Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress (2 page)

Cam sensed her imminent departure but he wasn’t done with her. He slammed his hands back on the tiles on either side of hers. Wide and wary silver eyes snapped to his. She was petite. Dainty. But he knew the aura of fragility was purely that—an aura. He liked that about her—a woman with guts in a compact little package.

She’d furrowed hands through her gelled hair and it stood up now in spiky disarray. With her name-tag askew and resting on one small pert breast, she reminded him of a rather untidy pixie. The jolt of attraction was swift and unexpected. And hot.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus. ‘Do you want to come with me now and voice your concerns about the new development to the rest of the investors?’

‘With that irritable and arrogant old man? No point. More important, I’ve still got half an hour of paid employment to go and, unlike
some,
I need the money.’ She made a noise of disgust and her breasts rose as she drew in a short sharp breath. ‘It’s people like you who barge in and buy up big, ripping up homes and businesses and lives and call it “development” when in reality it’s just a money-grabbing venture.’

‘It’s not—’

‘People like
you,
’ she interrupted, ‘wouldn’t understand the first thing about people from the other side of the tracks.’

He had a fleeting but graphic image of a past he’d spent half his life trying to forget and his gut clenched. He pushed back from the counter, his fingers tightening into fists at his sides as he remembered how long and hard he’d fought to earn the wealth and respect he now enjoyed. ‘You know nothing about me.’

She waved an accusatory hand at the peach-coloured sofa. ‘You followed me in
here,
didn’t you? That tells me something, and, let me tell
you,
it’s not flattering.’

Her eyes flashed at him, a silver blowtorch, all heat and sparks and energy, setting spot fires snapping to life through his veins. In his thirty-two years no woman had ever ignited such a reaction in him.

If he could direct that passion elsewhere…His groin tightened at the thought of where he could direct that delicate-looking hand with its clear varnished nails…‘Tell me something else, Didi. Why did you fold my picture with such obvious care and put it in your pocket? Why not throw it in the waste bin?’

Her cheeks turned a delicious shade of pink and her gaze dropped to her shoes. ‘I…wasn’t thinking.’ Then she pushed, her palm hitting him firmly mid-chest. ‘Now move.’

Her touch was like a brand, searing his flesh. Heat radiated throughout his body and his first instinct was to cover that
small hand with his and keep her there just a few more seconds and argue that she
was,
in fact, thinking. About him.

But he stepped aside, the imprint of her hand still burning, and watched her march the two steps to the door, yank it open. If he wasn’t wrong, those rosy cheeks gave her away.
Attraction.
And right now she was about to walk. He should be relieved—he didn’t need the distraction; he certainly didn’t intend dating her. So why he found himself asking for her phone number was beyond his comprehension.

She paused mid-stride, her fingers curved around the door frame, her eyes barely meeting his. ‘Why?’

‘I may decide to press charges against my ex.’

She scoffed and resumed walking. ‘You can do that without my help.’

He stood a moment, breathing in the sweet nutty fragrance she’d left behind, feeling oddly put out. ‘Damn right, Didi. I don’t need your help.’
I certainly don’t need you.

He’d barely moved when her elfin face reappeared around the door. ‘What makes you think I’d want to help you?’ she continued as if she’d never left. ‘Maybe she did us girls a favour. Apparently you’re not the man she thought you were.’

She looked him up and down thoroughly from his now sweat-damp brow to his black Italian leather shoes and he had the disturbing sensation she wasn’t looking at his clothes. ‘Makes one wonder what she meant considering you’re on the wrong side of the door here. Perhaps she knows something the rest of us girls don’t.’

He didn’t bother with a reply.
Didi
whoever-she-was could imply whatever the hell she liked; Cam knew exactly what Katrina had meant.

When Didi arrived home she knew she’d made the right choice in not giving Cameron Black her phone number. He was the single most dangerous man she’d ever met. He owned her apartment. He was going to tear it down.

And she had the worst case of lust for him that she’d ever experienced. How dumb was that?

Still in her coat, she was stepping out of her shoes when her mobile rang. She froze momentarily, then coughed out a laugh. Of course it couldn’t be him…Pulling her phone out of her bag, she checked caller ID, breathed a sigh of relief, but only for an instant because her friend Donna was on her own with a toddler and it was well past midnight.

‘Donna, what’s up?’

‘I’ve broken my leg…’ Distress tightened her voice. ‘Trent’s not home for another two weeks and I’ve got no one to help look after Fraser. Can you come?’

Didi rubbed her tired eyes. Donna lived in the Yarra Valley, a couple of hours’ drive from Melbourne—too far for Didi to commute on a daily basis with her unreliable car.

They’d met as volunteers at a kids’ breakfast club in Sydney, then Donna had married and moved to Victoria with her husband, but he worked on an offshore oil rig half the time. Didi would have to stay with her, which meant she’d be unavailable for work—if she still had a job, that was.

She glanced at her chaotic apartment and empty cartons. If you couldn’t help a friend in need…‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

Didi threw a handful of clothes and essentials into a couple of canvas supermarket bags. At least she’d managed to pack away her precious art supplies. She still had three weeks before she had to vacate—cutting it fine, but it couldn’t be helped. She wasn’t about to let Donna down—Cameron Black and his big bad bulldozer would just have to wait.

Cameron wasn’t sure which got to him more. The fact that Katrina had stalked him to a business function and left her poison, or that someone—a very appealing someone called Didi—had announced the fact to him at a crucial moment in negotiations.

Negotiating with Bill Smith needed subtlety and diplomacy. And as much as the man pained him, Cam needed Bill’s support to help smooth things over with the council. He might have had that support sooner if Didi O’Flanagan hadn’t announced Cam’s poster-boy status along with her condemnation of Cameron Black Property Developers. He’d had to schedule another meeting he didn’t have time for, but he’d won the older man over at least.

He stared out of his office window with its view of Telstra Stadium and the Yarra River. Didi O’Flanagan. It had been a simple matter to access her phone number through the rental agency that serviced the building and cross-reference it with the catering firm he always used. Apparently it hadn’t taken Bill long either because when he’d rung they assured Cam she was no longer working with their company and did Cam wish to file a complaint as well?

Of course the name rang a bell—she lived in the building she’d been fighting for. It was due for major renovation in two weeks. They’d been served eviction notices as soon as the project had been finalised months ago. And they’d all vacated the premises except for Miss O’Flanagan in apartment six.

He expelled a long breath. She didn’t deserve to lose her job for having the guts to stand up for her beliefs, however misguided they were in this particular circumstance. And she’d done him a favour by removing his photo. She obviously cared about others and respected their rights—even his, he thought, with a wry twist of his lips.

He wanted a chance to explain his vision for the development and the reasons behind it. If she’d stop for one second and listen, that was. As for living arrangements…maybe he could speed things up if she was having trouble finding a place. Find her an apartment in one of his complexes somewhere.

On the other side of the city.

The warning rang in his head. Yeah. The further away, the better.

Because he had a feeling this little pixie could run amok over his well-ordered life—the life he’d built from scratch—with just one look from her silver eyes or one word from that tempt-me mouth.

Two weeks later

I
T 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
in
convenient
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?’