Читать книгу At His Service: Millionaire's Mistress - Кэтти Уильямс, Kelly Hunter, Cathy Williams - Страница 10

CAM glanced at the time on his computer screen as he checked his last unread email. Half past midnight. Surely his house-guest would be asleep by now? Because he didn’t want to have to deal with her again tonight he’d stopped by his office on his way home from dinner.

Nor did he want to dwell on the fact that for some perverse reason she’d been slipping into his dreams over the past couple of weeks and doing wicked things to his libido. Of course she’d been on his mind, he told himself—she’d caused him unnecessary inconvenience and concern.

He switched off his computer, swiped his hands over the back of his neck. Okay, dreams—he could deal with those—but in-the-flesh reality was a different matter. So he’d give her another half-hour to be on the safe side.

But that didn’t stop him from imagining her in his apartment. Relaxing in the bathroom’s spa and steaming it up with her intriguing blend of feminine fragrance. Drinking from his cups. Curled between his sheets with only one room separating them.

He made a coffee in the kitchenette, then sat at his secretary’s desk and flicked through The Age to kill time and divert his thoughts from what was going on in his apartment.

But his mind refused to glance further than the latest headlines. Would Didi remember his instructions to keep the no doubt flea-infested cat in her room, preferably on the balcony? Had she even heard them? he wondered, then shook his head. He had a feeling she wasn’t good at following instructions.

She’d not yet shared with him the information that she’d lost her job. Perhaps she had something else lined up already, but he seriously doubted it. Because Didi O’Flanagan seemed to be a woman who danced to her own tune, when and wherever it suited her.

Irresponsible? He blew on his coffee. He’d reserve judgement on that. But he was surprised she recognised his Sheila Dodd.

Was that a tad pretentious of him?

He flicked through the pages with disinterest until his gaze snagged on a photo of his ex and thoughts of Didi fled as his fingers tightened on the paper. Katrina. On the arm of Melbourne’s latest most eligible bachelor—soon to be ex-bachelor judging by the size of that rock on Kat’s finger. The coffee turned bitter on his tongue. Unlike Cam, Jacob Beaumont Junior was from old money. His father owned half a shipping fleet and an airline—the perfect pedigree required for a suitable match for the daughter of an influential MP on his way to Australia’s top job.

His harsh jeer echoed around the empty room. He’d thought Katrina the perfect woman. Tall, dark-haired, educated, meticulously groomed. Unashamedly uninhibited in the bedroom, the perfect conversationalist whatever company they surrounded themselves with, as driven to succeed as he was.

Until he’d revealed his background.

Her demolition of their relationship had been swift and vehement. In her eyes his family’s history defined who he was—and consigned him to the lowest form of life. It didn’t matter that he’d clawed his way out of the gutter, and had constructed a life he could take pride in. That he was stronger for past experiences, wiser, more perceptive of others’ needs and motivation.

The page came away from the rest of the paper as he crumpled it in his fist, then tossed it in the bin. Her betrayal had severed an artery. Aristocrats were never going to let him into their world, no matter how successful he was now.

He liked women. He enjoyed their company. He liked the way they smelled, the feel of feminine softness against his body. But laying his heart on the line again was not going to happen. From now on he’d trust no one with his past. He didn’t intend to remain celibate for the rest of his life, but from this day forward there’d be no emotional entanglements.

Cam let himself in with careful stealth so as not to awaken his sleeping guest. He didn’t notice her at first. He just assumed she’d left every light in the apartment on because she had no idea about energy conservation. Annoyance prickled at him as he strode to the kitchen and flicked off the switch.

He was about to turn off the living-room lamp when he saw her. Rather, he saw her pyjama-clad backside—poking out from behind his white leather sofa. Red and green tartan flannelette.

He remained perfectly still while every male cell in his body jerked to attention. From where he stood he could see the soles of her feet and a band of creamy skin above the pyjama’s waistband. What the hell was she up to?

Then he heard her croon softly, her voice muffled by the sofa, and watched, immobile, blood pooling in his groin as the compact little bottom wiggled and began backing out, her movements inevitably tugging the elastic lower …

‘Problem?’

The wiggling stopped, then resumed at a frantic pace accompanied by a hiss, then the disconcerting sound of fabric tearing. ‘Ouch!’

Didi appeared clutching an angry armful of spiked fur, damp blonde hair in similar disarray, her eyes huge, too huge for her elfin face, reminding him again of that pixie.

‘I didn’t hear you,’ she said with a breathy catch to her voice that made him think of hot nights, hotter bodies.

‘Obviously.’

‘Charlie escaped. Um … there’s a tiny claw hole—a couple actually … in the back of your sofa.’ She closed her teeth over her bottom lip, then smiled up at him. ‘Lucky for us they’re not where you can see them, isn’t it?’

The way she did that … artfully innocent or cunningly cute? He shook his head. ‘Lucky for Charlie.’

Her smile dimmed. Snuggling the creature against her, she rose. ‘If you have a pair of nail trimmers handy, I’ll fix these claws right now.’

The shapeless flannelette swamped her. It should have been a blessing but it had the opposite effect. A sliver of protectiveness—or lust—snaked through his veins and coiled low in his body.

It had to be lust.

He crossed to the window, stood with his back to her to hide his body’s response. ‘Just take yourself and that damn cat back to bed and shut the door behind you.’ And stay there.

‘You don’t like animals. How sad.’

The quiet censure in her tone put him on the defensive. ‘I don’t like animals in my apartment.’

‘That’s why I’d never live in an apartment. No garden, no fresh air and sky, no pets.’

He tried to confine his gaze to his own reflection in the night-darkened glass, but like lightning to metal his eyes were drawn to the image of the woman behind him. To the way her delicate fingers massaged the cat’s fur. To the way her pyjama top dipped on one side exposing a sharply delineated collarbone—

‘So you’ll be wanting to find yourself somewhere more to your liking as soon as possible.’

The air stirred with a tense silence that echoed around his heart. Pulled at him as he heard her say, ‘Naturally,’ and watched her reflection turn and walk away, shoulders slumped. His fingers curled and tightened at his sides. Damn it.

Why had he taken his hostility towards Kat out on his house-guest? Even if she did rub him the wrong way. In so many ways … Shaking unwanted feelings off, he followed her ribbon of freshly showered almonds-and-honey scent along the hall. ‘Didi …’

She halted at her door, hugging her cat to her like a child with a teddy bear. But she gave him no time to form the words he might have said. ‘Thank you for your generosity this evening, Cameron Black. Goodnight.’

The door closed with a tight click, leaving only her fragrance to mingle with his self-recrimination.

He stared at the barrier a moment, listening to the sound of her moving around on the other side and wondering what she was doing. When the sound stopped abruptly, he couldn’t help but picture her climbing into bed in those oversized pyjamas.

A big picture, a bad picture. A very bad picture because he didn’t want to think about what those pyjamas hid. Nor did he want to imagine how he might go about finding out once and for all what that mobile mouth of hers tasted like, even if it was just to shut her up for a moment or two.

He gulped in a deep breath, heard it whistle out through his teeth. Finally he peeled his gaze away from the paintwork. Right now was a good time to hit the treadmill running.

The sound of his mobile woke Cameron from a sleep crowded with unwanted dreams of passionate pixies. Eyes still closed, he reached for the phone. ‘Cameron Black.’

‘Good morning, Mr Black. Sasha Needham calling for Sheila Dodd. I apologise for ringing you this early but I’ve just had a call from Sheila in the UK.’

‘Yes?’ Cam dragged his eyes open, checked the digital clock on his night stand. Five forty-five a.m.

‘Sheila sends her sincere apologies but she’s unable to finish the piece you commissioned within the agreed time frame. She’s had a family crisis and will be staying on in the UK for the next few weeks.’

He pushed upright, wide awake now and already one step ahead. ‘The gallery opens in less than three weeks.’

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Black. Sheila realises it’s short notice. She’s given me the names of some possible alternatives …’

He closed his eyes again, scrubbed a hand over his morning stubble. ‘Email them to me along with their credentials et cetera and I’ll get back to you.’

Tossing off the quilt, he rose quickly, his bare feet barely registering the change from plush carpet to cool tiles as he moved to the bathroom and splashed cold water over his face.

Over the past two years he’d worked like a demon to turn a graffiti-covered warehouse in Melbourne’s inner suburbs into something unique. An art gallery, not only for prominent artists but also for undiscovered talent from the lower socioeconomic areas. An opportunity for those willing to put in the effort to start something worthwhile. A second chance.

The way he’d been given a second chance.

He stared into his own eyes. Heaven knew where he’d be now without it. He’d been one of those kids, and this gallery was a memorial to the one person who’d made it possible to start over.

Cam had poured a large sum of money into publicity; the minister for the arts was attending the official opening along with the press. If he couldn’t have Sheila’s work on display in time for the opening, he’d damn well have to find someone else pronto.

Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, Cam slid open the French doors and welcomed the sounds of distant early morning traffic and brisk winter wind blowing through the potted palms on his sky garden patio. The fading glow of sunrise tinged the clouds a dirty pink, crisp air tingled his cheeks. He shrugged inside his suit jacket. Who said apartment living and nature were mutually exclusive?

Didi O’Flanagan.

Her image exploded into his mind and he pinched the bridge of his nose. As if he hadn’t seen enough of her in his dreams last night; reclining on his desk, wearing nothing but those damn pink glasses and munching on red apples, for heaven’s sake. He shook it away. He should have arranged a time to meet this morning to discuss further arrangements. If he wasn’t careful she could end up here for God knew how long.

Right now he had a more urgent problem. Slurping strong black coffee, he checked his mobile for the names Sheila’s assistant had promised to send. Nothing yet.

‘Wow!’

He turned at the sound of Didi’s voice, mighty relieved when she appeared wearing a cover-all pink dressing gown. ‘Good morning.’ His relief was short-lived—she smiled at him as she bit into a shiny red apple.

‘Good morning.’ Silver eyes sparkling, she waved the thing in the air like a damn trophy, indicating their surroundings. ‘This garden’s amazing! Is that a kumquat tree?’ she said, barely drawing breath and moving to his tubbed specimen laden with tiny orange fruit. ‘I just love kumquat marmalade.’

‘Ah, we need to discuss—’

His mobile cut the rest of his sentence off. Didi studied him as he took the call. Impeccably dressed in dark suit, wrinkle-free white shirt and a tie the colour of blueberries. His cedar-wood fragrance wafting on the air, the broad shape of his shoulders, the sexy strip of neck between his jacket and newly cut hair as he turned and began walking inside. Heat shivered through her and lodged low in her belly. Tall, dark, gorgeous.

Forget gorgeous.

Yep, she seriously needed to forget gorgeous. Cameron Black was the reason she no longer had an apartment. And because of her outburst at that function a fortnight ago, thanks to him, she needed to look for another job, which left her no time to work on the important things like establishing her career as an artist.

If she could just win that chance …

To give him privacy while he took his call, she chomped on the apple she’d helped herself to in the kitchen and admired the view a few moments, then rescued his coffee and carried it inside.

She found him studying his laptop at the dining-room table, brow furrowed, mouth pursed in a seriously sexy way, and for an insane moment she wondered how he’d react if she walked over there and pressed her lips against his.

Bad thought. This man was so not her type. This man was the type of successful entrepreneur her parents would approve of, which made him all wrong.

So she had to ask, ‘What, no destitute families to evict today?’ as she set his coffee cup on the table beside him.

He didn’t look up; his only reply was, ‘Humph.’

Had he even heard her? Then she made the mistake of looking at his eyes. Framed by ridiculously long lashes, they were the colour of his tie—dark blueberry—and the clouds in them had her softening despite herself. ‘Anything I can do?’

Fingers tense on the table, he leaned back against the chair, his suit jacket falling open and giving her a view of broad chest, his dark nipples barely visible beneath the white shirt. ‘Not unless you know someone with Sheila Dodd’s expertise who can whip up something remarkable at short notice.’

Processing his words, she dragged her gaze away from his superhero body. ‘Why?’ she queried carefully.

‘I’m opening a gallery in less than three weeks. The press will be there, along with a host of art critics, and I need something spectacular for the main wall. I commissioned Sheila but she’s overseas dealing with some sort of family crisis.’ His breath steamed out through his nostrils and he smacked the table with a hefty palm. ‘Damn it!’

‘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 action 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.’