True Colours (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2) (11 page)

I’d be lying if I said anything else.  I’ve just had a good dose of the dominant, and it turned me on big time.

‘What’s wrong?’  I ask, sensing the slightest of tremors in his body.

He shakes his head, brushing off the question with a shrug and propping his head back against the headboard.

‘The last few days haven’t been easy,’ I offer.

‘Meaning?’

‘You’re upset.  I get it.  At least I think I do.  This is your way of dealing with things.’

He runs a finger down my cheek, and although he’s looking at me now, I know he’s drifting away.  He shakes his head.

‘This isn’t dealing with anything.’

***

I don’t know where I am but wherever it is, I don’t like it.  He’s standing in front of me, holding a glass, his dark eyes glimmering with want.  He smiles at me, an empty, soulless smile.  A hand reaches out, but I don’t want it to touch me.  It’s touched me before, and the thought of it makes me want to tear my skin away from my body.  But I can do nothing.  I’m frozen, imprisoned in my own body, waiting for that poisonous contact.  He lifts the glass, opens his hand and lets it fall to the ground.  The glass smashes, sending a thousand shards skittering across the ground.

***

I wake with a start, taking short, sharp, rasping breaths.  I’m sweating.

‘Maya?’

At last, I manage to focus.  Already dressed, Dan’s sitting next to me on the edge of the bed.  He cups my cheek in his palm.  ‘Are you okay?’

‘Just a dream.’  I shiver.  The curtains have been opened, the sash window raised slightly.

He feels my forehead.  ‘You’re clammy.  What were you dreaming about?’

It’s a bad idea to let him know that Boyd’s managed to invade my dreams.  A little white lie is in order.

‘I don’t know.  I can’t remember.’

He frowns, as if he doesn’t quite believe me, and then his expression lightens.

‘Time to get dressed.  Dinner in ten minutes.’

‘But I need a bath.’

And I certainly do, seeing as I spent the better part of the afternoon in a sweat.  After the mad bout of rough sex, he made love to me twice more before I finally drifted off into a troubled sleep.

‘Later.  Cottage pie waits for no man.  And if we’re late, we won’t get pudding.’

He taps me on the shoulder, a silent command to get moving, before he collects his mobile from the bedside table and goes to stand by the window.  With a yawn, I push myself out of bed and make my way into the bathroom.  As soon as I’m on the toilet, I know I’ve started.  Glancing round, I notice the tampons.  They’ve been left for me on the unit, right next to yet another selection of toiletries.  I smile to myself.  True to form, while I’ve been sleeping, he’s clearly been busy organising my life for me.  After sorting myself out, I make my way back into the bedroom to find a packet of knickers lying on the bed.  I pick them up and examine them.

‘Did I do well?’ he asks.  ‘Size twelve.’

Opening the packet, I take out a pair and let them dangle in front of me.  They unfurl like a sail.

‘Lovely.’

‘There wasn’t much choice in town.  They’ll have to do for now.’

‘Firmly constructed,’ I muse.  ‘Totally unrippable.  And thank God for that.’  Bending over, I step into the granny pants and pull them up.  ‘I’d like to hang on to some of my underwear.’

‘Mmm.’  He licks his lips.  ‘Sexy.’

‘You can forget about sex.  I’m on my period.’

A wave of alarm washes across his face.

‘For about four days,’ I add.

A second wave.

He falters.  ‘We can work around it.’

I’m not at all sure what he means by that and right now, I really don’t want to know.  He watches as I collect my bra and dress, put them on and tidy my hair.  By the time I’m ready, he’s looking out of the window again, his phone still clasped in his hands.

‘What’s the matter?’

Slipping an arm round his waist, I join him.

‘Just thinking about Molly.’

I catch the flit of a shadow amongst the trees.

‘There’s someone out there.’

He manoeuvres me into his arms.

‘No.’

‘But I saw ...’

‘There was nobody.’

The dream filters back to my waking brain, echoes of Boyd’s face in the darkness, and I begin to panic.  Is that Boyd out there?  Is he really still stalking me?  Would he go this far?  I turn back to the window.  Yes, I saw it that time.  There was definitely a movement.

‘There
is
someone out there.’

He blinks, suppressing a scowl as he struggles with the next words.  ‘It’s security.’

‘What?  You have guards here?’

‘I do now.’  He draws in a breath.  ‘Look, Norman knows about it.  Don’t say anything to Betty.  She’ll only flip.’

My mind’s in a spin and somehow, through the muddle, Clive’s words come back to me: 
It’ll be sorted tonight.

‘Why couldn’t you just tell me this was happening?’

‘I didn’t want you to think I was going over the top.’

‘You are going over the top.’  I try my best to wriggle out of his arms, but I’m held tight.  ‘Jesus.  What’s come over you?’

‘Don’t be annoyed.’

‘You’re paranoid.’

‘No, Maya. I’m not.’

‘If that’s the case, then there’s something you’re not telling me.  I don’t like being left in the dark.’

His mouth opens as if he’s about to speak, and then he thinks better of it.

‘You said I could trust you, Dan.  You said you’d never let me down.’

‘I won’t.’

‘But you’ve kept this from me.  I’m not some weak, pathetic woman who needs protecting.  Tell me why you’ve done this.’

He’s not about to admit the truth.  I can tell.  Maybe I should help him along a little.  After all, he doesn’t need to know the source of my information.

‘Boyd.  You think he poisoned Molly.’

He stares at me, saying nothing.

‘Just because he’s obsessed with me, it doesn’t mean he killed your dog.’

‘I know that.’

‘Then there
is
something else, something you’re not telling me, some reason why you’ve reacted like this.’

He shakes his head.

‘It’s just me, that’s all.’  He closes his eyes, lost in thought.  When he opens them again, I catch a hint of fear.  ‘I’m not taking any chances.’

The next morning, we’re back in London.  As we ride the lift up to his apartment, I take the opportunity to admire the man in my life.  While I’m still in yesterday’s dress, albeit with a pair of fresh, clean knickers, he’s ready for work in a grey suit, complete with waistcoat and a pink silk tie.  I’m silently wondering how I can delay his departure for a quick grope when the doors slide open prematurely.  We seem to be stopping off at the lobby.

‘What’s going on?’

Without a word, he leads me out by the hand.  The first thing I catch sight of is the reception desk and the slick-headed concierge lurking behind a computer screen.  And then I catch sight of the second thing: a burly-looking man-monster who’s apparently been stuffed into an armchair.  As soon as he sees us, he rises to his feet, doubling in width and tripling in height.

‘You must be Mr Anderson.’  Moving forwards, Dan extends a hand.

‘Beefy,’ the creature announces, his voice deep and rough, as if he’s been gargling on gravel.  ‘You can call me Beefy.’

In disbelief, I watch as a chunky hand is extended in return, as Dan shakes it, and I try to take it all in, but I can barely believe what I’m seeing.  Good God, this man is huge.  A vast bundle of muscles.  Everything seems to be bulging: arms, legs, torso, neck.  But, as if he’s been hastily thrown together, nothing seems to go with anything else.  While the legs are too short for his body, the arms are way too thick.  And as for the head, that’s practically rectangular, almost like a brick.  And it’s topped with a carpet of close-cropped blond hair, adorned on either side by a miniature cauliflower ear.

‘Don’t stare,’ Dan whispers, giving me a squeeze.  ‘It’s rude.’  He shifts his attention back to Beefy.  ‘This is Maya.’  Putting a hand to the small of my back, he nudges me forwards.  If he’s as disturbed as I am, he certainly doesn’t show it.  He’s as cool, calm and collected as ever.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Beefy grates.  His tiny, bird-like eyes flit from Dan to me.

‘And this is your bodyguard.’ Dan looks down at me.  ‘Shall we go?’

***

If I was in a state of shock at the sight of Beefy, then it’s quadrupled when I find myself standing in the apartment, confronted by a scene of chaos.  There’s a suitcase by the fridge, a messy selection of plastic bags strewn across the sofas, a crate in the middle of the kitchen, canvases lined up against the bottom of the staircase and a pile of cardboard boxes balanced precariously by the breakfast bar.  Bewildered by it all, I shuffle forwards and rummage through the plastic bags, dragging out a clump of T-shirts.  Suddenly, confusion morphs into something else, and I think it might be anger.

‘What the …’  I come to a halt, gazing at the mess.

‘Well done, Carla.’  Laying his keys on the counter top, Dan motions for Beefy to come through the front door.  ‘And Lucy too.’

‘Jeez, that was quick.’  I sling the T-shirts back into the bag and fix Dan with an affronted glare.  ‘This is …’  I point at the suitcase.  I have no idea why I’m flapping.  After all, I heard him make the call.  I suppose I just didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.  ‘What’s …’

Slipping a hand behind my back, he pulls me in close.  ‘We move at our own speed, remember?  I cleared space in the wardrobes and drawers.’

‘When?’

‘Sunday.’  He smiles brightly.

Stifling an urge to scream, I stare up into those bright blue eyes.  I’d like to let him know his arrogance knows no bounds, and I have no idea what our own speed is exactly, but I’m pretty sure it’s a bit too fast for me.  Get yourself together, my brain grumbles.  Say something.  You can’t just let him steamroller you into everything.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asks.

‘I don’t like other people going through my stuff.  And I don’t like you trying to take over my life.’

‘I’m not trying to take over your life.’

‘You could have fooled me.’  I extract myself from his grasp.  ‘Hiring big, bloody bodyguards.’  I wave a hand at Beefy.  ‘And all that stuff at the house.’  A general wave in no particular direction.  ‘And now this.  I thought you were going to slow down.’

‘I am slowing down.’  He shrugs.  ‘I told you about the bodyguard, we’ve discussed the house and you knew about your stuff being brought over.  Chill your beans, Maya.’

‘Chill my beans?’  I cast another glance at the clutter and push out a sigh.  ‘Am I going to have a say in anything?’

‘You agreed to move in.  I’d call that having a say.’  He studies my face.  ‘Don’t misread the situation.’

I have no idea what to say to that.  It’s just as well I’m distracted by a deep, gargling cough.  Tracing the direction of the noise, I find Beefy loitering in the open doorway.

‘Come in, Beefy.’  Releasing me, Dan takes a step back.  ‘Let’s give you the lie of the land.’

While I clear a space on a sofa, flop down onto it and stare at my belongings, Dan gives Beefy a quick tour of the apartment, taking him upstairs.  And judging by the fact that my bodyguard doesn’t seem to be blushing on his way back down, I can only assume that they’ve given a wide berth to the room of kink.

‘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 experienced 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.