True Colours:The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2(37)

'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.

'Yes.' I pause, grabbing my keys, not entirely sure how I'm going to broach the subject. 'Did you  …  Did you tidy my wardrobe?'

The smile widens.

'Yes. Mr Foster told me to do it.'

'He did?'

She nods and I sense the first stirrings of anger in my gut, but I'm not  going to take it out on Geena. My target is a mile or so down the south  bank. He's gone too far again  …  and I'm going to tell him, right to his  face.

'I didn't do the boxes. But he said I should sort out your clothes.'

And he should have consulted me, I'd like to add.

'Thank you.' I force the most natural-looking smile I can muster. 'I appreciate it. I'll see you later, Geena.'

Passport in hand, I slam the front door behind me, and come to a sudden  halt. Rising to his feet like a Titan, I'm greeted by Spencer.

'I'm going for a walk. I suppose you'll be accompanying me?'

'Of course.'

He follows me into the lift, out of the lift, through the lobby and onto  the forecourt. I cross the road and begin to make my way down the south  embankment. Picking up the pace past Lambeth Palace, I'm half running  as I take the walkway under Westminster Bridge, threading a path through  the crowds at the aquarium and the Eye. By the time I get to the  Jubilee Gardens, I slow down again, checking to see if my bodyguard's  still behind me  …  and of course he is. After all, he's an unstoppable  machine. When I finally come to Gabriel's Wharf, I pause, leaning  against the wall and taking in the view across the Thames.

And then I feel my mobile vibrate. Taking it out, I'm greeted by yet another message from Dan.

Nice walk? Xxxx

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Thrusting the mobile back into  my pocket, I beckon the Terminator to join me. It's a foregone  conclusion that he's been texting Dan, and I'm going to make sure it  doesn't happen again.

'Can I use your phone?' I ask. 'Mine's out of battery.'

His mouth opens.

'It's just that I really need to make a call.'

He eyes me suspiciously, before fishing out a mobile and handing it to me.

'This is nice,' I remark. 'Is it your own?'

'It's a work phone.'

'And it's the phone you're using to contact Mr Foster?'

Guilt sweeps across his face. Ah ha! Gotcha! In a flash, I reach out and drop the phone into the river.

'What the  … '

'Whoops.' I smile. 'Butter fingers. Sorry about that. I'll make sure Mr Foster reimburses the company.'