Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress (6 page)

‘Don’t bother coming back until you’re prepared to take your place as a part of our family and communicate rationally,’ her mother had said when Didi had flounced into the lounge room and announced she was leaving. Fitting in with her family’s lifestyle had never suited her. A lifestyle Cameron Black would be totally at home with.

But who was he really? With his lifestyle, looks, his way with women, he reminded her too much of the man who, to her humiliation, had left her to cancel their wedding plans alone. But she’d seen glimpses—shadows—of someone else behind that polished façade. Drained of energy, she closed her eyes. Cameron Black Property Developers might have a reputable name but Cameron Black, the man, was someone else entirely.

The wide steel doors slid open on a cushion of air and Cam stepped into his night-darkened office on the fifteenth floor with its twinkling vista of lights below, but he barely gave them a glance as he strode past the empty reception area. He’d kissed her. Didi. The woman he’d commissioned to work for him.

Why, for God’s sake? Because he’d been unable to help himself. He’d been bewitched. No, he told himself, it was simpler than that—he was horny. Scowling, he rifled through his files until he found the Sydney contacts. She didn’t call the shots where his sex life was concerned. So why had it felt as if he’d been sledgehammered? As if he’d been the one out of control?

He tossed the necessary paperwork into his briefcase then moved to his computer, booted it up. He’d not go to Sydney next weekend as he’d originally planned, but tomorrow.

Just a kiss.
That was all it was, right?

Who knew what might have happened if the damn cat hadn’t decided to take a piece out of him?

Sex might have happened.

Fast furious sex on his kitchen counter. The image of him whipping her leggings down and plunging himself into that warm wet heat had his pulse stepping up, his blood rushing to his groin. He swore. He didn’t do emotional, he didn’t do trust, not where women were concerned. Not any more.

He tapped keys, booked a seat on the six a.m. flight and printed out his boarding pass. He wanted the best Didi could do with her
needlework.
He needed her creativity on the wall, not in his bed.

Didi spent the following morning designing something on paper, deciding on materials, sorting through what she already had and what she needed to purchase.

This
was what she needed to concentrate her thoughts on, she told herself as she pulled out skeins of tangerine and vermilion silk and matched them to the aubergine. Not the sexy man who was paying her, offering her the chance she’d been waiting for.

Next she took Cameron’s offer of the limo service and shopped like a queen—for supplies. But it was liberating selecting materials without having to think of the cost. Paying for them with the cash he’d left, then riding back to his apartment without having to depend on an unreliable car, the hassles of parking or public transport. The carefree way she’d done as a child.

She and her sister had been raised as the privileged daughters of a society couple. Their parents graced the social pages regularly and she’d attended numerous functions over the years. As a teenager, she’d accompanied her mother to her charitable events, had witnessed firsthand what it was like to live in the gutter with no support, no hope. She’d seen the despair in those eyes and what that desperation led to—drugs, crime, death. It had changed the way Didi viewed her place in the world.

Over the years she’d devoted regular early mornings to helping out with the kids’ breakfast club on the seamier side of the city, lent her expertise to an arts programme for women and children in shelters, volunteered late shifts at a halfway house for those undergoing drug rehabilitation.

People were all equals as far as Didi was concerned.

Mum didn’t see it that way.
They’re not like us, dear.
Her mother would tell Didi, ‘It’s our duty as Christians to help those less fortunate than ourselves.’ But she didn’t want to soil her silk ensembles doing it.

Nor could Didi imagine Cameron Black getting his designer suits dirty in a soup kitchen or handing out blankets to the homeless on a frosty night.

Bulging shopping bags hanging from both arms, she stepped onto the footpath in front of his apartment building, glancing at a young woman at the entrance as she passed. Even in skinny jeans and a casual black velvet jacket, she was stunning. At around six foot, she was a statuesque brunette with clear blue eyes. Yes, she’d fit right in amongst the tenants who resided here, Didi thought.

Whereas she’d never fitted in. Her older sister, Veronica, took after their parents—tall, dark. Immaculate. At eighteen she’d married a wealthy middle-aged owner of several luxury yachts that ferried rich tourists around the Harbour and now lived a life of luxury in one of Sydney’s most affluent suburbs.

She nodded to Davis at the security desk and crossed the ornate foyer, stepped into the elevator. If her sister could see Didi now…

Should she answer that? Didi frowned at her mobile over her glasses while the familiar tune rang out over the soft CD she’d been working to. She didn’t need any distractions, but what if it was Cameron checking up on her with some request or other? She could tell him she’d started, even if she didn’t need to hear his deep velvet voice on the other end of the line.
She set down the frame she was in the process of constructing and answered with a crisp, ‘Hello?’

‘Surprise!’

‘Veronica?’ Thinking of the devil in Prada had somehow conjured her up. Didi leaned back in her chair, removed her glasses, stunned to hear her sister’s voice. Veronica hadn’t spoken to her since she’d left Sydney. She rarely spoke to Didi in any case, unless it was to denigrate her. So why was she ringing now? Didi rubbed the frown pleating her brow. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m well. Are you busy?’ When Didi didn’t answer, Veronica said, ‘I didn’t know if you’d be able to take personal calls while you’re working. Some work-places have a strict policy on mobile phones. I was going to leave a message.’

‘Ah-h-h…No, it’s cool.’ The little lie tripped off her tongue—as far as her family knew, she worked in a gallery and she wanted to keep it that way. ‘We’re fairly casual here.’

‘Great. Listen, I’m in Melbourne for a couple of days—Daniel’s at a residential conference in Brisbane and I told him I needed a break to explore Melbourne’s shopping arcades. And to see you of course,’ she added. It sounded like an afterthought. Definitely an afterthought.

More like you’re checking up on me.
Didi’s stomach dived to her feet as her hand tightened on the phone. ‘You’re in Melbourne?
Now?
’ Oh, she was so dead.

‘I’m at the airport. I should be in the city in, say, thirty minutes. What’s the gallery’s address? I’ll come straight there.’

‘No!’
Think.

‘What’s wrong?’ A definite edge of suspicion. ‘I’ll only stay a few moments. We can catch up after—’

‘I’m not actually working at the gallery today…’ She paused, looked around at
her apartment.
Cameron wasn’t due home till tomorrow night. He’d never know Veronica had set foot in the place. ‘I’m working from home,’ she contin
ued. ‘I’ve been commissioned to do a piece for the opening of a new gallery.’ That part was true, at least.

‘Oh…that’s…great.’

She heard her sister’s tentative approval and breathed a sigh of almost-relief. Her sister could go home and report everything was fine with Didi and maybe, just maybe, her family would accept her choice and let her back into their lives again without disgrace. She gave her Cameron’s address. ‘Speak to Security, they’ll buzz you through.’

‘I can’t wait to see this new apartment and it’ll give us time to catch up. I’ll stay overnight if that’s okay.’

‘Oh…’ A jolt of alarm shot through her, and she sprang out of her chair. ‘Fine,’ she finished faintly. What else could she say? ‘See you soon.’

Two bedrooms. Veronica could sleep in the room she’d been using.

Which left Didi with Cameron’s room…

S
HE
stabbed the disconnect button and flew towards the hall. Did she dare…?
No choice.

Swiftly she gathered up her meagre supply of clothes and toiletries and lugged them down to Cameron’s room. But she paused at the closed door. She’d never been in here. She’d barely seen past the crack in the door on her way past.

She had thirty minutes tops.

As she flung the door open the cedar-wood scent of his cologne wafted past her. She stood a moment breathing it in while she cast her eyes over the room. A stunning view of nearby high-rise buildings cast a reflected afternoon glow on the cream carpet and deep blue quilt atop the king-sized bed. Matching drapes graced floor-to-ceiling windows, which opened onto a balcony filled with soft ferns.

A partially open door revealed an en-suite bathroom in cream and gold. Shuffling to the far side with her arms full, she pulled open a cupboard door and discovered it led to a walk-in wardrobe filled with racks of top designer suits and enough pressed shirts to last a year.

In what seemed another life she’d had a cupboard like this. She’d given her designer labels to charity, walked away from her family’s disapproval to become an artist. It was vital Veronica thought Didi successful.

She stuffed her clothes next to a rack of shiny leather
shoes, then moved to the bathroom, swept Cameron’s toiletries out of sight beneath the vanity and arranged her own. Just in case…

And tomorrow morning her sister would be gone—Didi would see to it personally, even if it meant accompanying Veronica on her shopping spree and waving her off to the airport in a taxi.

At the cost of having something for Cameron to look at?

She shook the disturbing thought away. She’d roughed out a plan, hadn’t she? She’d bought supplies, put together a frame to work on. The sound of the elevator doors alerted her and she hurried from Cameron’s room, closing the door.

‘Hi.’ Didi gave Veronica a quick hug and took charge of her suitcase.

‘Hmm.’ Veronica’s eyes swept the apartment. ‘I never imagined this. It must cost you a fortune.’ She cast Didi an assessing glance. ‘How do you afford it?’

Aware of her tatty jeans and dishevelled hair, Didi noted the classic lines of her sister’s designer outfit, the pink suede boots, the perfect make-up and long dark hair salon-streaked with auburn highlights. Was it any wonder Veronica would ask that question? And why hadn’t she anticipated an answer?

‘Ah, the gallery owner was leasing it out at low cost since he’s interstate at present.’ Didi, who never lied, who hated deception, was getting in deeper with every passing moment. Spinning on her heel, she set the rolling case in motion. ‘Your room’s this way. I hope you don’t mind sharing it with a cat,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘Not at all. You know I love cats, but Daniel’s allergic, you know.’

She knew. Daniel Davenport was allergic to most things, including anyone remotely connected with poverty. Didi showed Veronica to her room, indicated the bathroom at her disposal, then left her to freshen up.

A few moments later, Veronica appeared, requesting a tour
of the apartment. Didi whisked her through the rooms, then suggested they go out for lunch before hitting the shops.

Veronica spent a fortune; Didi helped her. Later they swapped childhood stories over a leisurely dinner. Even though she wasn’t a nightclub fan, Didi suggested they cruise to a couple of nightspots so that by the time they returned home it was well after one a.m.

Didi sighed a breath of relief when Veronica said she was exhausted and intended showering then going to bed. Didi happily agreed to do the same.

As she tiptoed into Cameron’s room her skin prickled with the feeling that he was somehow there with her, breathing down her neck. She closed the door behind her and, leaving the light off, wandered to the sliding door that looked out onto the balcony. Ferns shifted in the breeze. Turning, she took in the immaculate room. Shadows and light played over the walls. The sibilance of the air-conditioning overlaid the muted traffic noise.

Even though none of his personal items were visible, his presence lingered. The room smelled of him. How could she possibly get any sleep in here? she wondered, gazing back at the twinkling streetscape below.

A hot shower might help. She stripped off her clothes, tossed them on the bottom of the bed and padded across the carpet in the semi-darkness.

Light flooded the bathroom as she flicked on the switch. She startled at her own reflection, then chastised herself for being foolish. ‘Your secret’s safe,’ she whispered. Why was she whispering, for goodness’ sake? ‘He’s hundreds of kilometres away,’ she said out loud to convince herself. ‘Only a few more hours and he’ll never know.’

She turned on the spray, smothered her face in cleanser, massaging it in until the room began to steam, then stepped under the water’s glorious heat.

She’d left her personal soap in the other bathroom. Which
meant she had to use Cameron’s soap. The one she’d smelled on him last night. As she lathered up and rubbed the slippery suds over her arms and breasts her nipples turned to tight little peaks, blood rising to the surface and turning her skin a blushing pink, reminding her of how he’d made her feel last night.

Hot. Turned on. Every body part excruciatingly sensitive.

She reached for her exfoliating mitt, scrubbed her skin with unnecessary vigour, hoping the harsh abrasive action would relieve the discomfort. No. It merely deepened the blush in places, which gave the appearance of sunburned patchwork.

She yanked off the mitt. This was bad. Worse, this inappropriate preoccupation with Cameron Black had to stop. Right now. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the cool tiles, lifted her head to the spray and let the water pound her. One more minute…

Cameron frequently employed the element of surprise. He keyed in his entry code and watched the floor numbers illuminate as he rode the elevator towards his apartment. Expect the unexpected—it kept employees on their toes.

The same went for sexy little waitresses who moonlighted as live-in commissioned artists. Still, a buoyant feeling of anticipation lifted him, stirring memories of the last time he’d seen her—deliciously mussed, her lips red-cherry plump. The fact that it had been him plucking the fruit only added to the intensity.

That aside, he knew little about her. He
did
know she kept him second-guessing, stimulated him with her bubbly personality and quick tongue. And, to his never-ending surprise and discomfort, aroused his libido far too frequently.

She had the looks of a pixie but she kissed like an angel.

The reason he’d taken off for Sydney earlier than planned. The fact that she’d called that moment in the kitchen ‘fun’ merely demonstrated the type of woman she was—carelessly casual. That
was
the type of woman he preferred now, wasn’t
it? So the fact that it had rocked him more than it had her was disturbing in the extreme and best forgotten.

He needed to keep his distance, put some perspective on the situation, he assured his muted reflection in the impersonal elevator’s mirrored walls. No way was he going to jeopardise this commission; it was too important. He was taking a risk on an unknown, probably paying her far more than he should. He didn’t even know if she was up for the task at such short notice.

He’d been naïve to trust a woman he barely knew in his apartment with a load of cash. Which was why he’d decided to return a day earlier.

Not
for any burning desire to see her again.

The elevator doors swished open, heightening that sense of anticipation. He forced himself to concentrate on important matters. If she was asleep, he could view her work at leisure without her looking over his shoulder and distracting him.

Light from the hallway beckoned. She wasn’t in bed yet, then. His blood pumped that little bit faster. He turned into the hall—and saw a tall, dark-haired woman in a slim-fitting blue nightgown strolling out of the guest bathroom as if she had every right to be there.

He stilled, every hair on his body rising as a fierce disappointment stabbed through him. He’d been right to come home early. The moment his back was turned Didi was entertaining guests. He supposed he should be relieved it wasn’t a male. But she’d abused his trust, something he couldn’t,
wouldn’t
tolerate.

The woman came to an abrupt halt, clutching a bag of toiletries to her breasts, dark eyes wary. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

‘I live here,’ he said grimly. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Dymphna’s sister.’

‘Dim…
who?
’

‘Didi,’ she clarified. Her disparaging gaze swept over him despite the fact he wore well-pressed trousers and a sky-blue business shirt. ‘She didn’t say anything about a boarder.’

‘Boarder.’ The word exploded from his mouth. ‘She said that?’

She shook her head. ‘I already told you, she didn’t mention anyone else living here, so, no, she didn’t say that.’

‘No, I don’t suppose she did.’ A red haze shimmered before his eyes. She wouldn’t. Not if she wanted to play lady of the manor, or whatever her game was, in his apartment.

The woman moved swiftly towards Didi’s room, keeping close to the wall. ‘I’m calling Security if you don’t identify yourself.’

‘Go ahead. In fact, I’ll call them for you.’ Keeping his eye on her, he backed up to the security panel in the wall, hit the button. ‘Davis, Cam Black here. There’s a woman in my apartment calling herself—what’s your name?’

‘Veronica Davenport.’

Cam listened while Davis explained that Miss O’Flanagan had a guest staying overnight and enquired was everything all right.

‘Fine,’ Cam clipped, and disconnected.

‘Not Veronica O’Flanagan, then.’ He studied her from the top of her shiny dark hair to the tips of her manicured toenails, saw her register the fact that he knew Didi’s surname.

The woman reeked of wealth. The kind of inherited wealth Cam despised. It didn’t fit. Didi was nothing like this model of sophistication in any way, shape or form.

‘Davenport’s my married name.’ She tilted her head so that she looked down her nose at him, but he didn’t miss the appreciative way she cast her eyes over his body. ‘You haven’t explained yet who
you
are.’

No, I haven’t, have I?
‘Where’s Didi now?’ he demanded. He strolled to the entrance to Didi’s room, blocking the other woman’s path and casting a quick glance inside. The bed was
empty and he could see an open Louis Vuitton suitcase on the floor by the window.

‘She’s gone to bed.’ She indicated behind him with a stiff tilt of her head.

His
room.

His whole body stiffened. Didi was sleeping in his room? In his bed, between his sheets. Heat and anger warred within him but desire snaked through the mix like a restless serpent in a stormy sea. He moved away from the door, gestured her inside. ‘Then I suggest you do the same, since you’re obviously spending the night.’

‘Not until you identify yourself to my satisfaction. How do I know you’re not here to do my sister harm?’

He pulled out his driver’s licence, flashed it at her. ‘I told you—I live here. You want to speak to Security yourself, be my guest. Otherwise do as I ask. Leave Didi to me. I assure you, she’s perfectly safe.’ If he didn’t throttle her first.

But the woman must have read something in his expression because a small smile twitched at the edge of her mouth, as if she’d just discovered a delicious secret. ‘Didi didn’t tell me she had a man in her life.’

His jaw clenched at that but he aimed an imperious finger at the door and spoke through stiff lips. ‘Goodnight, Veronica.’

Still clutching her toiletry bag and her innate poise—and the smile—she slipped inside with a murmured, ‘Goodnight,’ and closed the door.

Cameron let out the breath he hadn’t realised had backed up in his lungs. Steeling himself for the sight of Didi’s tartan pyjama-clad body in his bed, he strode to his room, his traitorous palms tingling in anticipation of waking her.

He didn’t knock, shoving at the door with an open-handed
thwack.
The scent of his soap and Melbourne’s glimmering skyline through the windows greeted him. He was halfway across the room, arm outstretched to wake her, before he
realised that she wasn’t in bed. That the sound he could hear wasn’t his blood pounding through his ears, it was running water, and that the fragrance billowed from steam clouds through the door of the en-suite.

The partially open door.

Too late to deny what he’d seen. Somehow he dragged his gaze away from the outline of her body in his shower stall, but it was indelibly printed behind his retinas. Her creamy flesh in a pose that rivalled anything in a men’s magazine. The swell of her buttocks, the way she’d tipped back her head against the tiles so that her throat arched wantonly. As if waiting for a lover to take a bite. His mouth turned dry, his body hardened.

The water stopped and he heard her open the shower door. He stood rooted to the floor as possible scenarios flashed through his mind in that split second. Stranger. Stalker. She’d scream. Veronica and the cops would join the party.

He took the best option he could think of, given the circumstances. Diving into the bathroom, he grabbed a towel from the rail and held it in front of her with one hand. He did
not
see the tight rosy nipples, the cute little belly button, the erotic patch at the juncture of her thighs.

Her eyes widened and predictably she opened her mouth but his free hand got there first, clamping on damp, petal-soft skin. ‘Didi. It’s Cameron. Don’t scream.’

Her shoulders relaxed a little but he watched as her predicament dawned on her and they tensed right back up again. She struggled to cover herself with the towel, her breath hot on his palm as she made a noise of distress.

He felt her delicate jawbone tense beneath his fingers but his hold didn’t slacken. ‘Don’t,’ he warned. ‘Veronica’ll have my balls for breakfast.’

Her lashes flickered at that and she nodded, continuing to watch him steadily. Satisfied she wasn’t going to cause a ruckus, he relaxed his hand a little but he didn’t want to let
her go quite yet. He was enjoying her rare quietness and it gave him a moment to think how he was going to handle this.