True Colours:The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2(28)

His arms close around me again, manoeuvring me back to face my own reflection.

'Why?' he demands. 'Why do you want me to do that?'

'I don't know.' I falter. 'Maybe I just want to know everything about  you. Maybe I want to see that side of you. Maybe it's turning me on.'

'You're drunk.'

'Damn right there. But I know what I want.'

'Be careful what you wish for.' He tightens his grip. His eyes seem to  have hardened. They're cold and steely, just like the first time I ever  saw them. 'You might just get it.'





Chapter Thirteen


Water cascades over me, enveloping my body and coaxing me back to  consciousness. While memories flash through the darkness, illuminating  the gaps between then and now, I stand with my head down, eyes closed,  palms against the granite tiles  …  and I cringe for England. Suddenly,  I'm back in Harrods, demanding a visit to the mad chocolate department,  refusing point blank to leave until I've had my treat. And now I'm in  the passenger seat of his Mercedes with my feet up on the dashboard,  digging into a box of truffles and spilling half of them into the foot  well. And now I'm on the sofa, drifting away into a fuddled sleep on his  lap. At some point, he must have ushered me upstairs, or carried me,  because I was in bed this morning when he set off for work, leaving me  with the vague memory of a touch of his lips, his breath against mine,  half-registered words.

Once the shower marathon's over and done with, I dry myself off, rummage  through the wardrobe and put on a fresh pair of combats and a T-shirt.  With my hair tamed, I slope downstairs only to be greeted by a bunch of  Harrods bags lounging on the sofas. Ignoring the unwanted guests, I head  straight for the kitchen and set about making a plate of toast and a  mug of tea. It's only when I settle onto a stool at the counter that I  notice a packet of pain killers waiting for me alongside a hand-written  note on a scrap of paper: Somebody's going to need these. D. X.         

     



 

Resolving never to drink again, I swallow back a couple of pills, gulp  down a few mouthfuls of tea, sift through my handbag and rescue my  mobile. It's just after eight and he's already sent me a text.

How's the head? Xx

My shoulders slump in relief. Two kisses. And although I have a sneaking  suspicion that I've already been forgiven, an apology is still in  order. With unsteady fingers, I text back.

Pretty bad. I'm sorry. X

Resting the mobile in front of me, I take a bite of toast and wait  anxiously for the reply. It's not long in coming and when I open it up, I  almost choke.

Get yourself sorted for two o'clock. I'm sending a car. Wear a dress. No bra. Xx

In an instant, my thoughts tangle themselves up in knots. Where the hell  has that come from? And why is he sending a car? Another memory  launches itself out of the chaos, hitting me right between the temples.  My stupid, drunken mouth has landed me right in it, yet again, and I've  only got myself to blame. I asked him to demean me, and now he's  planning on giving me exactly what I wished for. 'Oh well,' I muse. 'You  can always chicken out.' But I won't, and I know it. Come two o'clock  this afternoon, I'll be getting in that car wearing a dress and no bra,  because I'm far too intrigued by his latest game.

But for the next six hours I need to distract myself, and there's only  one way to do that. After a second mug of tea, I stagger up to the  studio and begin the job of sorting through the collection of blank  canvases, moving the smaller ones to the side and picking out a larger  panel from the back. Rectangular in shape, it's about six feet in height  and three feet wide, and there are two more just like it. Leaning all  three against the wall, side by side, I sit cross-legged on the floor  and gaze at them  …  waiting.

It doesn't take long for inspiration to arrive. Stunned by the images  that invade my mind, I grab a pencil and begin to sketch out a basic  form on the left hand canvas: a woman lying on crumpled sheets, head  turned to the right, an arm draped across her eyes, her face contorted  with pain. I pause and take a step back, mired in confusion. Why on  Earth am I doing this? I look at the other two canvases, suddenly aware  that I'm about to create a triptych: three images that just can't be  separated. Almost on automatic pilot, I move to the right hand section,  sketching out the same woman: only this time she's on her back with her  arms above her head, her face aimed to the left, semi-obscured by  shadow. As I draw out the lines, it becomes obvious to me: she's  experiencing pleasure like never before.

When I'm finally satisfied with the basic outlines, I shift my attention  to the centre panel, and come to a halt. I know that it's reserved for a  man, but although I can see the angles, the colours, the way the bodies  interconnect between the two outside sections, as yet I have no idea  how he bridges the gap.

There's a knock at the door. I turn the canvases round before I call out.

'Come in.'

Beefy pokes his head into the room.

'I'm to tell you, miss, it's one o'clock.'

'One?' I stare at my bodyguard, unable to believe that I've been  sketching for so long. 'Right.' I smile unsteadily. 'I'll get ready.'

Beefy leaves me to it. With a building sense of trepidation, I clean up,  take a shower and change into a dress. Leaving my bra on the bedroom  floor and plumping for a pair of granny pants from Dan's shopping trip, I  go back downstairs, collecting my handbag along the way.

Beefy's waiting for me outside the front door.

'Any idea where we're going?' I ask him as we step into the lift.

He shakes his big head, but the flash of guilt in his beady, bird-like  eyes tells me that he's lying. Breezing through the lobby, I toss a  brisk 'Good morning' in the direction of the concierge and push through  the doors. It's sunny outside and I'd love nothing more than a walk down  the south embankment, but there's a black limousine waiting for me on  the forecourt, a driver standing by the open passenger door.

'Miss Scotton.' He waves towards the back seat.

I slide in, looking back at Beefy, surprised that he doesn't join me.  The door's closed, the driver installs himself and we pull away.  Suddenly I feel bereft without the Beef monster by my side. I have no  idea where I'm going, or what's about to happen, but I've got the  distinct feeling that I might need a bodyguard.

It's a short ride down the back streets, the quickest route to  Southwark, and it soon becomes apparent that I'm going nowhere special  at all. We're simply on our way to Fosters Construction. Arriving at the  rear entrance, I'm greeted by Dave from security and ushered into the  building. Before long, still accompanied by Dave, I'm riding the lift to  the fifteenth floor. Gazing at my reflection and musing a little more  over Mr Foster's plans for the afternoon, his words rattle around in my  brain: 'Be careful what you wish for.' By the time the door opens onto  the swanky reception area, my stomach is in knots. Leaving Dave behind, I  make my way over to Carla's desk, feeling distinctly unsteady on my  feet.         

     



 

'Good afternoon, Miss Scotton.' Looking up from her computer, she smiles  a knowing kind of smile, and I'm hardly surprised. After all, she must  have seen my scribbles in Dan's diary. She must know exactly what we get  up to in his office. 'Mr Foster's waiting for you. Please go straight  in.'

Sucking in an almighty gulp of air, I begin to edge my way into the big kahuna's lair.

I catch sight of him immediately. Sitting at his desk, he's busy leafing  through a file, so busy that he doesn't seem to notice me. I cough  quietly. He glances up, takes in my dress, shows no sign of emotion and  goes back to his document.

Keeping my position by the door, I wait.

'Close it please, Miss Scotton,' he murmurs.

Typical. Totally vague.

'Close what?'

'The first thing that comes to mind.' He turns a page.

I look down at my handbag. Yes. That'll do. Clicking the catches together at the top, I continue to wait.

'And now, perhaps you might close the door,' he adds, his voice suddenly laced with impatience.

I push the door shut, and wait some more. If he's after another game of  silly buggers, I'm more than up for it. After what seems like an age, he  puts the document to one side, leans back in his chair and examines me.  There's a tiny quiver, right between my thighs. It's followed quickly  by a fluttering sensation.

'So?' I venture.

'So.'

'Is there a reason for you hauling me over to your office?'

'Yes.'

He stares at me some more, the edges of his lips curving up, ever so slightly.

'Would you like to fill me in?'

'Absolutely.' He stands. 'I have a gap in my schedule.' Straightening  his jacket, he circles round to my side of the desk. 'And we have some  matters to discuss.'

'Oh.'

'Oh,' he mimics, leaning against the desk.

'So  …  what matters are we discussing?'

His eyes glimmer. 'Your astonishingly poor behaviour, for a start.'

'I said I'm sorry. And just for the record, you didn't have to buy the whole of Harrods.'

'And just for the record, you didn't have to down a vat's worth of champagne and make no decisions.'