Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress (4 page)

‘So you want someone similarly experienced with textiles.’ Dared she mention Didi O’Flanagan’s considerably
less
experienced expertise?

He scrubbed his hands over his cheeks, a wholly masculine sound—the only sound in the quiet room apart from the thump of Didi’s heart galloping in nervous anticipation.

‘Right now I’d settle for anything, bar tomboy stitch or macramé.’

‘Hmm.’ She drew in a tentative breath. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll have something for you to look at by tonight.’

His hands paused on his jaw and Didi found those unnerving blueberry eyes focused on her. ‘You know someone?’ Spoken with barely concealed incredulity.

‘Yes.’
Surprising as that might seem to you. And just wait till you find out who.

‘Who?’ he demanded.

She shook her head. ‘No questions.’ Her mouth turned dry. Could she impress this guy enough to display her work? ‘You’re going to the office, right?’ A horrible thought occurred to her. ‘You
do
have an office somewhere, don’t you?’ Preferably a long way away.

‘I do.’ But as he lowered his hands to the table top she couldn’t help but note the inflexible set of his jaw and his eyes didn’t precisely brim with confidence.

‘Look, I know we didn’t exactly hit it off, and last night…well, all is forgiven if—’

‘
You’re
forgiving
me?
’ His brows rose. ‘By the way, how’s that cat this morning? More to the point,
where is
that cat this morning?’

Didi huffed out a breath, knowing she’d made a wrong turn somewhere. ‘Charlie’s fine, sleeping on my pyjamas last time I looked.’ She waved a hand as if it could erase last night’s little foray behind the sofa. ‘Forget about that for now.’
Please.
‘Do you trust me in your apartment?’

His shoulders lifted inside his jacket, then he seemed to
relax momentarily and a corner of his mouth kicked up. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

Several scenarios presented themselves, none of which Didi wanted to contemplate. She forced a smile back at him. ‘You give macramé a go?’

Didi waited fifteen minutes just in case Cameron changed his mind and came back. The phone rang and she had a moment when she thought he might have changed his mind, but it must have been a wrong number because whoever it was hung up. Thoughtful, she stared at the handset as she replaced it on its base. Was it him checking in with last-minute instructions? Or was he checking that she hadn’t run off with his valuables? Or perhaps it was a lady friend who’d hung up at the sound of a female voice?

She shrugged away the odd little niggle that thought provoked, then hurried to where her boxes of supplies had been stashed, dragged them out and got busy. She unearthed her portfolio with photographs of smaller pieces she’d either sold or still had in her boxes. She had no idea what he wanted for the gallery, but first she had to impress him with her work.

She had several pieces in various stages of completion, but her pride and joy was a quilt-sized work stretched on a frame, covered in black plastic and taped for safety. And how serendipitous that it blended so well with his living room, she thought, unwrapping it. Similar to Sheila’s work with black, white and silver and various shades between, but Didi had used fire-engine red as a focal colour.

She set the piece against a bare wall, stood back and cast a critical eye over it.

Twigs she’d painstakingly collected and bound in black, white and silver thread made up the tree, the leaves silver filigree she’d constructed by hand at a jewellery class. An embroidered black serpent wound its way through the branches along a piece of old barbed wire. Just visible behind the ac
tion were the subtly spray-painted but unmistakeably erotic shapes of male and female. The apples of red silk layered with organza, thread and delicately spray-painted for a three-dimensional effect completed the picture.

She’d never shown her family. It would hurt too much to hear their dismissal of something she’d put her heart and soul into for months, using any spare cash she earned to purchase the supplies she needed.

The big question was would it be good enough to convince Cameron Black to take a chance on her?

He arrived home late. Didi had spent the day working on new material and suddenly there he was, watching her from across the living room with a doubtful expression in his eyes. Of course, he would, wouldn’t he? With every square centimetre of his ever-so-clean table covered in her stuff.

‘Hi.’ She threaded her needle through a piece of fabric, took off her glasses, blinking up at him as her eyes adjusted. ‘I’m sorry about the mess—I’ll clean it up right this—’

‘Forget the mess. I don’t have time to waste. I’ve got less than three weeks.’ Crossing the room, he shrugged off his jacket, slung it on the back of a dining-room chair at the far end of the table. Didi couldn’t help but notice Mr Immaculate’s shirt looked as pristine as it had when he’d left this morning.

His eyes took in her scraps of fabric and silks then flicked to the sheet-draped work against the wall, back to her. Comprehension dawned. ‘So, you’re the artist.’ He sounded disappointed.

Her pulse took a leap. Squashing down her insecurities, she replied, ‘I hope so.’

‘That’s why you recognised Sheila’s work.’

She nodded. ‘I’ve always loved textiles. I took one of her workshops in Sydney a few years ago.’

He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘So…what do you have to show me?’

A hiatus while she stopped breathing. Oh, cripes, she wished he hadn’t said it in quite that way with quite that expression in his eyes. Scepticism. Her art was the one thing that truly mattered to her.

Somehow she managed to make it across the room. Her arm trembled as she withdrew the sheet. And waited for a response. Any response.

The right response.

She thought she heard him mutter, ‘Apples again,’ and saw his jaw tighten.

He had something against apples? ‘It’s called Before the Temptation.’

‘What else could you call it?’ His wry response still gave her no clue to his thoughts.

Almost unbearable. How long he studied it, immobile, feet spread and arms crossed, she couldn’t be sure. Seconds? Minutes? She counted the beats of her heart. Lost count.

Finally, he nodded. ‘Okay, Didi, you’ve got yourself a commission. Two and a half weeks to come up with something of the same standard.’

Relief and excitement sent her soaring on helium balloons, making her voice breathless when she said, ‘I’ll need to know what you have in mind.’

‘Something half as big again. The rest’s up to you. I want your best.’

‘You’ll have it.’

‘Don’t let me down,’ he continued. ‘The press will be there, the minister for arts. I can’t afford—’

‘I won’t let you down.’

He nodded. ‘I’m not an artist, but I’m guessing it’ll take all your time with only two and a half weeks to completion. All day, possibly some evening work too. Have you considered that?’

She nodded. ‘Not a problem. I no longer work for the catering company, so I’m all yours.’

Hands dipping into trouser pockets, his gaze swung to her at last, and she was blasted by the full force of those eyes—not sceptical now, but…unreadable in the room’s cool electric lights. They darkened considerably as his gaze flicked down over her tight black T-shirt and apricot chiffon scarf around her waist, to the black leggings and bare feet.

Oh…Her toes curled against the smooth tiles, her fingers slid down the front of her thighs as her heart did a strange tumble. Why the heck did her body react to him the way it did? As if he could draw her into those bottomless pools and—No. She’d let herself be drawn into a man’s eyes once, and that had been one time too many. Jay had captivated her from the start, the way he had so many women. It was because of him she’d never trust a man’s looks again, nor the way he might make her feel.

Because whatever her feelings might be towards a man, she couldn’t trust him to reciprocate. Even when his eyes told her otherwise. She could only nod before clearing her throat. ‘I—’

‘You’ll need space to work.’

‘Yes.’ No. Her balloons deflated. She didn’t
have
space.

‘So you’ll remain here until the work’s completed.’ Blunt, a rusty knife on sandstone.

No time to reply.

He swivelled away, back bristling with tension, and headed towards the kitchen. ‘Less than three weeks, Didi. You’ve got yourself a chance—use it.’

D
IDI
heard the sound of the fridge door open, something hit the kitchen bench with a thwack, and realised she’d eaten nothing since that apple at breakfast. Nor could she now with her stomach twisted into hard, indigestible knots.

Work
here?
In this man’s apartment? The man who ostensibly didn’t give a fig for the less fortunate yet took in a stranger with a cat, no questions asked…well, almost none.

He wasn’t the man she’d first assumed, she had to admit. And he was giving her the chance of a lifetime.

To anchor herself she clutched the front of her T-shirt while she replayed the last few moments. She’d wanted, more than she’d ever wanted anything, him to give her the commission, she just hadn’t thought beyond that happy moment to the day-to-day/day-to-
night
practicalities.

Several long days. And nights.

Cam hadn’t even bothered to comment on her work. The first person she’d exposed her best piece to, laying her vulnerability on the line, and not a single comment apart from a rude ‘apples again’—what was that all about? Typical of the wealthy, she thought with an inward sneer. It reminded her of her family’s dismissive attitude towards her art.

And yet…he had an original Sheila Dodd on his wall and he was opening a gallery, which had to mean he valued art. She thought of his eyes, the pulse-accelerating way he’d
looked at her…Perhaps there was another reason he’d stalked off as if the demons from hell snapped at his heels…

She shook off the thought and all its complications—forget all that. This was her big chance, maybe her only chance to show what she was capable of.

Cam put two frozen gourmet meals in the microwave, set the timer, then leaned against the bench, uncomfortably aware that if Didi chose that moment to follow, she’d be in no doubt as to why he’d walked away before they’d formalised any kind of agreement.

For a moment he’d considered remaining in front of the open refrigerator door for a few moments. Cool the fires within. The woman was a sorceress in pixie clothing. How else could she have bewitched him so utterly? One glance and he knew for certain that underneath the figure-hugging black she was moulded just the way he’d dreamed. All she needed was the wings.

Hell.

And he’d just made an arrangement that required her here, in his apartment, for the next two and a half weeks. He shook his head at the irony.

No. This was strictly business. If she was going to be working in the dining/living room in the evenings—which was the ideal room with its floor-to-ceiling windows and huge table—wearing those figure-hugging outfits…He’d stay longer at the office and sleep on the futon. Maybe he should check into a hotel.

Then how would he keep an eye on her progress?

He needed to set some parameters, but some sort of celebratory offering was probably required first. A drink? He moved to the refrigerator once more, whipped out a bottle of Moët et Chandon Vintage Rosé, grabbed two glasses and headed to the living area.

Struck again by the sight of her sensational art against the
wall, he slowed to study it once more. Who’d have thought the somewhat crazy little waitress was so talented? It would look right at home in the best galleries in the country. It looked right at home in his living room.

So did Didi.

She stood facing the windows, her hands laced together behind her head. The down-lights spangled her contrived riot of hair and he could smell her sweet almond fragrance from the other side of the room. He did his best to ignore her relaxed pose against Melbourne’s diamond-studded deep velvet panorama as she stretched her body from side to side, no doubt flexing her spine after hours of close work.

But there was something spellbinding about the way she moved, as if she listened to some inner rhythm, that had his feet stapled to the floor. His blood pounded thickly as his gaze devoured the slim waist and compact little ass like some ravenous beast. And those legs…How would they feel clamped around his waist?

Dangerous curves.

Dangerous thoughts.

‘We haven’t ironed out the details of this arrangement,’ she said.

Her voice startled him out of his semi-dazed state. Using his trick and watching him in the glass. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then again when she turned to face him. It was in her gaze too—a mutual awareness, quickly banked. If he’d blinked he’d have missed it.

‘No, we haven’t.’ He moved to the table, set down the bottle and glasses, dismissing the urge to suggest an alternative and completely inappropriate way to celebrate:
Sealed with a kiss.
Like a spark to oxygen, the thought of locking lips with Didi exploded into stunning, breathtaking life. He grappled with the bottle’s foil and cork. With those full rosy lips she’d suck away any bargaining power he possessed, of that he had no doubt. And on that not-so-sobering note, he said, ‘We’ll drink to it first.’

Didi shook her head. As much as she loved champers—and this looked like a bottle of the very expensive variety—this was way too important. ‘Details first. How much am I worth?’

He named a figure that swept the air out of her lungs with a whoosh.

‘That’s if you’re finished within the time frame,’ he reminded her.

She was suddenly elated and terrified all at once. That amount was seriously serious. It would set her up for a long time. Show her family artists
did
make money and finally, maybe, they’d accept her choice. Accept her. How long had she craved their acceptance, their pride? Doubts crept in. Was she up for it? ‘I’ll need an advance to purchase supplies.’

‘No problem. I can order you a credit card or give you cash, whichever you prefer. The apartment’s at your disposal day and night.’

She nodded, trying to absorb the details. At least he’d be out during the day, but evenings…‘I’m not used to people watching me work—or looking at the unfinished product.’

‘I’m paying you enough—that gives me the right to view it any time.’

He poured the bubbly into the glasses, looking satisfied with the deal. And why not? He dealt with mega bucks on a daily basis; this was probably no more than a drop in the Pacific Ocean to him. And he was correct—that amount of money on an unknown artist gave him every right to track her progress.

‘I’ll need time to design and collect materials.’

‘Not too long. I want to see something tangible within a few days.’

Panic stations.
‘Artists don’t work like that.’

‘Ah, but this one will. It’s too important, for both of us.’

He held up a full glass, sparkling with pink liquid, his eyes focused on hers and she felt…respect? No one had ever
afforded her work that compliment so she wasn’t sure of her perceptions. She stood by the window too strung out with emotion to move. Or speak.

‘Lost for words, Didi?’ His voice held a hint of humour, deep and warm, and he walked towards her with both glasses. ‘I have every confidence in you. Don’t doubt yourself or your abilities.’

She drew herself up as he approached. ‘I don’t.’

‘Good.’

‘Even though
you
haven’t said a word about my work,’ she pointed out.

‘Doesn’t the fact that I’m commissioning you say it all?’ His knuckles inevitably skimmed hers as he handed her the pink bubbly, sending a fizz of sensation through her fingers and up her arm. That first brief skin-to-skin contact left her wanting…more.

‘We’re in this together,’ he said. ‘A team. You create and I’ll provide you with meals, coffee, chocolate, headache pills if necessary…whatever you need.’

She clinked her glass to his. ‘Okay. To teamwork.’ The fruity bubbles sparkled through her system as she took the first sip, their happy hiss and pop tickling her nose and prompting her to smile and say, ‘I’ll tell you now, I only eat dark chocolate. Soft centres.’

‘Ah, a woman after my own taste.’

He grinned, an easy grin that reminded her of the first uncomplicated moment when she’d met him when he was just an attractive man with a flirtatious wit. Like Jay. Despite the warning bells that told her to avoid such men at all costs, she grinned right back. And why not? It wasn’t as if they were going to fall into bed—she wouldn’t let that happen. ‘And olives,’ she continued. ‘You like olives, if my memory serves correctly.’

‘Cheese and olive balls…’ His smile faded and just like that the atmosphere changed from light and casual to something darker, deeper. Different.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, which suddenly felt dry and chapped and tingly and she had to force herself not to run her tongue over her lips.

Her relationship with Jay had tarnished the way she viewed men. But none had made her feel so aware of herself as a woman. And if she was right in her assumption of his reaction, a desirable woman. He could even—perhaps—polish that tarnish away.

If she moved closer would he kiss her?

She couldn’t help it, she looked right back. She could imagine being kissed by those lips. Her own were practically puckering up in anticipation.

And where would that leave her?

In that big bad bed of his having the best sex of her life?

And more breathless and brainless than she already was, no doubt.

Big mistake. She knew next to nothing about him except that he was rich, gorgeous…and attracted to her. And his poster-boy status suggested a playboy and put her defences on alert. Yep, way too much like Jay.

So she chose the only alternative and stepped back. Away. Paying careful attention to keep her glass—and her voice—steady as she said, ‘Tell me about this gallery of yours.’

He regarded her a moment through thoughtful eyes as if he, too, was mulling over the sexual tension between them. ‘It’s my latest building development.’

‘Another bunch of displaced people, then?’ And instantly felt less-than-stellar for the jibe. Did she want to blow this whole deal before she got started? Especially when his eyes glinted with some emotion she didn’t recognise…Regret? For past business actions maybe? Or for something that struck much deeper and closer to the heart.

She was still frowning when he said, ‘I’m not the bastard you seem to think I am.’ And took a breath—

She perked up, ready to listen. Personal information, great,
he hadn’t volunteered a word about his personal life. But either the sound of scratching and an annoyed yowl from her bedroom distracted him or he deliberately chose not to elaborate.

‘Charlie,’ she murmured. ‘He’s lonely. And hungry, no doubt.’

‘No doubt.’ The dismissive tone didn’t bode well for poor Charlie. ‘It was a disused warehouse,’ he continued, ignoring the feline sounds. ‘Boarded up and covered in graffiti. High ceilings, plenty of space. It has a whole new look.’

‘What type of art are you showcasing?’

‘Paintings, textiles, jewellery, you name it. The idea is to foster new talent.’

‘So why a Sheila Dodd commission? She’s hardly new.’

‘I’ve admired her work for several years and a big name brings in more customers and encourages new sales.’

‘Why me? With your contacts you must know others who fit the bill.’

‘This opening’s being publicised as a big event in the art community. I don’t have the time to look for someone at such short notice.’ He glanced at the piece, looked back to her. ‘Your work’s unique—I’m prepared to take a chance. I want you.’

His voice was neutral, all business, but his eyes…his eyes imbued a different meaning to those last three words. Her pulse seemed to throb in her throat, making it difficult to swallow. She gulped down more wine and held his gaze.

But he didn’t want her so much as
need
her and that gave her a sense of power that she’d never had. Which emboldened her to say, ‘I have another request…Perhaps favour is a better word? It’s about Charlie.’

‘Ah. Yes. Charlie.’ His tone predictably cooled.

‘Could we perhaps compromise?’ Her parents had often mentioned the word and Didi in the same breath. ‘If I’m here for nearly three weeks, it’s hardly fair to keep him shut away by himself all day while I work. Would you agree to him being in here with me?’ Cameron didn’t look impressed with her idea—his brows lowered, his lips thinned, then pursed as if
about to speak. ‘And I know he’d love the sky garden,’ she hurried on. ‘He couldn’t do much damage there and if I could leave the door open a fraction…’

He blew out a sigh. ‘I guess we can try it before he strips the paintwork on the bedroom door to kingdom come.’

She paused, knowing, hating that she had to say, ‘I love him to bits, but I know I’m going to have trouble finding a place that will take me
and
a pet…if you know anyone who wants a cat…’ She blinked away a sudden moisture.

‘I’ll ask around at the office,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile he’s okay here.’

‘Thank you.’ She polished off her wine and felt the grin pull at her cheeks as the bubbly danced through her system. ‘And it’s a wonderful compromise. I’ll go tell him the good news now.’

‘You do that. Then we’ll eat; I assume you’re hungry?’

‘Famished,’ she called as she all but skipped on those pretty bare feet across the room and disappeared from view down the passage. ‘All I’ve had today is an apple.’

Yeah. The apple. Cameron stared at the place where she’d been seconds ago. It was as if she’d left something of herself there. Hell, his whole apartment suddenly seemed crammed with her presence. His gaze lobbed on the usually pristine dining-room table, now a jumble stall jammed with her stuff. Littering his floor was a haphazard scatter of cardboard boxes brimming with colour. A fresh spicy fragrance permeated the air.

It was as if a cellar had been opened to let in the sunshine.

He slammed the door on his overactive imagination. Shaking his head at the absurdity, he strode to the kitchen. What the hell was wrong with him? He despised clutter. Didn’t tolerate disorganised people. The squalid mess of his childhood would live with him for the rest of his life.

Three weeks. For art’s sake he could manage three weeks. And what was that about compromise? She obviously had no idea of the meaning of the word…What
was
that odour?