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

by Mandy Lee

  She’s lost in fuddled thought now and clearly her brain can’t quite keep up with her mouth. I help her out.

  ‘A prostitute?’

  ‘A prostitute? She’s not a prostitute, is she, Beefy?’

  In unison, we look to my bodyguard for an answer, but he’s on his mobile now, tapping out a message. I have no time to ask him if he’s texting Mr Foster because as soon as I open my mouth, Tatiana reappears, pushing a rack stuffed with skirts and blouses. As each garment is presented to me, I sigh deeply, reaching out to feel the material, as I’m sure you’re supposed to. And then I shrug my shoulders, apologetically, and quaff more champagne.

  ‘All of them,’ Lucy exclaims. ‘She’ll take all of them. Now, show us some big dresses!’

  ‘Big dresses?’ Tatiana asks.

  ‘You know, the ones that go all the way down your legs,’ Lucy explains as best as she can. ‘The ones you wear at night when you go to posh places. She’s going to a posh place on Friday and she needs a big dress.’

  ‘Evening wear.’ Tatiana sounds quite world-weary.

  Taking the rail of skirts and blouses with her, she disappears for a few minutes, during which time I close my eyes. I’d like nothing more than a quick nap. I’m nearly there when the rattle of tiny wheels stirs me. Forcing my eyelids open, I’m confronted by a selection of evening dresses in a range of colours.

  ‘Can you just find me a black one,’ I yawn. ‘That’s all I need. A long, black dress with a slit down the side.’

  ‘A slit?’ Lucy demands. ‘Why does it need a slit?’

  ‘Because …’ I hiccough, and then I let out a belch. Jesus, this fizzy stuff has filled me with wind. ‘Because he wants to poke his finger in it.’ While I waggle a finger about in the air, vaguely aware that Tatiana’s bottom lip has taken a dive, I suddenly realise that my filter’s malfunctioned. I really shouldn’t have said that, but my mouth’s pushing on regardless. ‘And it needs a low, what do you call those things?’

  ‘Neckline?’ Tatiana suggests.

  I nod profusely. ‘Yes. One of those because he wants to see my boobies.’

  She gives me a thoroughly professional smile and disappears again. I’m about to help myself to another glass of champers when I hear a ping. Forgetting about the drink, I lean down, dig my mobile out of my handbag and open up a message from Dan.

  Stop being a difficult arse, Maya. Buy some dresses. X

  So, I was right after all. Shooting a scowl in Beefy’s general direction, I realise that I’m being spied on by Mr Control Freak … and I’m seriously not having that. I type in my response, stare at the kiss, and decide to take it off again before firing off my reply.

  I’ll buy what I like if you don’t mind.

  By the time the next text arrives, I’ve already downed another glass of champagne.

  Of course I don’t mind, as long as you buy some dresses. And where’s my kiss? X

  My mouth smiles and my brain complains. This whole buying-a-load-of-clothes process is bad enough. I just don’t need Dan wading into the picture. Without sending a reply, I sling the mobile back into my bag and decide that I should bring Lucy into the loop, only she’s not sitting next to me any more. In fact, she’s currently staggering around the room, swerving from side to side and pausing to admire a huge pot plant before she finally homes in on the rack of dresses. While Lucy begins to rifle her way through the selection of evening gowns, Tatiana returns, wielding a strapless number with a lace-up back and a slit down the side. My heart beat triples in pace. I know this dress. I’ve already taken a good look at it, and decided that eight thousand eight hundred pounds is a ridiculous price to pay.

  ‘Not that one. It’s too expensive.’

  ‘Actually, madam, this is quite reasonable. We have dresses that are far more expensive. Would you care to try it on?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It would be a good idea.’

  I shake my head again.

  ‘Do it,’ Lucy growls. ‘You’ve got to. It’s fun.’

  ‘Is it?’ I don’t know why, but suddenly she’s making me think of a bulldog on heat. Her eyes darken with determination. Maybe it’s time to placate her. ‘Fine. Okay.’ I stumble to my feet and follow Tatiana into the fitting room. In a drunken flurry, I take off my clothes and stand immobile in my underwear.

  ‘This would be best worn without a bra, madam.’ Tatiana gestures towards my chest.

  I take off my bra.

  ‘Arms up please.’

  I comply and immediately, I’m plunged into darkness. When I finally re-emerge from the top end of the gown, I steady myself against the mirror while Tatiana adjusts the fit and sets about lacing me in with sharp, vicious movements. When she’s finished, I can barely breathe.

  ‘There.’ She examines my reflection. ‘The perfect fit. You must show your friend.’

  Again, I simply obey.

  I’m staggering out of the changing room when I slam straight into a chest. My nerves suddenly on fire, I raise my line of vision from the grey waistcoat and the pink tie, up to that disgustingly wonderful face of his. Taking hold of my arms, Dan gazes back down at me.

  ‘Shit,’ I gasp. ‘You’re here.’

  ‘Shit.’ He frowns. ‘I am.’

  ‘And you’re pissed off.’

  ‘And you’re pissed.’

  ‘Pffff.’ I stagger slightly, half conscious that there’s a giggle erupting at the base of my wind pipe. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Good work, Lucy.’ He scowls at the wretched mess that’s now sprawled out across the sofa, watching the scene unfold before her. ‘You’ve managed this situation particularly well.’

  Suddenly, she looks cowed. Why does she look cowed? He’s not the boss of her.

  ‘We were just having fun,’ she pouts. ‘Maya can’t stand shopping.’

  ‘A fact that you should know.’ Releasing the giggle into the wild, I prod him in the chest. ‘Seeing as we live together and all that.’

  He loosens his grip.

  ‘I think you two should get married,’ Lucy announces loudly. ‘Don’t you think so, Tatiana?’

  Tatiana smiles coyly.

  ‘I wouldn’t marry him,’ I shout, prodding his chest one more time for good measure. The giggle mutates into a full-blown laugh, and it seems to go on forever. When I eventually get my act together, I glance around the room. Bar none, every single mouth seems to have dropped open … even Beefy’s.

  ‘Why not?’ Lucy demands.

  ‘I’m not going to marry a man who doesn’t even know I can’t stand shopping.’ I sway. The grip tightens again. ‘And more than that, he doesn’t even know what my … oh … what my favourite sandwidge is.’

  ‘Prawn salad.’ He wraps his arms around me.

  ‘And I’m not having loads of children,’ I splurt. ‘It’ll play havoc with my pel …’ I’m interrupted mid-flow by a hiccough. ‘Pelvic floor.’

  Oh dear, I really don’t think I should have said that. I mean, I’ve put two and two together, and come up with something completely mad here. I’m half expecting him to release me completely and make for the exit. Instead, his eyes seem to narrow and his lips curl up into a smile.

  ‘And what on Earth’s made you think about children, sweet pea?’ he asks, dipping his face towards mine.

  ‘Bedrooms,’ I grimace. ‘Redecorating bloody bedrooms. The pitter-patter of tiny … ooh … feet.’

  His eyes narrow some more. His lips part. He’s about to tell me I’m a complete idiot but he doesn’t get the chance. Lucy wades back into the whole sorry, drunken mess.

  ‘She should bloody marry him, shouldn’t she?’ she cries out. ‘I mean, he’s just called her sweet pea, and he’s gorgeous and rich and he ties her up and everything. And he’s got a big willy.’

  ‘I think that might be enough,’ he says quietly. ‘Has she chosen anything?’

  ‘No,’ Lucy replies. ‘But there’s a couple of rails of lovely stuff out there. Tats chose it.’

&nbs
p; He turns to Tatiana.

  ‘Then we’ll take it all. Charge it to my account, please, and have it delivered. Include the dress she’s wearing.’

  ‘And shoes,’ Lucy slurs, sliding her glass onto the coffee table. ‘Size five. A shed load of shoes. And knickers … and bras.’

  ‘And stockings and suspenders,’ Dan adds, his face inscrutable.

  ‘And handbags,’ Lucy slurs some more. ‘This woman needs handbags!’

  ‘Do what she says.’ And now he grimaces. ‘Beefy, would you be so kind as to escort Lucy home – if she can remember where she lives? And then get back to the apartment. I’ll deal with Maya.’

  Before I can complain, he guides me back into the fitting room. Positioning me in front of the mirror, he stands behind me, inspecting the lacework.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting you out of this.’

  ‘It’s got a slit.’

  ‘And you look wonderful in it.’ His arms slide around me, holding me tight against him. ‘Even if you are three sheets to the wind.’

  ‘We look like the people in those perfume adverts.’ I snigger.

  ‘Do we now?’

  ‘Are you angry with me?’

  His face breaks into a smile.

  ‘Of course I am.’ Releasing me from his embrace and taking a step backwards, he sets about undoing the laces, tugging at them every now and then, concentrating fully on the task in hand. ‘I give you carte blanche at Harrods and all you can do is get wazzocked and cause mayhem.’

  ‘I don’t like shopping.’

  ‘Trust me. I’m well aware of that now.’

  A wave of shame washes right through me.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you always this unreasonable when it’s your time of the month?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I’m just totally unreasonable when I’m forced to go shopping.’

  ‘A woman who doesn’t like shopping. I’ve landed on my feet.’ He tugs again.

  ‘How did you know I was being naughty?’ I already know the answer, but I’d quite like his confirmation, and he gives it to me.

  ‘I asked Beefy for an update.’ Another tug. ‘I had an idea this might happen.’

  ‘I don’t like you spying on me.’

  ‘I’m not spying. I’m making sure that you’re safe.’

  ‘You’re spying. You’re a control freak and you’re using the whole big bad Boyd thing as an excuse to have me followed and … er … spied on.’ He looks up, fixing me with an uber serious stare. If he’s trying to intimidate me, it’s not going to work. ‘I’m very sorry for being a naughty girl.’ I wiggle a finger in front of my eyes. I can barely focus on it. ‘I mean a naughty woman, because I’m a woman. But I don’t like being spied on. I value my freedom, Mr Foster. I don’t like being controlled … apart from in bed. That’s quite nice.’ I send him a huge grin. ‘Oh, and wherever else you decide to fuck me senseless.’

  I bite my lip, realising that I’ve just pressed the randy button. Something’s throbbing right between my thighs, and now my brain’s scrambled by lust as well as alcohol. Without taking his eyes away from mine, he tugs again, easing the top of the dress away from me.

  ‘Are you finished yet?’ he demands.

  ‘I think so.’

  Lowering the gown, he kneels and helps me out of it. I watch in the mirror as he stands again and lays the dress onto a chair. Slipping one hand around my stomach and the other across my chest, he cups my left breast and stares at me some more. With a zing of excitement, I feel his erection against my backside.

  ‘Are you going to fuck me?’

  ‘Here?’ He doesn’t move.

  I pout. I’m on fire at his touch and I need some action, but all I get is the shake of a head.

  ‘Oh,’ I whinge. ‘Why not? I feel horny.’

  He moves his left hand from my stomach, down between my legs and presses against my clit.

  ‘I’m sure you do. But I’m not going to take advantage of it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be taking advan … advanchidge.’

  ‘I’m not about to fuck a woman who’s so pissed she can’t even get her words out straight. Besides, you’re on your period. I’m going to take you home. You can sleep it off.’

  Releasing me, he bends down to retrieve my T-shirt from the floor. Turning me round to face him, he pulls it over my head, guiding my arms through the sleeves.

  ‘Are you going to punish me for this?’

  ‘We don’t do punishment any more, sweet pea.’ He bends down again, stuffing my bra into his jacket pocket and rescuing my combats. ‘You don’t like it.’

  ‘Ppphhh … I might like it.’

  ‘Really?’ He kneels in front of me. While I hold onto his shoulders, he helps my feet into the trousers.

  ‘I like spanking. I mean, the first time was a bit of a shock, but I do like it, and I want you to do it some more, especially on that spanking bench thing.’

  ‘That can be arranged.’

  While he draws up the combats, I sense a fluttering, a clenching of muscles deep inside.

  ‘And you can do that thing when you bite my nipples.’

  ‘You like that, don’t you?’ He gets to his feet and fastens the buttons.

  ‘Yes,’ I grin. I know I’m going too far, but the champagne’s talking now and it really has no idea where to stop. ‘I want you to do it again … but harder. And I want you to use those nipple things.’ Suddenly, I seem to be tapping my index fingers and thumbs together in front of my face. I take in a deep breath, and I really don’t know where the next words come from, but I’m pretty sure it’s got something to do with a dodgy search on the internet. ‘And maybe you should whip me. I think I want to know what it’s like. And I want you to be all cold and hard with me, like you were with Claudine. I want you to demean me.’

  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 tex
t.

  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.