Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress (9 page)

He seemed to shake away whatever it was that put the shadows in his eyes. ‘I’ll see you this evening, then.’ He spoke
briskly as he crossed the room to pick up his briefcase from beside the sofa.

Not a hint of the man who’d practically worshipped her body last night with hands and mouth and…more. He could have been talking to anyone. The only concession he made was a chaste almost impersonal kiss on her cheek. ‘Have a productive day.’

She was tempted to throw her arms around his neck and demand something of last night’s passion but she kept her hands at her sides, remembered their deal and said, ‘You too.’

He didn’t even give her time to see if a remnant of the night’s heat lingered in his eyes because he was already walking away, leaving a souvenir of his scent on the air.

She stood watching the elevator doors long after they’d closed. Long after she’d heard its muted hum as it took him away to his world of wheeling and dealing and knocking down buildings.

Didi forced the hot memories to the back of her mind the way he obviously had.
Think business arrangement.
For Cameron there was no blurring of lines. She needed to do the same. Keep it in perspective. In three weeks their
business
would be concluded.

Didi did her best work to music so she chose one of her own CDs and slid it into Cameron’s sound system, cranked up the volume. Ravel’s ‘Bolero’ throbbed out of the speakers, eerie, edgy.

She closed her eyes a few moments, absorbed its building passion, the throbbing swirl of emotion. Not until she’d visualised the finished work did she slip on her glasses and begin.

Hours passed. Hunger was forgotten, cramped muscles ignored, aching fingers disregarded. She worked until the surrounding buildings’ lengthening shadows slid through the windows and the sky grew scarlet behind the silhouette of the Rialto Towers, turning the Yarra River to blood.

It took a few moments to emerge from her labours. Placing her glasses on the table, she stood back to study the day’s work with a critical eye. Nothing much to see yet, but she’d made a start on the foundation.

Stretching, rolling tense shoulders, she moved to the window and watched the city’s lights appear in a rainbow of colours. That tension at the base of her skull was back, a dull echo to her heartbeat, and her eyes felt gritty. It occurred to her that she had no idea what time Cameron would be home.

The thought of seeing him again sent a wave of excitement through her, and a rising panic. Did he expect her to dress up for him? Or dress ‘down’—as in gauzy negligee with a welcome-home glass of champagne in her hand? Did the ‘evening’ part of their arrangement begin at sunset? Or did it only exist between the sheets?

When did his employee transform into his magical mistress?

She scoffed at her new persona, but her laugh caught in her throat when she stepped into the bedroom. The unmade bed, with its sheets wrinkled and quilt dragging on the thick carpet, was a testament to their torrid night. Was making beds a part of her job description now? Which had her wondering, did Cameron carry out those domestic tasks himself or did he have a regular cleaning service?

The phone on the night-stand shrilled. ‘Hello?’ As had happened yesterday, whoever it was disconnected without speaking. She stared at the receiver while a sick feeling of betrayal rose up inside her, throbbing in time with the pulse in her head. A woman, she was sure of it.

His ex that maybe wasn’t an ex any more?

She shook her head. Just because Jay had gone back to his ex-lover didn’t mean Cameron would. It was paranoia making her think that way. But it
was
a timely reminder of the temporary nature of their relationship.

She picked up her towelling robe from the bed, determined
to put the incident out of her mind. She needed to stretch out the kinks with a long, fragrant soak in that guest bathroom’s spa before she felt even human again, let alone magical.

And as for dressing up—or down—it wasn’t an option. Either he accepted her somewhat offbeat and eclectic style or he didn’t. She no longer had the luxury of money to waste on frivolous dresses or seduce-me nightgowns, nor did she feel a need to conform to the gurus of fashion.

And if she didn’t do something about this developing migraine, she thought as she rummaged in her bag for medication, she’d be no use to anyone, including herself.

She stripped off, shrugged into the robe’s comforting warmth, sat on the edge of the bed. Tempting to lay her head on the pillow—the one that smelled of him—just for a moment. Then she’d have that soak and then…

C
AM
closed his folder and glanced at his watch as the last of the attendees exited the room. The meeting had run late. He’d been running late since he arrived this morning.

It didn’t usually bother him—he practically lived at the office, often making up for lost time well after midnight when necessary. Tonight wasn’t one of those nights. Tonight anticipation snapped at his heels and he couldn’t wait to be out the door.

That brought him up short.
Slow down, Cam.
It wasn’t as if he needed to see
her,
he assured himself. He didn’t
need
anyone. Need threatened control, something he’d fought for most of his life, and won.

So he sent his driver home and set out to walk the forty minutes to his apartment. He deliberately took his time, strolling along tree-lined Collins Street where spring was showing itself with tiny green buds gleaming in the street lights. Ducking rattling trams and harried pedestrians at one of the busy intersections. Workers were cramming cafés for an early dinner, hitting the city gyms or shopping. The smell of fast food mingled with car exhaust fumes.

He found his pace picking up and slowed once more. Didi was in his head again, and too much for his peace of mind. He wanted to see how the work was coming along, the artist herself was a…fringe benefit. A diversion.

Yet even as he told himself that was all it was he knew he
was fooling himself. Didi O’Flanagan was one hell of a diversion…and a whole lot more. The fact that they clashed on so many points only added to the appeal.

And the sex was…More. It was the only description he could come up with.

He found himself outside his apartment building and rode the elevator up. He’d been surprised to learn she came from wealth; she clearly championed for the disadvantaged. Why would her parents have nothing to do with her? There was obviously more to it than she was willing to let him see. A woman with secrets—a good reason not to trust her too easily.

The apartment was silent when he stepped inside. Charlie trotted towards him, twining himself around his legs, a furry ribbon with an appetite. Priorities, he reminded himself. He went to the living room to view the work-in-progress. Not much to see yet, but she’d been busy. Her glasses lay amongst the scatter. He fed the cat. So, now…where was Didi—and what was she doing?

His pulse rate accelerated as he headed for his bedroom and his steps quickened. As he stepped inside the spill of low light from the bedside lamp highlighted her face, glinted on her hair. Fast asleep, her complexion pale, smudges beneath her eyes.

Then his gaze fell on a bottle of pills on the night-stand. Gut-curdling dread clawed its way up his throat, choking off his air. Visions from the past flashed before his eyes. Amy had done this to herself on a regular basis. His mother had died of an overdose of prescription drugs.

He grabbed the bottle as he shook her shoulder with rough impatience. ‘Didi.’
For God’s sake.
‘Wake up!’ Belatedly a glance at the bottle informed him they were prescription pills for migraine.

She stirred. ‘Huh? What?’ He saw her wince as she opened her eyes, squinting in the glare. ‘What is it?’

He blew out a slow breath. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have
woken you. I just…’ He noted his hand wasn’t steady as he brushed hair from her brow. ‘Go back to sleep.’

She blinked up at him as her eyes adjusted to the light. ‘I was going to take a dip in that swimming-pool spa of yours. I guess I zonked out.’

‘Do you still have your headache?’ He cleared the residual panic from his throat and let his hand rest on her shoulder. She felt warm, soft. Alive.

‘No.’ She sounded surprised and rubbed her brow, checking. ‘No.’

‘Lie there for a bit. I have to go out for a while. Do you think you’ll feel like eating later? I can bring something back if you want.’

She rolled onto her side, the robe dipping and slipping, tempting his own appetite with generous slices of cleavage and thigh. She moistened her lips, drawing his gaze. ‘Why do you have to go out? Friday night’s for relaxing. Stay.’

He doubted she knew how husky she sounded, how provocative she looked, drowsy from sleep and sexy as sin. The whole effect shook him to his foundations and, coupled with the near heart attack she’d just given him, he was in no mood to analyse his angry response, nor why he felt the need to distance himself.

He rose. ‘I have a standing appointment on Friday evenings and I don’t intend to break it. Not even for you.’ In three weeks she’d be gone, a pleasant memory.

Her expression cooled. ‘This
arrangement
we have—I thought it was exclusive.’

‘It is.’ He turned away, strode to his wardrobe.

Didi flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling, unaccountably hurt, unreasonably disappointed. Why was she feeling this way? Because the memory of that earlier mystery phone call hammered at her and it was all too easy to draw her own conclusions. ‘I’m not going to sit here and wait for you every night,’ she said, listening to the rustle of clothes on the other side of the partially open door.

She could almost hear his eyes rolling back in his head as he said, ‘It’s not every night, Didi, it’s Friday nights.’

He strode back into the room and every accusation—every thought—dried on her tongue.

He was wearing jeans. Blue jeans. Faded, scruffy, worn jeans with a T-shirt that had been black once, and two sizes too small because it stretched over his chest like elastic over the Harbour Bridge.

And she’d thought he looked sexy in a business suit…She’d thought he couldn’t look more sexy, but he did, in a dangerous, bad-boy way that called to the wanton woman inside her.

And he was going out. Without her.

She so didn’t care. She wished she had a nail file and polish handy, or a magazine so she could flick through the pages ever so carelessly and show him just how much she so didn’t care. Instead she shrugged. ‘Slumming it tonight, huh?’

He stilled, every hard ripple in that impressive chest tense, every muscle in his jaw bunched. His lips compressed into a tight angry line. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes—not in that bad-boy way, but in a way that made her want to shrink back and wish the sarcastic words unsaid. Definitely the lowest form of wit.

‘Get dressed,’ he said calmly. Too calmly. ‘You want to see slumming? Come with me. Be ready in five minutes. I can’t be late. I
won’t
be late. Wear comfortable shoes and bring a jacket.’

There was no thought of refusal. Her fingers trembled as she dragged on jeans and a jumper she found amongst her stuff. This showed a side of Cameron she’d never seen, never known existed. A quick glance in the mirror reflected a face devoid of make-up, hollows beneath her eyes. She spiked her hair with her fingers—that would have to do. She dragged out her worn coat, slipped it on.

They rode the elevator down to the underground car park in silence, climbed into the car and merged into the evening traffic the same way. Considering the dress code it was almost
absurd to be driving in such luxury with something classically high-brow playing through the speakers.

Whatever it was, this was very important to Cameron, and it would give her some insight into the man who didn’t talk about himself.

Fitzroy’s busy inner suburban street was crammed with traffic, tram lines and overhanging cables, some of the beautiful architecture of a bygone era mottled with peeling paint, boarded up or covered in graffiti. Light years away from Cameron’s exclusive Collins Street address. He parked in a side street.

‘You’re leaving this expensive piece of automotive engineering here?’ she said, incredulous.

‘It’s only a car, Didi.’

She bit back a retort that only an hour ago she wouldn’t have hesitated to use and climbed out.

It became obvious he was heading for what had once been an old department store. The tired red bricks on the second and third storey remained but the street-level façade had been given fresh paint and the windows at the front were large and brightly lit. Inviting. The sign read, ‘Come In Centre’.

She saw a medical clinic, still open. Lights spilled from the room Cameron explained was a youth counselling service. The atmosphere was vibrant and alive, busy. She followed him through a large recreational room where people, mostly teenagers, watched TV, played table tennis, or sat at tables talking.

She could smell unwashed bodies, poverty, fear, but she also sensed optimism and hope and determination.

‘This building’s for abused teenagers and runaways,’ he said as they made their way through the high-ceilinged room towards a canteen. ‘Here they can get a meal, see a doctor, talk with professionals who care, and generally hang out.’

‘You did this.’ Didi looked up at him with new-found respect, but his eyes were an unforgiving navy steel. ‘You renovated this building. You financed it yourself.’

His shoulders tensed, he put his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and kept walking. ‘It doesn’t happen on its own.’

‘Stop.’ She caught his arm, felt the resistance beneath her fingers. He didn’t want to be touched, but she needed the contact. Needed to say, ‘Hang on a minute. I’m sorry I said what I said back at the apartment. I’m sorry for a lot of things I’ve said to you,’ she finished quietly.

The steel in his eyes didn’t soften. If it was possible, they hardened. ‘You couldn’t begin to understand the meaning of destitute. You
chose
the way you currently live your life. You
chose
to leave your family. These kids don’t have that luxury.’

She knew. It made her feel ashamed. But Cameron…‘Why did you do it? Why are you involved?’

Shadows flitted over his gaze but he shook his head and kept walking.

They reached the restaurant-sized kitchen where a round woman with flyaway brown hair and two double chins was dishing greens and mash and some sort of spicy-smelling stew onto plates for the kids lined up at the counter.

‘Ah, Cameron, right on time.’ The woman smiled at them over her ladle. ‘And you’ve brought us a new assistant. Good, because we’re really busy tonight. Sandra couldn’t make it.’

‘Hello, Joan. This is Didi,’ he said, walking behind the counter. He tossed Didi an apron. ‘Let’s get started, then. Joan’ll fill you in on what needs to be done. I’ll be back in a few moments.’

‘Welcome, Didi.’ She smiled with genuine warmth, brown eyes twinkling. ‘I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes.’ Joan glanced at Didi’s sneakers, filled another plate. ‘Cameron’s never brought a girlfriend here before.’

Didi felt her cheeks warm. ‘I’m not his girlfriend.’
Just his temporary mistress.
‘I’m working on an arts project for him.’

‘And supporting him in your free time, good for you. There’s not many willing to put in the effort on a Friday
night.’ She pulled loaves of bread from the shelf behind them, set them in front of Didi. ‘You can start on the sandwiches. You’ll find everything you need in the fridge. You’ll need a knife.’ She handed her a key, gestured to a drawer. ‘We keep them locked away—one never knows…’

They worked side by side, ladling stew and cutting sandwiches.

‘
You’re
working here on a Friday night,’ Didi prompted after a few moments. ‘Do you help out often?’

‘Every week. Cameron looked out for my son when he turned up here lost and alone. Thanks to him, my abusive ex is locked up and I have my son back.’ She flicked hair off her face with the back of her hand. ‘I don’t know where these kids would be without him.’

Every so often Didi saw Cameron walk through the canteen, talking to kids. Holding a hand, squeezing a shoulder. Listening. Caring.

Who was this man? She’d mentally accused him of not wanting to soil his suit yet here he was, hands-on and involved. Again, why? In the short time they’d known each other he’d not spoken of family and she hadn’t asked. What was the point? It wasn’t as if he were going to introduce her, nor did she want to meet them. Their relationship wasn’t the kind that involved family.

Shaking off the hollow feeling, she plastered ham and tomato onto buttered bread. She didn’t want to dissect her emotions because right now they were too close to the surface and too vulnerable. If she let him, he could steal her heart and leave her dead inside.

No. Once was more than enough. But now, as he leaned over a table to speak with a couple of boys in their late teens she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him.

She tried observing him from a purely feminine viewpoint without the tug of emotion. Below the T-shirt’s short sleeves, the hard definition of his arms, olive-skinned and dusted with
dark hair. The innate strength in that upper body. The way his jeans hugged his tight backside, the faded denim down the front of his thighs and where the zipper chafed…

I know what’s inside those jeans.

The recent memory of his body over hers—inside hers—speared through her and the knife she held slipped on the tomato she was holding. Which was okay, she told herself. It was a purely sexual zing—no emotions hence no vulnerability.

Until he glanced over as if he’d known she was watching and their gazes locked. Intense cobalt eyes studied her. Even from across the room she felt the heat all the way down to her toes.
Sexual attraction,
she assured herself. Tonight they’d act on that attraction. Again. Another zing hummed through her like an electrical jolt. Anticipation.

But the sound of voices, the smell of food and kids, faded. The whole scene blurred around the edges. Only Cameron remained in focus, as if she were looking through a tunnel. She saw his fingers tighten on the edge of the table. His jaw tightened infinitesimally. He didn’t straighten but she knew the muscles in his back had turned rigid.

She knew because it was happening to her.

His eyes relayed a message she didn’t want to read—emotion. She felt her own emotions flow to him on a tide of something perilously close to trust.

Vulnerability.

No.
Dragging her eyes away, she concentrated on loosening her grip on the knife, rolled tension from her shoulders.
That
wasn’t supposed to happen. Wasn’t going to happen. Not even when she noticed he was making his way towards her, still watching her with those bluer-than-blue eyes.