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

by Mandy Lee

  My mouth dries up.

  ‘I was in a public place. I was fine.’

  ‘Get real. Whatever you think of me right now, I’m taking you away for a few days. To keep you safe. Even if he finds out where we’ve gone, there’s no way he can get into Bermuda without me knowing.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. And while we’re there, I’ll have him tracked down.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Frightened off.’ Releasing my chin, he stands up. ‘Now get packing.’

  I falter, glancing at the empty suitcase.

  ‘I can’t go.’

  He freezes. His shoulders tense.

  ‘You lied to me,’ I remind him.

  ‘I’ll explain. On the plane.’

  ‘I should walk out on you …’

  ‘And you wouldn’t get very far,’ he interrupts, kicking the empty suitcase towards me. ‘I’m not about to let you go.’

  We ride to the airport in silence. While Dan busies himself on his iPad, I gaze out of the window, no longer impressed by the luxury of the Rolls, watching numbly as the lights of London give way to the suburbs, and finally the motorway. After an hour or so, we reach Gatwick, threading our way through a maze of lanes and drawing to a halt. I’m ushered out of the car, only to find myself standing on the tarmac, the hastily packed luggage on one side, a gleaming white jet on the other. While Dan talks to an official, handing over our passports, my heartbeat stalls and my throat constricts. And this is just the beginning, the opening bars of a symphony of panic. I have no idea how I’ve let it get this far, why I simply packed up my case like an obedient little woman and let him drag me out here, but it’s too late now. There’s a plane in front of me. A bloody plane. And my body’s telling me loud and clear that I’m not too happy about it. Still dressed in the black evening gown and chilled to the bone, I stand rooted to the spot, mesmerised by its sleekness.

  ‘A plane,’ I gasp.

  ‘Well spotted.’ Dan’s voice reaches me above the low growl of the engines. ‘Get on.’

  It starts to rain again, only a light drizzle but I’ll be soaked through in no time if I don’t move. And I don’t move. Because I can’t move. If I get on this thing, I’ll die. I know it. A clutching sensation kicks off in my stomach and my head begins to swirl. I watch as our luggage is carried on board, as Dan shakes hands with the driver and the Rolls-Royce glides away into the night, taking with it my only practical escape route. I’m still debating the sense of making an impractical escape, scarpering off across the runway, when I feel a hand close around mine.

  ‘I can’t get on. It’s a tin can with wings.’

  ‘We need to get going.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

  My hand’s released and within the blink of an eye, I’m upside down in a fireman’s lift, being hauled up the steps. I’d scream but my vocal chords seem to have malfunctioned.

  ‘Keep your head down.’

  Grabbing hold of his back, clamping my eyelids shut and digging my nails in for dear life, I do as I’m told. I’m on the verge of hyperventilating when I’m lowered into a leather seat. I sense a movement in front of me, the tightening of straps as I’m fastened in for take-off. Suddenly, I seem to have turned to stone.

  I hear a woman’s voice.

  ‘Is she alright?’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Dan answers. ‘Just tell the pilot to take off before she comes to her senses, and bring us some wine once we’re in the air.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I hear the roar of engines and grip leather, refusing to open my eyes. This isn’t happening, I tell myself. This really isn’t happening. But it is. In fact, we’re moving now. As the G-force kicks in, I clench just about everything I can. Shit. We’re taking off. We’re actually taking off. Swimming through the chaos in my brain, I find the only sensible thing I can to cling to: I’m in the woods, back in Limmingham, and that’s the distant rumble of the sea. Relax. Relax. Relax.

  ‘Maya.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Open your eyes.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘We’re in the air. You can’t spend the next six hours like this.’

  And yes, I suppose he’s got a point. Gradually willing my eyes to open, I take in the curve of the fuselage, the bright lighting, a mahogany table in front of me. I’m in a black leather seat, and Dan’s right next to me. He reaches out and takes my hand. Prising it away from the arm rest, he closes his fingers around mine.

  ‘You did it.’

  ‘I did it,’ I whimper.

  His smile sends a quiver of warmth right through me. I’m pretty sure that’s pride in his eyes.

  ‘Planes,’ I groan. ‘Big scary things.’

  ‘Not this one. This is a little scary thing. Only it’s not scary.’ He speaks quietly, slowly, as if he’s reassuring a child. ‘And you’re not going to die.’

  A super slim, uniformed woman appears from behind a partition. She slips a Kindle onto the table in front of me.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Something to keep you occupied.’ He reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear. ‘I had Carla send it over. I’m sorry for man-handling you.’

  The attendant re-appears with a tray, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. With the utmost elegance, she places the glasses down and half fills them.

  ‘Can I get you anything to eat?’ she asks.

  Dan shakes his head, downs the wine in one go and refills his glass.

  ‘Madam?’

  Looking up, I realise that she’s speaking to me.

  ‘No thanks. Just more of this stuff.’

  With shaking hands, I take a gulp of my own wine. My brain seems to have jolted itself back into life, reminding me that the time has come for Dan to spill the beans. I wait until the attendant disappears into her corner.

  ‘Get on with it then,’ I begin. ‘I got on this bloody thing, and now you can deliver your part of the deal. Explain yourself. Every last detail.’

  He takes another mouthful of wine and looks at me, full on, his blue irises shimmering in the low lighting. The copper flecks seem to dance.

  ‘You promised,’ I remind him.

  He stares at me, wordless. Is he clamming up? Well, I’m not having that.

  ‘Come on. What’s her name?’

  ‘Antonietta,’ he whispers, his reply barely audible above the hum of the engines.

  ‘Antonietta Foster. It’s got a nice ring to it.’

  He shoots me a scowl.

  ‘Maya Foster sounds better.’

  ‘Drop it.’ I scowl right back at him. ‘Don’t even think about side-tracking me.’

  He leans his head back against the rest.

  ‘Okay.’ He takes a moment or two to ready himself, obviously sorting through the order of the details, the choice of words. ‘The woman in Rome.’

  ‘The one you lodged with?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a pretty strange definition of lodging.’

  He frowns. ‘Give me a break, Maya.’

  ‘I’ve already given you several.’

  ‘One more.’ He pleads. ‘Just let me explain.’ Turning away, he takes another mouthful of wine, puts down the glass and stares at it. ‘It was a bar in Rome, some upmarket place. That’s where I met her. She took me in and sobered me up. I was twenty-one, she was thirty-three. I lived with her for a year.’

  So far, so good. I already know this. What I’m waiting for now is the twist in the tale. He closes his eyes, as if he doesn’t want to acknowledge the next part.

  ‘As far as I was concerned, it was an arrangement, nothing more.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  I wait for his words to edge their way past the dull roar of the jet engine.

  ‘She fell in love with me.’

  At last, he makes eye contact.

  ‘And you fell for her?’

&n
bsp; He shakes his head.

  ‘I used her.’

  He notices my alarm.

  ‘I’ve told you, Maya. I’m not the man I used to be.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Boyd said.’

  ‘And I’m not Boyd.’

  He waits for a sign that I believe him, and I must have given it, maybe with a flicker of the eyes, because before long he’s talking again.

  ‘I didn’t want to come back to England. She gave me a roof over my head. I got to fuck the way I wanted to. No strings. It was perfect. But when she told me she loved me, I knew it was time to go.’

  ‘Did you ever tell her you loved her?’

  ‘No. Because I didn’t. There’s only one person I’ve ever said those words to.’ His blue eyes pierce me right to the soul. He picks up his glass and finishes off the wine. ‘I told her I didn’t feel the same way, I told her I was leaving … and then she told me she was pregnant.’

  My mouth opens. Gathering every last ounce of self-control, I close it again and wait for him to continue. I’m going to say nothing.

  ‘I couldn’t understand … We always used condoms.’ He chews at his bottom lip, his eyes distant now. Clearly, he’s flipping back through the memories. ‘I was on the verge of making a run for it … and then I had a visit.’ He looks directly at me now, a wry smile on his face. ‘Three men. They forced their way into the apartment one night and beat me up.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘And then they made it perfectly clear that if I didn’t do the right thing, I’d be dead. They said they’d follow me if I tried to run.’

  ‘Mafia?’ I gasp.

  He laughs quietly.

  ‘Nothing quite so dramatic. Just a few unsavoury family members. They probably wouldn’t have gone through with it, but I was young and scared and stupid, so I did the right thing.’ He shrugs. ‘I married her.’

  ‘And she had the baby?’ I stare at him. ‘Oh, my God, you’ve got a child?’

  ‘No.’ He grabs my hand and squeezes it. ‘A couple of weeks after we got married, she told me she’d lost it.’

  ‘Oh Jesus. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. She was never pregnant in the first place.’ He takes in a deep breath and holds up an index finger. ‘One friend. She had one friend with a conscience. They told me.’

  ‘So you left her? You divorced her?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘I didn’t dare leave. But I didn’t touch her either. I went nowhere near her. I didn’t even speak to her. I hated her, hated the sight of her …’

  ‘So what happened?’

  He pauses, takes in a deep breath and sighs it out.

  ‘You want me to tell you the truth? Well, here’s the truth. I was a bastard. I treated her like shit.’ He wavers. ‘And then she killed herself.’

  I stare at him, and he stares right back at me.

  At last, his lips part.

  ‘So, what do you think of me now?’

  I say nothing.

  He nods, clearly understanding that I need space to process this new information. For now, there’s nothing more to say. I sit in silence, watching as he leans forwards, moving the Kindle towards me and switching it on. Reading? He actually wants me to read at a time like this? I’m on the verge of telling him to piss off when I notice that he’s flicked to the front cover of a book. Leaving it in front of me, he sits back and waits.

  I pick up the Kindle and focus on the screen. Jane Eyre? Why has he done that?

  Isn’t it obvious, you dope, a voice cries out at the back of my head. The story of a man tricked into marriage, made miserable by deceit, searching for his one chance of redemption.

  ‘Read it again,’ he murmurs. ‘All the way through. And remember … it’s got a happy ending.’

  Chapter Twenty

  I only manage a chapter or two, but that’s hardly surprising: I can barely concentrate. Curling up in my seat, I try to sleep, but sleep’s impossible in a world that seems to be fraying at the edges. Instead, numbed by exhaustion and the evening’s revelations, I simply lower my eyelids, doing my best to ignore the fact that I’m whizzing across the Atlantic at thirty thousand feet, caught up in a limbo while the seconds, minutes and hours all merge into one. It’s only when my ears begin to pop that I’m jolted out of it, vaguely aware that the first signs of fear are stirring to life in my brain. I have no idea how long we’ve been in the air, but we must be coming in to land now.

  When I open my eyes, he’s watching me, concern ingrained into every square inch of his face. He reaches out, offering me comfort, but I don’t want any. I shake my head, grab hold of the arm rests and stare at the cockpit door for the duration. With every single drop in altitude, my stomach tumbles and my lungs flounder, but through it all, even when the engines decide to screech like a pair of deranged cats, I hold on tight, willing myself to stay absolutely still. After all, if I’m about to die, I’d rather do it with a scrap of dignity.

  ‘Well done,’ he whispers, when the jet finally comes to a halt.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper back, silently relieved that I still seem to have a pulse.

  Refusing his help, I unbuckle the seat belt and choose to make my own distinctly unsteady exit through the open door. It’s dark outside, but a wall of warmth hits me immediately and within seconds, I’m hot and sticky in the evening gown. Careful not to trip over it, I struggle down the steps and sink into the back of a car, waiting while Dan goes through the process of border control. Before long, he joins me, his tuxedo jacket crumpled on his knee. And with the luggage loaded, another silent car journey ensues. Trying to get my first taste of Bermuda, I spend the entire time peering out of the window, but it’s impossible to see anything. Apart from the occasional pin-prick of light, it’s a pitch black night.

  It doesn’t take long for us to reach our destination. A pair of wrought-iron gates swing open and we edge forwards onto a drive, coming to a halt in front of a bungalow. As soon as I get out of the air-conditioned car, the heat hits me again, and my ears are assaulted by a strange tinkling, singing sound.

  ‘Tree frogs,’ Dan explains, coming to my side. ‘They go on all night every night. You’ll get used to it.’ He turns to the driver. ‘It was good of you to pick us up. I haven’t got any dollars yet. I’ll have to tip you on the way back.’

  Dropping the suitcases by the front door, the driver joins us. An older man, ebony-skinned, maybe in his sixties.

  ‘No need, Danny boy.’ He grins. ‘You’re welcome.’

  Danny boy? I’m about to burst into a fit of over-tired laughter when I notice Dan tipping his head to one side, his eyes narrowing a little shortly before he breaks into a wide smile.

  ‘Charles?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘My God.’ He steps forwards, clasping the driver by the hand. ‘Why didn’t you say? I didn’t realise it was you. I’m just so tired. How are you?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘And Louis? Kathy?’

  ‘Louis’s married with two beautiful children.’ For the first time, I notice the curious lilt in Charles’ voice, his accent almost American … but not quite. ‘And you’ll see my good lady in the morning. She’s still working for Bill, just like me.’ His smile straightens. His voice lowers. ‘I was sorry to hear about your parents, Dan. They were good people.’

  ‘Yes, they were.’ He glances into the shadows before he remembers that he’s not alone. ‘And this is Maya.’

  He curls an arm around my waist and I wait for something more … but nothing comes.

  And perhaps that’s not so surprising. He looks as shattered as I feel. But more than that, he seems completely lost. Unable to cope, I’ve simply blanked him, and now the poor man must be convinced that he’s about to be dumped on the back of his confession. Out of nowhere, my heart swells, and suddenly I feel the need to let him know that all is not lost.

  Far from it.

  ‘I’m Dan’s girlfriend,’ I announce.

  Charles takes me by the hand.<
br />
  ‘Hey, that’s wonderful.’ He plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘Welcome to Bermuda, Maya. I hope you like it here.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’

  Still smiling, I turn to Dan. We gaze at each other for a few seconds. It’s long enough to reconnect. His eyes spark back to life.

  ‘Now, let’s get you settled in,’ Charles says, sliding a key into the lock and pushing open the door. ‘Maybe you can grab a few hours’ sleep.’

  As soon as we’re alone, Dan throws his tux onto a chair and buries his hands into his pockets, obviously waiting for the discussion to resume. But I’m too tired for big talk. It can wait until tomorrow.

  ‘You’ve been here before?’

  ‘A lot,’ he confirms. ‘Every summer. My parents were friends with Bill. We stayed here five years running.’

  I wander through the hallway into a huge open-plan living area. With a kitchen-diner at one end and a lounge at the other, it’s edged by French windows down one side and lit by a handful of lamps. In spite of the fact that it’s been modernised, it’s clearly an old building, infused with a colonial feeling: the ceilings are high; white shutters adorn the windows; and a dark wooden fireplace, intricately carved with leaves, dominates the room. But it’s furnished with a modern touch, everything solid and expensive. Before long, I find myself gazing at the art work on the walls, noting that in amongst a smattering of oils, there’s a small collection of watercolours: exotic flowers, gardens, houses – all Bermudian. I recognise the style. I’ve seen it before, back at the house in Surrey.

  ‘Your mother painted these?’

  I find him standing close by.

  ‘She did. She spent a lot of time painting here.’

  ‘And you? What did you get up to?’

  ‘I used to hang around with Charles and his son. Mostly we’d just swim, jump in off the rocks, that sort of thing.’

  I smile, trying to imagine a young, carefree Dan.