You Don't Know Me

by Mandy Lee

  You Don’t Know Me

  Mandy Lee.

  Copyright

  Copyright © Mandy Lee 2015 - You Don’t Know Me.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

  You Don’t Know Me

  Maya Scotton, a young artist with a severe case of painter’s block, is in need of money. When she takes on an office job at a construction company, she finds herself firmly in the sights of the owner, Daniel Foster - a dangerously attractive man with a dark past and particular tastes in bed.

  Although she tries to resist him, Maya soon finds herself embroiled in a steamy relationship with Dan. And while he slowly encourages her to paint again, she begins to peel back his layers. At last, when she believes that she's finally come to understand his ways, he has one final secret to reveal … and it's a secret that threatens to blow them apart.

  You Don’t Know Me, an erotic romance, is the first book in a trilogy. Book Two will be published in February 2016.

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks to Jackie Bates for her wonderful editing skills, and to Sue Hart for her Beta reading.

  Thanks also to Julie, my biggest fan!

  Last, but by no means least, thanks to my wonderful daughter for putting up with my writing obsession. I love you!

  Chapter One

  The Northern Line tube is crammed this morning, filled to the brim with humanity: hot sweaty bodies in a hot sweaty space. And even though my best friend is currently sitting right next to me, dishing out half-hearted moral support in between flicking through the pages of Heat magazine, so far none of it seems to have made a difference. Anxiety is creeping through my body like a poison.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Lucy glances at me.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I lie.

  ‘The first day’s always the worst.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, you look good, Maya.’

  She smiles weakly, knowing full well that I totally disagree. I take a look down at my legs and decide that I can see far too much of them.

  ‘This isn’t me,’ I mutter.

  ‘It’s not about being you. You can’t wear jeans and a tatty T-shirt for this type of thing. You’ve got to be professional.’

  While she goes back to pretending to read an interview with some C-list celebrity, I busy myself with wondering how I’ve managed to end up like this.

  ‘How is this professional?’ I groan, pulling at my blouse which is actually Lucy’s blouse. I borrowed it first thing this morning when I realised that my own wardrobe had coughed out anything remotely suitable years ago. ‘People are staring at me.’

  She glances back up. Her eyes widen. ‘They’re staring at you because you look stunning.’

  Stunning? How can I possibly look stunning? ‘They’re staring at me because I look like a tart.’

  I shift about in my seat and peer along the tube carriage. Yes, they are staring at me. There’s no doubt about it. For a start, there’s a teenage boy sitting three seats down who doesn’t know what to do with his tongue. And then there’s the old man at the opposite side of the carriage who seems to have come over all hot and bothered. And that’s not to mention the pervert in the seat to my right who smells of crisps and keeps rubbing his leg against mine. I’m being stared at, good and proper, and I know exactly why. It’s because my skirt, if you can call it a skirt, is far too short. It barely covers my legs and finishes off precariously close to my knickers.

  ‘If I bend over in this,’ I grumble under my breath, ‘someone’s going to try and park a bicycle up my backside.’

  ‘Don’t be such a prude. You look much better in it than I do. You’ve got great legs. You should show them off a bit more. And you’ve got great boobs too, Maya.’

  I gaze down at the blouse, a white chiffon number with a plunging neckline. It’s a hot June day and I’ve not bothered with a jacket … but I should have done. While Lucy’s exactly the same size as me from the waist downwards, from the waist upwards, she’s at least three cup sizes smaller and my boobs are ready to explode out of the bloody thing.

  ‘I need a bigger blouse.’

  ‘Trust me, you don’t. You’re oozing sex appeal in that one.’

  I suck in a deep breath, silently willing myself not to grab her celebrity magazine and screw it up into a ball.

  ‘Why would I want to ooze sex appeal, Luce?’

  ‘You never know.’ She turns a page. ‘There might be some sexy beast of a rich businessman on the prowl.’

  ‘I don’t need a man in my life.’

  ‘That’s what you say now,’ she laughs, turning to an article about cystitis. ‘But eventually it’s going to happen.’

  Is it, now? Well, not any time soon. I’ve only just shaken off the after effects of the last one, and I’m not about to wade into that particular minefield again. It’s been an entire year now since Tom smashed my world into pieces, taking off with another woman and leaving me in the debris.

  ‘This isn’t a hunting trip,’ I groan. ‘I’m not out to bag a man. This is a job, to earn money so I can pay my way. I’m doing what I need to do ...’

  ‘When you should be doing what you want to do,’ she interrupts.

  I let that one go. I’m heartily sick of all the little reminders to get my life back on track, and I certainly don’t need them today of all days, when I’m starting a new job and I’m dressed like a hussy and I’m wedged in next to a pervert on the tube. I curse myself for avoiding a shopping trip over the weekend, leaving myself desperate for an outfit first thing this morning.

  ‘Calm down,’ she mumbles, flicking over to the horoscopes. ‘You’ll be there soon.’

  I shake my head, but she doesn’t notice. She’s poring over Pisces.

  The old man in the opposite seat has gone now. I can see my reflection in the dark glass, broken up every now and then by the flash of a light. A lock of thick, blonde hair has come loose from its up-do, and oh God, the make-up. I’d forgotten about that. I’m wearing way too much of the bloody stuff. Industrial quantities of it. I’ve been sponged and brushed to within an inch of my life. My eyes have been smothered with kohl and mascara. Apparently, it’s the smoky eyed look, but I’m not too sure. I look like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. If the house-mate hadn’t taken it on herself to give me a make-over first thing this morning, then I wouldn’t be looking like a cross between a tangerine and a clown right now. She’s good at plenty of things, Lucy, such as managing an art gallery and navigating her way around the London Underground, but she’s certainly useless when it comes to make-overs. I’ll swing by a shop when I get off the tube and source a packet of wipes.

  The train begins to slow, scratching and screeching its way to a halt. Lucy thrusts the magazine into her handbag and I make a move only to find that I’m held back by her hand.

  ‘Not yet.’ She shakes her head. ‘This is my stop. Tottenham Court Road. You take it on to Waterloo, remember? Jesus, you only went down there last Friday.’

  ‘I can’t help it if I’m crap on the tube. Which line was it?’

  ‘Jubilee,’ Lucy sighs. ‘The grey one. You take it to London Bridge. It’s the second stop and you’re off. And then,’ she grins, pushing herself up from her seat, ‘you go and find yourself some top totty.’ The train jolts and she glances up. ‘I’ve got a bastard of a day.’ She grabs hold of a hand rail and
wobbles precariously. ‘It’s the exhibition soon. Are you still coming?’

  I rearrange my hair one more time. ‘Of course. See you later.’

  She cocks me a grin. ‘Come on, Maya. You can do it.’

  I nod uncertainly. I’ve been a bad tempered bitch all morning, and suddenly I’m regretting it. I may look like a hooker, but Lucy’s done her best. ‘Get some wine on the way home,’ I call after her. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need it.’

  Chapter Two

  I stumble out into the early morning sunlight and stand in a daze at the front of the station, desperately trying to get my bearings. I can just about find my way around North London on a good day, but south of the river might as well be another planet. I manage to get myself across a major road without being flattened, turning for a moment to take in the low-lying blackened bricks of London Bridge station, and behind it the Shard slicing its way up into the sky. And then I head for London Bridge itself. It’s not far and before I know it, I’m tottering down a set of steps and veering off to the right along the south embankment. Another couple of minutes and I reach my destination.

  The narrow walkway widens out and there it is, towering above my head, the central offices of Fosters Construction. I come to a halt, standing absolutely still, an island of inactivity in a flowing river of bodies, and I look up to count the storeys. Fifteen of them in all, fifteen floors of dark glass, glaring out across the Thames. My body gives a quick shudder. I’m about to start a job with the largest construction company in the country: a money-making machine with no heart and no soul. It goes against everything I’ve ever believed in, everything I’ve ever loved. But it’s a job, I remind myself. And I need the money.

  Ahead of me, a set of revolving doors is busy swallowing up its morning quota of workers, and I know that in the next minute or so I need to join them. Everyone looks so smart, so efficient, so completely and utterly professional, and I’m going to stand out like the sorest thumb in history. Willing just about every part of me to keep it together, I throw myself into the tide of bodies, pushing my way through the revolving doors and into the lobby.

  Immediately, I find myself at the centre of a huge atrium that’s filled with plush leather chairs and coffee tables and pot plants. I’ve been here once before, of course, last Friday when I was whisked off to a quiet room, interviewed by Mrs Kavanagh and offered a job in the Finance department. But I’m still overwhelmed by it all. Snapping myself out of my reverie, I make my way over to the reception desk where two perfectly turned out women, one blonde and one brunette, are currently talking to visitors. I stand there for a moment or two, clutching at the handles of my handbag and waiting to be noticed. At last, the blonde receptionist glances up at me. She looks me up and down, taking in my too-short skirt and my too-tight blouse, and then she homes in on my face. I’m just glad I found a chemists at Waterloo. A few minutes in the ladies’ toilet and I’d removed every trace of Lucy’s make-over.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Hi, my name’s Maya Scotton.’

  The receptionist stares at me blankly and I feel immediately inferior. She looks like she’s just stepped off the cover of a magazine: perfect hair-do, perfect outfit, perfect make-up. Nothing at all like me.

  ‘I’m new here,’ I help her out. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting Mrs Kavanagh at nine.’

  The receptionist checks her computer monitor. ‘It’s only ten to.’

  ‘I know. I’m early.’

  ‘Well,’ she sighs, ‘while you’re waiting, you’d better fill out the form.’

  She thrusts a sheet of paper at me, attached to a clipboard. A pen follows suit, skimming its way across the marble counter. I study the form. The logo of Fosters Construction is plastered across the top, and beneath that, I find spaces for all the information they need from a new employee: National Insurance number, date of birth, bank details, address, phone numbers. I shuffle to one side, pick up the pen and begin the task. I’m busy trying to remember my National Insurance number when I hear a murmur.

  ‘Oh Lord.’

  I glance back up at the blonde receptionist to find that her attention has wandered. She’s fixated on something behind me now, mouth open, eyes wide, as if she’s just seen the most incredibly delicious cream cake in the world and she’s determined to take a bite. The brunette is suddenly by her side.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, turning from one to the other.

  They ignore me and continue to stare.

  ‘Oh God, I’ll never get tired of looking at that,’ the brunette whispers.

  ‘Me neither,’ the blonde bombshell agrees.

  ‘At what?’

  I turn, just in time to catch the back of a tailored black suit disappearing into a lift. Whoever he is, he’s certainly got an incredible physique. He’s tall, broad shouldered with neat, lean hips. I wait for him to swivel round, but he doesn’t. Instead, he simply turns his head to one side, reaches out and hits a button with his left hand. I get the briefest of peeks at his profile but from this distance nothing’s clear. The lift doors slide to a close.

  ‘Who is he?’ I enquire.

  ‘A sex god,’ the brunette breathes.

  ‘And a womaniser,’ the blonde frowns. ‘And if you think he looks good from behind, you should cop a load of him from the front.’

  ‘And then leave it at that,’ the brunette adds quickly. ‘Besides, he never mixes business with pleasure.’

  I’d like to probe them further on the womanising sex god, but I don’t get a chance. A new voice cuts across the conversation.

  ‘Maya.’

  I turn quickly to find myself presented with Mrs Kavanagh.

  ‘Good to see you again.’ She shakes my hand. ‘Have you filled in the form?’

  ‘I have.’ I take the sheet from the desk and thrust it towards her.

  ‘Excellent. Well, let’s get you settled in then.’

  I nod mutely, glance back at the receptionists who’ve only just about managed to gather their senses, and follow Mrs Kavanagh into a lift. Standing by her side, I watch as she punches the button for the fourteenth floor. The doors close and the lift begins to move.

  ‘Well, Maya,’ Mrs Kavanagh smiles at last. ‘There’s been a slight change of plan.’ She clasps her hands together, watching as the floor numbers flash above our heads. ‘As you know, we were intending to place you in Finance. However, an opening has come up in Personnel. It’s all a bit last minute and Mr Foster wants the position filled today. It’s the same sort of work we discussed. If you’re okay with all of this, then I’ll get your contract amended.’

  ‘I’m okay with it.’

  ‘Good. You’ll be based in a rather specialised section of the department. You might find it a little strange for a start, but I’d just go with it if I were you.’

  I nod. The lift comes to a halt.

  ‘And one more thing,’ she adds as the doors open. ‘You might want to bring in a good book.’

  ‘A good book?’

  ‘All will become clear.’

  We make our way out of the lift and down a corridor and so far it’s pretty much what I expected. Offices to the left and the right, filled with people in suits speaking on phones, or gathering around desks, or staring at documents.

  ‘Here we are.’

  She pushes open a glass door. It gives way into a small office that seems to be fairly cramped, even though there’s hardly anything in it: two desks, complete with computers and telephones; a filing cabinet in one corner; in another corner, a glass table that’s littered with a kettle and a selection of mugs; and beneath the table top, a fridge. There are no pictures on the cream coloured walls. There’s nothing but a large window that gives out over a neighbouring office block.

  ‘This is Jodie.’ Mrs Kavanagh waves a hand at a pink-clad teenager who’s currently lounging at the desk nearest to the fridge. ‘And this is your desk. And I’m afraid this is as far as I can go. Jodie will tell you more. I’ll check in on you later in the
week. I’m just down the corridor if you need me.’ And with that, she’s gone.

  I stand next to my desk, glance down at the computer monitor, the keyboard and the wireless mouse, and then back at Jodie. Yes, she really is a teenager. She can’t be any more than seventeen. She must be here on an apprenticeship in office administration. With her blonde hair bunched up on top of her head, she’s dressed in a pink T-shirt, pink shorts and pink Converse. Chewing frantically on a mouthful of gum, she stares up at me.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asks, deadpan.

  ‘Tea? Yes please.’

  ‘Well, the kettle’s there.’

  Realising that I’m being invited to make my own tea, I drop my handbag on the floor and sidle over to the glass table.

  ‘Do you want one?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah. Loads of milk. Three sugars. The milk’s in the fridge.’

  I nod, pick up the kettle and ascertain that there’s enough water before I switch it on and listen as it gurgles its way towards the boil. Finally, I reach down and grab the milk from the fridge, noting that alongside the single carton of UHT semi-skimmed, there are several bottles of water and a selection of chocolate bars. The staple diet of a teenager: they must be Jodie’s. At last, when the kettle’s finally boiled, I pour out our drinks, place Jodie’s tea in front of her, just next to a biro and a Sudoku book, and settle myself in behind my own desk. Ploughing through the seemingly endless minutes of silence, I take a few sips of my tea. At last, I can’t take any more.

  ‘Jodie?’

  Her head turns. ‘Yes, Maya?’

  ‘Should I be doing anything?’

  ‘Doing anything?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, I’ve been employed as a secretary, and I really should be doing something. And I’d like to do something but I really don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Well,’ Jodie sighs, finishing off her own mug of tea and slamming it down onto her Sudoku book. ‘Norman’s the boss and he can tell you what to do, but he’s not here yet.’