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

by Mandy Lee

  True Colours

  Mandy Lee.

  Copyright

  Copyright © Mandy Lee 2016 – True Colours.

  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.

  True Colours

  Reeling from the shock of discovering Dan’s true identity, Maya struggles to make the right decision. But she’s incapable of resisting the man she loves, and soon finds herself drawn back into his world - a world of intensely sexual passion.

  While his love and support help her to confront her fears and blossom as an artist, what she needs more than anything is the ability to trust. Determined to discover the truth and build a future with Dan, she makes it her mission to find out what transformed him into the man he is now.

  However, the shadows of the past won’t leave them alone. And when those shadows converge, the consequences are far more dangerous than anyone could have predicted.

  True Colours, an erotic romance, is the second book in the You Don’t Know Me Trilogy.

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks to Jackie Bates for her wonderful editing skills, and to my Beta readers.

  I'd like to dedicate this book to my sister, Sarah, who's never been vile to me in her entire life!

  Chapter One

  Southwark is darkening. Clouds thicken. The waters of the Thames deepen in colour: charcoal grey, indigo, raw umber, olive green, black. Definition disappears from the cathedral, the Shard, the office blocks. Consumed by the storm, the buildings are barely recognisable now, and I’m spellbound by the colours, the shapes, the light and the shadows. Caught in a trance, I’m not thinking, just painting.

  For the first time in hours, I stand back from the canvas and take it all in: the stormy skies, the snarling mass of water, and there, right in the middle of it all, fifteen storeys of darkened glass reflecting the seething weather: the headquarters of Fosters Construction. Exhausted, I slump onto the end of the bed, sitting perfectly still, clutching the paintbrush, and survey the end result. It’s not my usual style; no simple landscape. Instead, this is a landscape of pure emotion. Perhaps I should send it to him as a gift, a message. This is what you’ve done to me with your secrets and lies, Mr Foster. You see, if there’s one thing I don’t put up with, it’s deception. I don’t stomach it and I don’t tolerate it. I simply defend myself against it. Lowering my head, I tear my gaze away from the scene and I feel it again: an ache deep in my chest. It’s been with me all night and no matter what I do, no matter how I distract myself, it just won’t go away.

  ‘Hey.’

  I turn and find Lucy in the doorway.

  ‘How are you this morning?’

  If she wants an honest answer to that, she doesn’t have to look far. It’s right in front of her, propped up on the easel.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Oh, come off it.’

  Irritation snaps into life.

  ‘What do you want to hear?’ I demand, as if there’s any need to ask. I know exactly what Lucy wants to hear. She wants me to break down in front of her, to sob, release the anger and admit that I’ve made the wrong decision. Well, she’s getting none of that, because I’m a fortress. Unbreakable.

  ‘You haven’t said anything,’ she forges on, apparently oblivious to my resolve. ‘You haven’t cried. It’s not normal.’

  ‘It’s normal for me.’

  ‘It’s not healthy.’

  Dropping the paintbrush onto the palette, I run my fingers through my hair, remembering too late that my hands are smeared with oil paint.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Just after seven. You’ve been at it all night.’

  I flex my shoulders. My muscles seem to have stiffened. ‘And what time did we get back here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugs, and then inches her way into the room, carefully. ‘Ten o’clock, maybe. You’ve been painting ever since.’

  She inches further. Glancing uncertainly at me, and then at the picture, she comes to a halt. Her eyes widen, her lips part company, and I’m curious about what’s going on inside that brain of hers. Perhaps it’s shock. After all, I’ve never painted anything like this before.

  ‘I’m worried about you,’ she remarks absently.

  ‘Don’t be.’ I wipe my hands on my shorts. ‘I just needed to finish it.’

  ‘It’s different. Not your usual style.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘I …’ She falters. ‘It’s very … angry.’

  ‘I wonder why.’ I stand up. ‘You don’t like it then?’

  She sidles round the bed, positions herself in front of the easel and examines the canvas.

  ‘I do,’ she murmurs at last. ‘It’s … brilliant.’

  I glare at her, wondering if I should inform her that just because I’ve been shat on by a man, there’s really no need to mollycoddle me.

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Actually, I do. We should exhibit this at Slaters.’

  She waves a hand at the storm clouds and I shake my head. That’s a definite no-no. Seeing my work displayed in the gallery was certainly a buzz, only to be topped by discovering my painting had been sold, even when I found out that Dan was the buyer. I could get used to that kind of thrill, but not with this picture. This one is far too personal.

  ‘It’s not for sale.’

  I roll my head to one side and then the other, let out a huge yawn and stare at my paint-smothered hands. I really should clean up now and maybe try to get some sleep, but I already know that won’t be easy. Painting kept the thoughts at bay and now that I’ve finished, I know exactly what I’m in for: an onslaught of emotions. For the past nine hours, they’ve been lurking in the gloom, waiting to take their chance. It’s only a matter of time before they bring me to my knees.

  ‘I’m making breakfast,’ Lucy announces. ‘Clean up and join me. That’s an order.’

  Backing out of the room, she closes the door, leaving me alone with the shadows … and they’re already beginning to stir. Keep busy, I tell myself. Just keep busy and they won’t bother you. Stripping out of my shorts and T-shirt, I throw them into a corner, take myself off to the bathroom and fill the tub.

  As soon as I slip into the water, my muscles relax. Listening to the sound of raindrops against the window pane, I close my eyes. And then it begins. The shadows move and I’m ambushed by memories, sensations rather than images: the softness of his lips, the feel of his hands on my skin, his taste, his smell. Trying to drown it all out, I dunk my head under the water.

  ‘Shit,’ I grumble, coming back to the surface and reaching the conclusion that I’ve been an idiot. I’ve lowered my defences just long enough to let a man get to me, and I should never have done that because right from the word ‘go’, I always suspected he’d break my heart. I just never thought it would happen like this. Staring at the soap, I do my best to empty my brain, but now it seems intent on reminding me of yesterday: the time spent curled up in a ball on my parents’ bed, Lucy sitting by my side while the storm passed overhead; my refusal to move, even when the thunder had receded; the concerned voices finally coaxing me downstairs, out into Clive’s car; the silent journey home to Camden.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  This is no good. No good at all. Time for more action
. Once I’m out of the bath, I put on a fresh T-shirt, a pair of combats and examine myself in the mirror. God, I look awful, what with the bags under my eyes and the pallid skin and the hair that’s sticking out in all directions like a pile of straw. Tugging a brush through it, I curse my locks, deciding that a visit to the hairdressers is well overdue. And then I remember that I’m practically broke. Okay, so there’ll be a payout for my stint at Fosters, but three weeks as a sort-of-secretary doesn’t amount to much. And then there’s the money for the painting of the woods: three thousand pounds which I’ll never accept. As soon as I get the cheque, I’ll rip it up … and he can keep the bloody picture.

  I’m about to put my hair into a pony tail when I falter. Quite inevitably, one thought has slammed into another. And now his words are nudging into my brain. It’s too important. One day you’ll understand: his explanation for why he couldn’t let the painting go to anyone else. So, was he always planning to tell me in his own time? Did events simply overtake him? I’m wavering now, and that’s not good. Fortress Scotton must stay intact. Keep those memories at bay, woman, because if you don’t, they’ll be breaking down the walls, brick by brick, and then you’ll be showing up on his doorstep filled to the brim with forgiveness and desperate for a good seeing to.

  Still gazing into the mirror, I catch sight of the necklace, a Tiffany one-off owned by his mother. I touch it, sensing that ache again. My brain’s saying one thing, my body another, but I need to listen to my brain. Logic tells me to cut and run because the man I fell in love with was nothing but an illusion. He’s deceived me once, and he’ll do it again. Reaching up, I unclasp the necklace and pull it away, slowly, carefully, reminding myself that it’s a priceless work of art. Holding it in my palm, I set about searching for something to hide it away in. I open a drawer in the dressing table, choose an old earring box, empty out the earrings and store the necklace safely inside. I’ll hand it over to Clive. And he can deliver it back to Dan.

  With a renewed sense of resolve and a building headache, I make my way to the kitchen and find Lucy sitting at the rickety table, gazing at a huge plateful of toast.

  ‘I’ve made this for both of us. You need to eat.’

  ‘I’m not hungry. I’ll just have tea.’

  She picks up a slice of toast, takes a bite and chews thoughtfully.

  ‘Clivey’s coming over later.’

  Wonderful. That’s all I need.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to him.’

  ‘You don’t have to. He wants to take me out, and he’s bringing your handbag back.’

  I gaze around the kitchen, stunned that I haven’t noticed before, but strangely enough, my handbag and all its contents have been the last thing on my mind.

  ‘You left it in Dan’s car yesterday.’

  At the mention of his name, my mouth dries up and my heartbeat doubles in pace.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s got your mobile in it. Your mum’s been trying to contact you all morning. I texted her, told her not to worry. Do you want to call her from my phone?’

  ‘Not right now. She’ll only tell me to get back on my bike.’

  ‘Good advice.’

  ‘Did Clive stay the night?’ I ask, opening a random cupboard for no apparent reason. I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for.

  ‘No. He stayed at Dan’s.’

  I pick up the kettle, decide there’s enough water, and flick it on.

  ‘He’s in pieces.’

  She’s staring at me now, as if I’m some sort of dangerous dog. Her eyebrows climb a little, then settle into a frown. Without taking her eyes off me, she dives in for another mouthful of toast.

  ‘Dan, that is.’ Watching me closely, she waits for a reaction, but I’m being tough this morning. I’m giving her nothing.

  ‘Aren’t you bothered?’ she asks.

  I don’t answer because I can’t. Right now, I’m sleep-deprived and nothing sensible is going to come out of my mouth. The contents of my head are like the contents of my drawers: everything slung in together, with no rhyme and definitely no reason. Instead, I simply shrug.

  ‘Maya, say something.’

  I shrug again. Turning away, I grip the worktop and look down at a gathering of dirty mugs in the sink.

  ‘You should talk about it,’ she insists.

  ‘No I shouldn’t.’

  Silence lingers in the room, broken only by the clinking of mugs as I remove them from the bowl and lay them out on the counter top. Turning on the tap, I squeeze too much washing up liquid into the mix and wonder what the hell I’m doing.

  ‘It might help,’ Lucy says at last, her voice barely making an imprint on the sound of running water.

  I send her a look of death. She’s doing exactly the wrong thing here, blundering into all the wrong places, pressing all the wrong buttons, and now I’m beginning to seethe.

  ‘How can it help?’ I demand. ‘Can it change the facts?’

  ‘No. But …’

  Jesus, she’s not giving up, is she? Seriously, the woman must have a death wish. After all these years, she should know by now that you never, ever push it with a sleep-deprived Maya Scotton.

  ‘But what, Lucy?’ I snarl. ‘These are the facts. He grew up on the same road as me, walked the same streets, went to the same school. He knew my sister and he never mentioned any of this, not once.’

  For a second or two, Lucy seems to shrivel under the weight of my vitriol, but she recovers quickly.

  ‘Is that any surprise, considering what Sara did to him?’

  ‘Are you on his side now? You’re supposed to be my friend.’

  ‘I am your friend.’ She grimaces. ‘Although at the minute, I’m not entirely sure why. And there are no sides. I’m trying to make you see sense.’

  ‘I am seeing sense.’

  ‘You’re seeing red.’

  We exchange glares: long, evil, bitch-slapping glares.

  ‘He deceived me. He let me believe he was someone else. And worse than that, the only reason he ever wanted to meet me in the first place was because of my sister.’

  ‘It didn’t last.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off.’

  ‘Bubbles.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bubbles.’

  She motions towards the sink. I look back to find the bowl overflowing, a mountain of soap suds rising upwards and outwards, almost level with my chest.

  ‘Shit.’ I scrabble to turn off the tap, and survey the suds. I’m useless. I can’t even wash the pots without some sort of foam disaster. Whatever made me think a relationship could go smoothly? Opening the window, I scoop up a handful of bubbles and waft them outside.

  ‘You know what you’re doing, don’t you?’ Lucy asks.

  ‘Throwing fucking soap bubbles out of the fucking window.’ I gather another mound.

  ‘No. You’re doing what you always do. You’re blocking it all out.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I blow the suds into the rain. I’m about to dig in for a third handful when I feel a touch against my arm.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Drawing me away from the sink, she gently encourages me to take a seat.

  ‘You need tea. Tea makes everything better. And then you need sleep.’

  In a grump, I watch as Lucy sets about washing the mugs and making tea.

  ‘Denial isn’t a good thing.’ Placing two mugs on the table, she lowers herself onto a chair. ‘You need to work things through, talk about them, get them out of your system. If you don’t, you’ll only end up with constipation.’

  I let out a sigh.

  ‘Emotional constipation,’ she explains seriously.

  Oh great, she’s about to give me a dose of magazine psychobabble.

  ‘You did exactly the same thing with Boyd. You never talked about him.’

  I take a sip of tea, wondering why on Earth she’s bringing that up now. Just thinking about that man brings up the bile in my throat, never mind talking about him. Putting my mug down, I
close my eyes, fighting off the flashbacks to the basement at Slaters: the breath stinking of alcohol, the lecherous eyes, the hands on me, the mouth smothering mine.

  ‘And Tom.’

  I bristle.

  ‘He dumped me. That’s it. Neither of them deserve to be talked about.’

  ‘Right. So Boyd abuses you and you deal with it by running straight into Tom’s arms, convinced that he’s going to make everything alright, only Tom doesn’t make it all alright at all. He dumps you. And how do you deal with that? By shagging anything with a pulse.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘And how did all that work for you then?’

  ‘Just fine.’

  ‘Really?’ Her face rumples with disbelief. ‘And then you find this one amazing man, the most amazing man you’re ever likely to meet in your entire life, a man who falls for you hook, line and sinker.’ She pauses, and I know that she’s about to deliver her punchline. ‘And then you run at the first hurdle.’

  I’d like to remind my flatmate that this isn’t exactly the first hurdle. In fact, according to my fuddled calculations, it’s probably about the third.

  ‘And why is that?’ Lucy demands, pointing a finger at me. ‘I’ll tell you,’ she goes on before I can even register the question. ‘It’s because you’re screwed up, that’s why. Because you never deal with anything. You just run away and hide.’

  I stare out of the window. Lucy’s words scratch at the outside of my skull, begging to be let in, pleading to be acknowledged, but I’m having none of it.

  ‘You’re emotionally constipated, Maya. You never talk about the things that really matter.’

  ‘That’s my decision, and it would be great if my best friend could honour it.’

  ‘You’re making a huge mistake.’

  I glance at the doorway. Perhaps I should just slink off back to my bedroom, simply close the door on the rest of the day. And perhaps I should do it quickly because I can hear Lucy breathing now, big deep breaths, in and out, and I know she’s building up to something else.

  ‘Clive says he’s in love with you.’