lurches.  Good God, no.  Don’t let that be an engagement ring.

‘What is it?’

‘The general idea, as I understand things, is that you open it and find out for yourself.’

With a nervous smile, I turn, take the box and open it, letting out a sigh of relief when I catch sight of a pair of earrings: two silver pendants, each one fashioned into the shape of a sweat pea and centred with a pearl.

‘They’re beautiful.’

‘I had them made.’

‘But when did you find the time?’

‘Where you’re concerned, I always find the time.  Lily put me in touch with a jeweller.  I sent him a photo of the necklace and told him I wanted something to match.’

‘When?’

‘A couple of weeks ago.  Not long after I met you.’

‘I bloody love you, Dan.’

‘And I bloody love you too.  I’m going to make you the happiest woman on the planet.  And I mean that.’  He touches me on the cheek.  ‘Come here.’

Taking the box from my hand, he places it on a shelf in the wardrobe and picks out an earring.  Coming back to me, he sets about threading the silver hook into my ear, glancing at me every now and then, clearly anxious not to hurt me.  When he’s finished with the left ear, the repeats the process with the right.  And I watch, smiling at the intense concentration on his face, my heart flooding with warmth, my brain casually waving goodbye to any scrap of logic and sense.  I’ve been charmed right to the verge of giving him a ‘yes.’  I’m about to open my mouth and agree to the maddest thing I’ve ever heard, when he finally straightens up.

‘There.’  He moves me round to face the mirror.  ‘We look like the people in those perfume adverts.’

I burst into a fit of giggles.

‘And we need to go,’ he adds.  ‘Our carriage awaits.’

***

A Rolls-Royce!  I’m only sitting in a bloody Rolls-Royce!  Ignoring the views as we glide across Lambeth Bridge and down the North Embankment, I stare at my surroundings, taking in the solid teak dashboard and the hand-sewn leather trims.  When I’m finally done with staring, I play with the silver panel in my door, amazed when it opens gracefully at my touch, revealing a cigarette lighter and an ashtray.  I close it again, switching my attention to the two rectangular units built into the leather roof lining, a control unit between them.  Tempted beyond belief, I’m about to reach up and press one of the buttons above my head when I catch sight of Dan watching me, an amused grin on his face.

‘Is this yours?’

He laughs.  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.  It’s hired.  I thought you deserved something a little special tonight.’

And shit, this is something a little special.

‘You haven’t done up your tie,’ I remark.

He looks down.

‘I hate these things.’

While he fiddles with the bow tie, I decide to ask for a little more detail about the function.

‘This thing at the Savoy?  Is this because of … you know … your past.’

He nods curtly, flipping one end of the tie over the other and letting out an exasperated sigh.

‘Lily got involved with the foundation,’ he mutters, ‘and I’ve supported her with it for years.’

I watch in awe as he performs some sort of complicated folding and threading operation.  As if by magic, a bow tie appears.

‘Whatever else you think of her, she’s got a good heart.’  He straightens out the bow, runs an index finger across it, scowls and begins all over again.  ‘She hasn’t worked a day in her life … but the Foundation keeps her busy, gives her something to do … and I suppose she does it because of me.’

An idea scratches at the inside of my head.

‘Do you think she’s in love with you?’

He breaks into a laugh, completes the bow, unravels it and starts again.

‘Not likely.  She’s more like a sister.’

Eugh.  Now, come on, considering what I know, that’s a disgusting idea.  I can’t help it.  I have to let him know.

‘She told me she popped your cherry.’

‘That woman needs a filter.’  He grimaces.  ‘It was a long time ago.  A drunken mistake.  Neither of us want it to happen again.’  Finally satisfied, he pats the bow.  ‘What do you think?’

‘It looks like it’s been done up by a two-year-old.’

‘Touché, Miss Scotton.’  His lips curl into a smile.  ‘We’re here.’

The car takes a left, circling the end of a park and drawing to a halt outside the rear entrance to the Savoy.  I’ve never been here before.  I’ve never considered myself posh enough.  And even now, dressed in an expensive gown and sitting in the back of a Rolls-Royce, I still don’t.

A doorman steps forwards and opens the door on Dan’s side.

‘Stay where you are.  Let’s do this properly.’

While he gets out, I do as I’m told, waiting patiently for him to circle the car and open my door.  A hand appears in front of my face.  I slip my fingers into his, allowing him to help me out, but in spite of my best efforts, it’s not exactly the most graceful of exits from a car.  Grappling with the slit, I totter from side to side on the high heels.

‘Steady now.’  Wrapping an arm around my waist, Dan comes to my rescue.  ‘You’re being papped.  You don’t want to show off your knickers.’

‘What?’

Squinting into the flash of a camera, I’m temporarily blinded.  With a few blinks, the scene finally comes into focus: a group of men standing by the edge of a red carpet, their faces obscured by cameras.

‘Paparazzi?’

‘They’re here for the high society types.’

‘Not us then.’  I grin at a photographer.  He eyes me up in return.  ‘Two nobodies from the East Coast.’

‘We’re not nobodies.’  Dan places a hand at the base of my spine, and I tingle at his touch.  ‘Let’s give them a pose.’

I have just enough time to tuck my hair into place and straighten out my dress before I’m tugged in by his side.  The cameras flash again.

‘Excuse me, mate,’ a photographer calls.  ‘Give us your names, just in case you’re anyone worth bothering with.’

I’m surprised when Dan obliges.

‘Daniel Foster and Maya Scotton.  I own Fosters Construction.  Maya’s an up-and-coming artist.’  He begins to move away, pauses, turns back to the photographer and adds:  ‘And she’s going to be my wife.’

‘Dan,’ I hiss.

‘Come along, darling.’

Taking me by the hand, he leads me through a set of wooden revolving doors, up an incline and straight into a ballroom.  We wait by the entrance and while Dan talks to an attendant, I take in the opulence of it all: the duck egg blue panels decorated with intricate stucco flowers; the arched doorways, each one containing a set of mirrored double doors; the swirling blues and golds of the carpet; a vaulted ceiling that curves above my head; six vast chandeliers spilling out a low, comfortable light.  To my right, a small stage has been set up with a band’s equipment while in front of me, I count about thirty round tables, all covered with a crisp white cloth, set with silver cutlery and an array of crystal glasses.  The room’s already full, swelling with expensive dresses and tuxedos: all the men dapper in their dinner jackets, the women brimming over with diamonds and self-confidence.

‘Jesus,’ I breathe, sensing a knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Dan murmurs into my ear, taking my hand in his.  ‘Let’s find Lily.’

As we push forwards into the room, I realise that we’re being watched … or rather Dan’s being watched.  He’s catching the eye of just about every woman in the place.  One by one, they drop their conversations to watch him pass by … and I’m not at all surprised.  On any normal day, he’s absolute male perfection, but in a tux, he’s something else.  Every single female pair of eyes takes in the lean frame and the broad shoulders, the bright blue eyes, the tousled blond hair.  And I just can’t help it.  A self-satisfied smile settles across my face because he’s mine.  One hundred percent mine.  Suddenly, I feel giddy, totally giddy at the perfection of my life.  But almost as soon as the feeling springs into life, I hear a familiar voice at the back of my head, warning me that it just can’t last.  It never does.