Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress

CHAPTER TWO

Two weeks later

IT WAS a night for disasters.

Rain pelted the pavement, but that was Melbourne.

Didi’s apartment building was all locked up—one week early—and that was entirely Cameron Black’s work and the reason she now huddled on the front steps thinking of ways she might enjoy killing him. Slowly. After she got her stuff out.

She’d had to abandon her excuse for a car on the other side of the city with some sort of mechanical failure that no one was willing to look at until tomorrow. Not that she had any hope of paying for repairs since she’d learned she was now unemployed when she’d rung to explain why she wouldn’t be able to work for the next couple of weeks.

So she considered the fact that she’d managed the rest of the way by public transport with a bag of clothing and a box of abandoned and distressed young cat she’d found beside a public toilet block a minor miracle.

Only to find herself locked out of her own apartment.

And she couldn’t ring anyone from here because in her rush to help Donna she’d left her mobile behind in her apartment somewhere. She’d had to make do with Donna’s landline for the past two weeks.

The busy inner suburban street was awash with wet colour, the untidy web of overhead cables dripped moisture. Trams jostled amongst the steady stream of vehicles on their way home, pedestrians huddled under umbrellas, and the aroma of Asian takeaway steamed the air. She’d kill for a fried rice about now.

At least it was relatively dry here on the top step—an awning shielded her from the worst of the weather. She pulled out the tuna sandwiches she’d bought earlier, feeding the cat tiny portions through a peephole she’d created in the side of the box. Sometime soon she was going to have to find somewhere for the little guy to pee.

‘It’ll be okay, Charlie,’ she said, popping a bite into her own mouth, feeling more and more incensed with every passing minute. ‘It’s just you and me against the world and we’re not going down without a fight.’

Finally. Cam came to an abrupt stop on the pavement and watched Didi from beneath his large black umbrella. She gazed up at the time-and weather-worn semi-circle of red bricks that created the arch above her, drawing his attention to the creamy curve of her neck. His own neck prickled beneath his cashmere scarf as a surge of heat engulfed him and he wondered how it would feel to trace a finger down that smooth column to the soft spot at the base of her throat—

‘This the place?’

The removalist’s gruff voice caught Cam’s attention. He nodded at the two men who’d appeared beside him, digging out the building’s keys as he climbed the steps. ‘Apartment six.’

At his approach, Didi’s gaze darted to his. Wariness changed to recognition, then her brow puckered and her pretty lips twisted into something resembling a sneer. ‘Well, if it isn’t the man himself.’ She pushed up, scattering crumbs. ‘What the hell is going on?’

He stopped a few steps away. ‘My sentiments exactly, Miss O’Flanagan. I’ve been trying to contact you for the past two weeks.’

‘Why?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I had a personal emergency to take care of.’

‘And now you have another. I’ve been forced to call in the removalists.’ He kept his tone civil, firm. ‘If you can’t give me an alternative address you leave me no choice but to have your belongings placed in storage.’

She blinked. ‘Storage? I’ve got another week.’

‘No, Miss O’Flanagan, you do not. Which you’d know if you’d bothered to answer your phone.’

Her chin came up. ‘The phone I didn’t give you the number for.’

‘There’s always a way.’

She stiffened. ‘Yes, I’m sure there is for someone like you. As it happens I don’t have my phone at the moment.’ The derision in her gaze fled as it shifted to the two men beside him, then to the truck parked at the kerb. ‘I need more time. I have no job, thanks to that night—how am I going to rent an apartment?’

He shook his head. ‘Reconstruction starts tomorrow morning.’

‘Tomorrow morning? Well, that’s just peachy.’ Her mouth pouted in a way that made him want to lick the fruity word right off her lips.

He quashed the urge and resultant heat immediately. Damn. Rather than her own lack of action, she made it sound as if he were the party responsible for her situation. Guilt niggled at him. She had shielded him from personal embarrassment, at least initially, by removing that poster. And he was her landlord after all.

‘You can’t put my things in storage,’ she stated, a hint of nerves behind the grit. ‘I need them.’

‘So, you’ll give me an address.’

‘I told you, I don’t have one.’

‘You don’t have a friend you can stay with?’

‘I’ve only been in Melbourne a couple of months, so no.’

‘You’ve obviously been staying with someone the past couple of weeks.’ He didn’t care for the image that unfurled in his mind—her compact body entwined with—

‘Not in Melbourne—not that it’s any of your business. And as I’ve already told you, I had another week!’ Her blade-sharp voice sliced the exhaust-heavy air.

‘No. You didn’t.’

‘I rang the agent last month about a week’s extension and was told it was okay. As the landlord you’re accountable for this mess.’

‘Obviously there’s been some sort of miscommunication.’ He frowned as he stepped past her, unlocked the door and motioned to the waiting removalists. ‘No extension would have been granted.’

‘But it was.’

Grabbing her bag and box, she squeezed ahead of him into the narrow passage. He allowed her the dignity of opening her own front door with her key and followed her inside. She’d made some attempt at packing, he noted, glancing at the boxes stacked in the centre of the tiny living space. The odour of sour milk wafted from a carton on the kitchen sink. Perhaps she really had had an emergency.

She set the stuff she carried on the floor and marched to the fridge. ‘There.’ She gestured to the calendar, silver eyes sharp as knives, aimed at him. She’d written Eviction Day in bold red letters that dripped blood beneath it. On the wrong date.

Did she get things wrong on a regular basis? he wondered. She certainly had a knack for getting herself into trouble of one kind or another. But she was right about one thing; no matter whom she’d spoken to at the rental agency, as her landlord, Cam was ultimately accountable.

‘Look, why don’t we have a coffee and let the guys do their job?’ he suggested, hoping to smooth things along. ‘Perhaps we can work something out.’

‘I’m not letting them out of my sight.’ She glared at the removalists loitering uncertainly in the doorway.

‘Start with the furniture,’ Cam suggested to the men. ‘We’ll sort out the rest in a while.’ Then to Didi, ‘Pack what you need for now. Why don’t you try your workmates? Perhaps they can put you up for a couple of days while we look for something suitable.’

She flashed him a look that damn near froze him to the spot, then grabbed her bag and box, disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door. He watched the men take the dilapidated furniture—what little there was of it—while he made a call delaying his planned dinner meeting.

Five minutes later she reappeared. ‘I’ve tried my workmates. One’s quit and gone interstate, one’s living with an aunt in a one-bedroom apartment, the other lives in a hostel. I’ve got stuff here I can’t—won’t—put in storage. It’s simply too precious.’ She bit her lip, looking perilously close to tears.

‘Okay. Put it aside. I’ll have it delivered to my apartment, it’ll be safe there.’

She stared grimly at him. ‘Not a chance.’

‘For God’s sake, be reasonable.’ He could tell she was fiercely independent. Judging by the fact that she’d torn down the poster and spoken out for her fellow evictees he also knew she was a woman with scruples. ‘We’ll find you a place for the night. Leave it to me.’

She blew out a breath. ‘Okay. But I’ll be looking for you if any of my stuff goes missing.’

It took forty minutes longer to clear out the apartment but finally the van was gone, the items to be delivered to Cam’s apartment clearly labelled. He waited until she’d exited, then locked up the building.

He turned at the bottom of the steps when he realised she wasn’t following. She stood beneath the awning with her cardboard box and carry bag beside her. Her shoulders drooped and her body seemed to shrink inside the worn coat she wore, which may have been a fashion statement in the eighties but now looked sadly outdated.

He fought the ridiculous urge to bound up the steps and gather her into his arms. The same urge he used to get when his little sister came home at dawn high on whatever her drug of choice was that particular night.

‘Let’s go. What are you waiting for?’ When she didn’t move he stifled an impatient breath—Amy hadn’t wanted his support either. ‘You can’t stay here.’

Her eyes flashed with defiance. ‘You have a better suggestion?’

You could sleep in my bed. The associating image smoked through his brain. Her spiky hair tickling his nose as she stretched out on top of him, eyes closed in pleasure. Fingers intertwined and above his head, breasts to chest, thigh to thigh…

He wasn’t sure how, but he had the feeling she knew exactly where his wayward thoughts were going. He spoke stiffly through a clenched jaw. ‘I’ll book you a room for the evening until we work something out tomorrow.’

Her response was an instant, ‘No.’

‘Didi, it’s too late to do anything else tonight—’

‘I mean…I can’t go to a hotel.’

‘Why ever not?’

Her gaze dropped to a cardboard carton on the step beside her. He’d not noticed earlier, but now it drew his attention because some sort of scratching noise emanated from within.

‘I rescued a cat on the way here. I’d never get it past the desk, and I need a litter tray and some food.’ Her eyes met his. ‘And don’t suggest I take him to a shelter because I won’t do it.’

‘You’d sit on this step all night because of a cat?’

‘Yes.’ Her mouth set in a determined line as she bent down, scooted the box closer. ‘You may not have a heart, Cameron Black, but I’ll safeguard this animal from harm if it’s the last thing I do.’

‘Which it could very well be.’ He shook his head. ‘Amazing.’ She was amazing—amazingly naïve or amazingly foolhardy. Or both. He checked his watch. It left him with no option but to move matters along immediately if he wanted to keep his already delayed dinner appointment on the other side of the city. Without looking at her he backtracked, picked up her overstuffed canvas shopping bag.

Didi watched him close one large fist over the straps then scrambled up. ‘Hang about—where are you going with that?’

‘My apartment.’

‘No.’ She made a grab for the bag but he’d already started down the steps.

She did not want to accompany Don’t-Date-This-Man to his bachelor apartment. Wherever that might be. Where he ate breakfast or lounged semi-naked in front of sports TV. She did not want to know—her pulse skipped a beat in panic—whether he slept alone. She wanted nothing to do with his living arrangements or his lifestyle…or his crazy women. ‘Stop!’

His stride barely faltered. ‘You’re coming home with me and I don’t have time to argue about it.’

Home with him? She knew next to nothing about him—except how he made her insides roll about as if they’d become detached. ‘I can’t…’ She caught up with him on the bottom step and tugged. Hard. One of the straps ripped away with a loud shirring sound, tipping the bag and spilling a few articles of intimate clothing onto the wet pavement. Water immediately soaked into the garments. ‘Now look what you made me do.’

She regretted her slip the moment it left her mouth. His gaze landed on a lolly-pink thong centimetres from his shiny black shoes. Her old thong with the fraying elastic and the words ‘Tempt me’ faded by washing but still way too visible.

Oh, no. She dropped to her haunches, her fingers scrabbling on the wet pavement.

Too late.

Heat prickled her neck as she rose. The minuscule garment swung from one long finger. If she’d met his eyes she might have seen humour there but, frankly, right now he didn’t seem the type and she wasn’t risking it. She muttered a word she almost never used beneath her breath, careful to avoid skin contact as she snatched it from him.

She scooped the rest up, stuffing them back where they came from while rain splattered the pavement and her hair. Until Cameron shifted the umbrella so that it shielded her while leaving him exposed to the weather. ‘It’s all your fault,’ she bit out.

‘Am I to be held responsible for all your misfortunes, Didi?’

She straightened quickly, her eyes skidding straight into his with the inevitability of a train wreck. ‘My life’s been a disaster since the night I met you.’ And even though she knew it was ridiculous, ‘So, yes, I’m holding you responsible.’

His midnight-blue gaze didn’t alter but a muscle twitched beneath his right eye. ‘Makes one wonder what’ll happen next. Maybe you should give up now—your misfortunes have a recurring habit of rubbing off on me.’

‘I’m not rubbing anything off on you, Mr Black, you’re managing your own rubbing very well.’ Unfortunate choice of words. She forced herself to hold his gaze, which seemed to darken as they glared at each other.

Moisture sheened his face and raindrops lay like diamonds on the shoulders and collar of his very expensive wool coat. She knew it was wool because she could smell its distinctive scent chafing comfortably with his very expensive cologne. No, a man like him wouldn’t tolerate something as inconvenient as another’s misfortune.

‘Maybe we could trade places some time,’ she shot at him. But as she tripped up the steps again she had to admit he was offering her a generous and possibly very inconvenient solution—for both of them. Or had she misunderstood? She picked up the cat’s box, hefted its wobbling weight under one arm. ‘Okay, so what exactly are you suggesting here, so I don’t misunderstand?’

‘You don’t have a place to stay—and I’ll take responsibility for that—so my apartment’s a logical choice.’

‘With my friend here? I’m not going anywhere without him.’

He glanced at the cat box, frowned. ‘I guess it’s settled, then. Tomorrow you can look for somewhere more suitable.’

She blew out a sigh, her breath fogging the air in front of her. Realistically, what alternative did she have? His offer was only for one night. A bed, somewhere safe…

She made the mistake of looking up at him again. At the dark eyes and sensual mouth—right now it was firm and inflexible. And absolutely captivating. How would it feel to be captivated by such a mouth? She drew a deep breath of chill night air. Safe?

‘Tonight, then. Thank you.’ She tried to keep her voice a notch above a croak. ‘I’ll need to stop at a pet shop for supplies on the way.’

He nodded, retrieving her one-handled bag, tucking it beneath one arm. She followed, dodging traffic and a tram as he headed towards a shiny late-model vehicle on the other side of the street while he fired rapid instructions into his mobile regarding the delivery of her stuff to the security guy at his apartment building.

The next experience was sitting beside him in his big classy car that suddenly didn’t feel so big. Soft leather seats, the lingering fragrance of aftershave and mints. Body heat.

She shrank against the door as far away as she could get and concentrated on the box on her knee, soothing the more and more agitated animal within with quiet murmurs. In the absence of radio or CD noise he sounded more like his larger jungle cousins. At least it gave her something else to focus on.

Until that familiar hand with its sprinkling of dark hair appeared in front of her as he leaned sideways to adjust an air vent on the dash sending a spurt of warm air her way. She held her breath. As if she needed any more warmth.

‘So…this friend you’ve been with…’ Checking the rear mirror, he replaced his hand on the steering wheel. ‘That’s not an option for a few days, I take it?’

‘Accommodation-wise?’ she said, keeping her tone enigmatic. ‘Marysville’s a long drive away. My working life’s here, in Melbourne.’ When she found another job, that was.

She had something to prove. To her family, to herself. It didn’t help that she’d told them she’d found work in a gallery and had a stunning apartment overlooking the Yarra. When she’d returned from a couple of years overseas after leaving school, they’d told her if she didn’t intend going to university or making some sort of commitment and/or compromise she was on her own. She’d taken them literally and moved out.

They saw her passion for textile design as a waste of time—an argument she was never going to win. Creativity didn’t pay; artists didn’t make money. And until she did, until she showed them what she was capable of, she was stuck with waitressing—or not, since she was now unemployed.

They stopped at a small supermarket for pet supplies, and fifteen minutes later she followed his broad-shouldered shape through the revolving glass door of a luxury building.

Then he was whisking her skywards to his apartment. His penthouse apartment. But as she stepped into the living room surprise knocked her back a step. She hadn’t expected to find his taste so…formal, so cool. So impersonal.

Maybe she should have.

Still holding the cat’s box, she took in her surroundings. Almost everything was white. Stark white sofas bordered a black rug over white marbled floor tiles that seemed to go on for ever, giving an impression of endless space. A couple of glass-topped occasional tables with black-shaded lamps that threw out a harsh bleached light. Oyster-coloured curtains framed night-darkened floor-to-ceiling windows, which offered a stunning view of Melbourne’s high rises.

Not a speck of dust, she noted as her eyes scanned the room. Nothing out of place. Not a coffee cup, TV guide, or book in sight. Nothing to make it homey or liveable. How did anyone live in such sparse surroundings? Because he probably spent little time here, she decided. Probably busy sleeping elsewhere.

She wandered to the window. ‘Great view from up here. I imagine you see some beautiful sunsets—if you take the time to look.’

‘Sunrise actually.’ He set her bag on the floor. ‘The view faces east. And yes, I make the time.’

‘I didn’t take you for the contemplative sort.’

‘You wouldn’t, would you? You’re the sort who makes snap decisions about people before you have the facts. You’re also impulsive and driven by emotions. You only see what you want to see.’

His blunt appraisal stung. Some sort of comeback was due and she lifted her chin. ‘Whereas you’re driven by cool, calculating intellect.’ More like sunrise was a pretty backdrop while he planned how to make his next million. ‘Sunrise should be about a new day—hope—something that comes from the heart… Oh, my…’

She trailed off as her gaze snagged on a major piece of textile art that hadn’t been visible from the entrance. Without taking her eyes from it, she fished in her bag for her rose-tinted reading glasses and moved in for a closer inspection.

The asymmetric mural took up almost the entire wall, a forest bound with thread and paint beneath swirling drifts of snowflakes constructed with silver thread and beads in a disordered hexagonal fashion. She couldn’t resist reaching out to touch the tactile feast, the subtly different shades of texture. ‘A Sheila Dodd original. It must be worth a fortune.’

‘Yes, and yes. You’re familiar with her work?’ His tone turned considering, as if he didn’t believe someone like Didi would know anything about artists like Sheila Dodd. Or Monet for that matter.

She met his speculative gaze full-on. ‘She’s my inspiration.’

‘Inspiration… For what exactly?’

‘What I do.’ Didi turned back to admire the work but didn’t elaborate on the fact that she produced pieces along similar lines to the prominent Aussie artist and hoped to one day bathe in the same limelight. ‘I enjoy creating things, whether it’s food or fashion or fabric.’ She flicked him a glance. ‘That surprises you.’

‘I’m fast learning not to be surprised by anything about you.’

He was watching her with an expression she either couldn’t or didn’t want to read. All she knew was it made her…prickly, itchy. Bitchy. ‘It’s a pity it’s all so—’ she waved her free hand at the room ‘—monochrome.’

One eyebrow rose. ‘My designer thought otherwise.’ Then he seemed to reflect on that a moment and said, ‘What would you change?’ as if he’d never given his choice of interior decoration a thought.

‘Personal opinion of course, but you don’t think it’s lacking a little warmth and intimacy?’ When he didn’t reply she looked around at the bare surfaces. ‘Where’s the ambience? A few homey pieces like photos, a rock collection, a pottery figurine. A mix of plump red or apricot cushions, warm yellow light and a bluesy CD.’