True Colours:The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2(23)

'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.

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.