Читать книгу At His Service: Millionaire's Mistress - Кэтти Уильямс, Kelly Hunter, Cathy Williams - Страница 11

DIDI heard the sound of the fridge door open, something hit the kitchen bench with a thwack, and realised she’d eaten nothing since that apple at breakfast. Nor could she now with her stomach twisted into hard, indigestible knots.

Work here? In this man’s apartment? The man who ostensibly didn’t give a fig for the less fortunate yet took in a stranger with a cat, no questions asked … well, almost none.

He wasn’t the man she’d first assumed, she had to admit. And he was giving her the chance of a lifetime.

To anchor herself she clutched the front of her T-shirt while she replayed the last few moments. She’d wanted, more than she’d ever wanted anything, him to give her the commission, she just hadn’t thought beyond that happy moment to the day-to-day/day-to-night practicalities.

Several long days. And nights.

Cam hadn’t even bothered to comment on her work. The first person she’d exposed her best piece to, laying her vulnerability on the line, and not a single comment apart from a rude ‘apples again’—what was that all about? Typical of the wealthy, she thought with an inward sneer. It reminded her of her family’s dismissive attitude towards her art.

And yet … he had an original Sheila Dodd on his wall and he was opening a gallery, which had to mean he valued art. She thought of his eyes, the pulse-accelerating way he’d looked at her … Perhaps there was another reason he’d stalked off as if the demons from hell snapped at his heels …

She shook off the thought and all its complications—forget all that. This was her big chance, maybe her only chance to show what she was capable of.

Cam put two frozen gourmet meals in the microwave, set the timer, then leaned against the bench, uncomfortably aware that if Didi chose that moment to follow, she’d be in no doubt as to why he’d walked away before they’d formalised any kind of agreement.

For a moment he’d considered remaining in front of the open refrigerator door for a few moments. Cool the fires within. The woman was a sorceress in pixie clothing. How else could she have bewitched him so utterly? One glance and he knew for certain that underneath the figure-hugging black she was moulded just the way he’d dreamed. All she needed was the wings.

Hell.

And he’d just made an arrangement that required her here, in his apartment, for the next two and a half weeks. He shook his head at the irony.

No. This was strictly business. If she was going to be working in the dining/living room in the evenings—which was the ideal room with its floor-to-ceiling windows and huge table—wearing those figure-hugging outfits … He’d stay longer at the office and sleep on the futon. Maybe he should check into a hotel.

Then how would he keep an eye on her progress?

He needed to set some parameters, but some sort of celebratory offering was probably required first. A drink? He moved to the refrigerator once more, whipped out a bottle of Moët et Chandon Vintage Rosé, grabbed two glasses and headed to the living area.

Struck again by the sight of her sensational art against the wall, he slowed to study it once more. Who’d have thought the somewhat crazy little waitress was so talented? It would look right at home in the best galleries in the country. It looked right at home in his living room.

So did Didi.

She stood facing the windows, her hands laced together behind her head. The down-lights spangled her contrived riot of hair and he could smell her sweet almond fragrance from the other side of the room. He did his best to ignore her relaxed pose against Melbourne’s diamond-studded deep velvet panorama as she stretched her body from side to side, no doubt flexing her spine after hours of close work.

But there was something spellbinding about the way she moved, as if she listened to some inner rhythm, that had his feet stapled to the floor. His blood pounded thickly as his gaze devoured the slim waist and compact little ass like some ravenous beast. And those legs … How would they feel clamped around his waist?

Dangerous curves.

Dangerous thoughts.

‘We haven’t ironed out the details of this arrangement,’ she said.

Her voice startled him out of his semi-dazed state. Using his trick and watching him in the glass. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then again when she turned to face him. It was in her gaze too—a mutual awareness, quickly banked. If he’d blinked he’d have missed it.

‘No, we haven’t.’ He moved to the table, set down the bottle and glasses, dismissing the urge to suggest an alternative and completely inappropriate way to celebrate: Sealed with a kiss. Like a spark to oxygen, the thought of locking lips with Didi exploded into stunning, breathtaking life. He grappled with the bottle’s foil and cork. With those full rosy lips she’d suck away any bargaining power he possessed, of that he had no doubt. And on that not-so-sobering note, he said, ‘We’ll drink to it first.’

Didi shook her head. As much as she loved champers—and this looked like a bottle of the very expensive variety—this was way too important. ‘Details first. How much am I worth?’

He named a figure that swept the air out of her lungs with a whoosh.

‘That’s if you’re finished within the time frame,’ he reminded her.

She was suddenly elated and terrified all at once. That amount was seriously serious. It would set her up for a long time. Show her family artists did make money and finally, maybe, they’d accept her choice. Accept her. How long had she craved their acceptance, their pride? Doubts crept in. Was she up for it? ‘I’ll need an advance to purchase supplies.’

‘No problem. I can order you a credit card or give you cash, whichever you prefer. The apartment’s at your disposal day and night.’

She nodded, trying to absorb the details. At least he’d be out during the day, but evenings … ‘I’m not used to people watching me work—or looking at the unfinished product.’

‘I’m paying you enough—that gives me the right to view it any time.’

He poured the bubbly into the glasses, looking satisfied with the deal. And why not? He dealt with mega bucks on a daily basis; this was probably no more than a drop in the Pacific Ocean to him. And he was correct—that amount of money on an unknown artist gave him every right to track her progress.

‘I’ll need time to design and collect materials.’

‘Not too long. I want to see something tangible within a few days.’

Panic stations. ‘Artists don’t work like that.’

‘Ah, but this one will. It’s too important, for both of us.’

He held up a full glass, sparkling with pink liquid, his eyes focused on hers and she felt … respect? No one had ever afforded her work that compliment so she wasn’t sure of her perceptions. She stood by the window too strung out with emotion to move. Or speak.

‘Lost for words, Didi?’ His voice held a hint of humour, deep and warm, and he walked towards her with both glasses. ‘I have every confidence in you. Don’t doubt yourself or your abilities.’

She drew herself up as he approached. ‘I don’t.’

‘Good.’

‘Even though you haven’t said a word about my work,’ she pointed out.

‘Doesn’t the fact that I’m commissioning you say it all?’ His knuckles inevitably skimmed hers as he handed her the pink bubbly, sending a fizz of sensation through her fingers and up her arm. That first brief skin-to-skin contact left her wanting … more.

‘We’re in this together,’ he said. ‘A team. You create and I’ll provide you with meals, coffee, chocolate, headache pills if necessary … whatever you need.’

She clinked her glass to his. ‘Okay. To teamwork.’ The fruity bubbles sparkled through her system as she took the first sip, their happy hiss and pop tickling her nose and prompting her to smile and say, ‘I’ll tell you now, I only eat dark chocolate. Soft centres.’

‘Ah, a woman after my own taste.’

He grinned, an easy grin that reminded her of the first uncomplicated moment when she’d met him when he was just an attractive man with a flirtatious wit. Like Jay. Despite the warning bells that told her to avoid such men at all costs, she grinned right back. And why not? It wasn’t as if they were going to fall into bed—she wouldn’t let that happen. ‘And olives,’ she continued. ‘You like olives, if my memory serves correctly.’

‘Cheese and olive balls …’ His smile faded and just like that the atmosphere changed from light and casual to something darker, deeper. Different.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, which suddenly felt dry and chapped and tingly and she had to force herself not to run her tongue over her lips.

Her relationship with Jay had tarnished the way she viewed men. But none had made her feel so aware of herself as a woman. And if she was right in her assumption of his reaction, a desirable woman. He could even—perhaps—polish that tarnish away.

If she moved closer would he kiss her?

She couldn’t help it, she looked right back. She could imagine being kissed by those lips. Her own were practically puckering up in anticipation.

And where would that leave her?

In that big bad bed of his having the best sex of her life?

And more breathless and brainless than she already was, no doubt.

Big mistake. She knew next to nothing about him except that he was rich, gorgeous … and attracted to her. And his poster-boy status suggested a playboy and put her defences on alert. Yep, way too much like Jay.

So she chose the only alternative and stepped back. Away. Paying careful attention to keep her glass—and her voice—steady as she said, ‘Tell me about this gallery of yours.’

He regarded her a moment through thoughtful eyes as if he, too, was mulling over the sexual tension between them. ‘It’s my latest building development.’

‘Another bunch of displaced people, then?’ And instantly felt less-than-stellar for the jibe. Did she want to blow this whole deal before she got started? Especially when his eyes glinted with some emotion she didn’t recognise … Regret? For past business actions maybe? Or for something that struck much deeper and closer to the heart.

She was still frowning when he said, ‘I’m not the bastard you seem to think I am.’ And took a breath—

She perked up, ready to listen. Personal information, great, he hadn’t volunteered a word about his personal life. But either the sound of scratching and an annoyed yowl from her bedroom distracted him or he deliberately chose not to elaborate.

‘Charlie,’ she murmured. ‘He’s lonely. And hungry, no doubt.’

‘No doubt.’ The dismissive tone didn’t bode well for poor Charlie. ‘It was a disused warehouse,’ he continued, ignoring the feline sounds. ‘Boarded up and covered in graffiti. High ceilings, plenty of space. It has a whole new look.’

‘What type of art are you showcasing?’

‘Paintings, textiles, jewellery, you name it. The idea is to foster new talent.’

‘So why a Sheila Dodd commission? She’s hardly new.’

‘I’ve admired her work for several years and a big name brings in more customers and encourages new sales.’

‘Why me? With your contacts you must know others who fit the bill.’

‘This opening’s being publicised as a big event in the art community. I don’t have the time to look for someone at such short notice.’ He glanced at the piece, looked back to her. ‘Your work’s unique—I’m prepared to take a chance. I want you.’

His voice was neutral, all business, but his eyes … his eyes imbued a different meaning to those last three words. Her pulse seemed to throb in her throat, making it difficult to swallow. She gulped down more wine and held his gaze.

But he didn’t want her so much as need her and that gave her a sense of power that she’d never had. Which emboldened her to say, ‘I have another request … Perhaps favour is a better word? It’s about Charlie.’

‘Ah. Yes. Charlie.’ His tone predictably cooled.

‘Could we perhaps compromise?’ Her parents had often mentioned the word and Didi in the same breath. ‘If I’m here for nearly three weeks, it’s hardly fair to keep him shut away by himself all day while I work. Would you agree to him being in here with me?’ Cameron didn’t look impressed with her idea—his brows lowered, his lips thinned, then pursed as if about to speak. ‘And I know he’d love the sky garden,’ she hurried on. ‘He couldn’t do much damage there and if I could leave the door open a fraction …’

He blew out a sigh. ‘I guess we can try it before he strips the paintwork on the bedroom door to kingdom come.’

She paused, knowing, hating that she had to say, ‘I love him to bits, but I know I’m going to have trouble finding a place that will take me and a pet … if you know anyone who wants a cat …’ She blinked away a sudden moisture.

‘I’ll ask around at the office,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile he’s okay here.’

‘Thank you.’ She polished off her wine and felt the grin pull at her cheeks as the bubbly danced through her system. ‘And it’s a wonderful compromise. I’ll go tell him the good news now.’

‘You do that. Then we’ll eat; I assume you’re hungry?’

‘Famished,’ she called as she all but skipped on those pretty bare feet across the room and disappeared from view down the passage. ‘All I’ve had today is an apple.’

Yeah. The apple. Cameron stared at the place where she’d been seconds ago. It was as if she’d left something of herself there. Hell, his whole apartment suddenly seemed crammed with her presence. His gaze lobbed on the usually pristine dining-room table, now a jumble stall jammed with her stuff. Littering his floor was a haphazard scatter of cardboard boxes brimming with colour. A fresh spicy fragrance permeated the air.

It was as if a cellar had been opened to let in the sunshine.

He slammed the door on his overactive imagination. Shaking his head at the absurdity, he strode to the kitchen. What the hell was wrong with him? He despised clutter. Didn’t tolerate disorganised people. The squalid mess of his childhood would live with him for the rest of his life.

Three weeks. For art’s sake he could manage three weeks. And what was that about compromise? She obviously had no idea of the meaning of the word … What was that odour?

He glared at the two containers as he yanked them out of the microwave. One hot gourmet dinner and one ruined tray of greying prime fillet steak, steamed beyond redemption. Blast it.

‘What’s that smell?’ Didi appeared at the door with the cat in her arms and wrinkling her nose.

‘Charlie’s dinner. What say we eat out? My treat.’ He whisked the remaining gourmet plate to the back of the bench then, grabbing a knife, he sliced the plastic off the other tray, cut the meat into chunks, put it on a saucer.

‘Sounds good.’ Then her perky voice altered. ‘Ooh,’ she almost crooned, the sound washing through him like liquid sex, causing his hand to slip on the knife. ‘You didn’t have to go to so much trouble for Charlie. I’ve got plenty of cat food.’

He set the saucer on the floor, noticing a pair of bare feet approach as he did so. ‘I won’t be making a habit of it,’ he muttered. She had gold nail polish on her toes, he noticed, with little black snowflakes in the middle of each. Slim ankles, shapely calves—

Four white furry paws bounded into view and the feet moved away as he straightened up to clear the empty meat tray, but Didi got there first.

‘Cameron. That steak wasn’t for Charlie, was it?’ She was smoothing out the plastic wrap and checking the price sticker. ‘Come on, fess up. Even with your wealth you wouldn’t pay mega bucks for a cat’s dinner. You wouldn’t pay for a cat’s dinner at all if you had your way.’

To his chagrin he watched her lean over the counter top and check out the second container: the gourmet meal. ‘Hey, I’m guessing you took out the wrong container. So you made a mistake—no big deal.’ She grinned at him through silky gold lashes, her eyes slightly unfocused. ‘Why do you feel you need to play Mr Perfecto in your own home? There’s only you and me here.’

He was all too aware of that fact, which for some reason had every hair on his body rising, not to mention his blood pressure, and other bodily parts.

He snatched the empty container and plastic out from beneath her hands, catching a whiff of alcohol on her breath as he dumped them in the kitchen bin. Was the woman tipsy on one glass?

‘Maintain the Image, perhaps?’ she went on when he didn’t reply, waving one end of her chiffon scarf. ‘I bet you maintain that Mr Perfecto image in your sleep. All buttoned up and stiff …’

Registering the tiny hitch in her breath, he swivelled his head to see her soft cheeks suffused with instant colour. Right on the mark.

He turned away, moved to the sink to rinse the mugs left over from breakfast and said the first thing that sprang to his lips. ‘What do you feel like eating?’

‘Whatever you’re having.’ Her voice had dropped a notch, turned husky.

His fingers slipped on the mug he was drying as her words slid over him, through him. Ropes of fire snaked along his veins, tugging at his libido, stampeding his imagination into savage, steamy life. Didi riding him, her hair wild, long legs spurring him on, unbuttoning his image with quick deft hands …

He closed his eyes. Very carefully set the mug down. Unclenched his teeth. Wiped his hands on the towel and sent up a silent prayer for sanity.

No doubt about it, she was tipsy. What had he been thinking, giving her champagne on an empty stomach? That’s it, focus on practicalities. ‘You didn’t eat lunch,’ he barked. ‘I told you to help yourself.’

‘I forgot.’

Next he knew she’d planted her butt on the bench beside him. He didn’t know how she’d got there—one moment she was standing behind him safely out of his line of vision, the next moment she was on the counter top. Perhaps she flew.

He made the mistake of looking at her. Astute silver eyes stared back at him. She wasn’t worried about losing her commission or her accommodation, he realised—as he’d already said, he needed her. And they both knew it.

Leaning one elbow alongside her on the counter top, he forced himself to hold her gaze. Ignore the normal red-blooded male’s reaction. The one still racking his system.

But he was a normal red-blooded male. And the warmth of her skin, fair and fresh and fragrant, teased him, tempting him to reach out and touch. He curled his fingers, confining the urge, shooting temptation straight to his already tormented lower body.

Plump rosy lips curved ever so slightly, hinted at a sense of fun. He hadn’t experienced anything remotely funny in a long time. When was the last time he’d laughed? Did he even have a sense of humour any more? he wondered. He had the feeling Didi would be the type to breathe life back into it.

Breathe. He could hear the soft sound of her steady exhalations. Breasts rising, falling … He wanted to look down and see for himself. His fingers itched again to test the weight of her womanly flesh and feel her nipples rise in anticipation against his palms.

A good reason to focus on her face. The eyes brimming with hidden thoughts, the high cheekbones, the neat flat ear lobes—’You’re wearing two different earrings.’

She tipped her head to one side, setting the left one tinkling. ‘It’s The Look.’

‘The look?’

‘Asymmetric. Like your Sheila Dodd. Like your tie.’ Her eyes dipped and she studied his throat through long silky lashes.

He swallowed over the lump that had suddenly mushroomed from nowhere. ‘My tie’s asymmetric?’

Wiggling her bottom along the bench until she was within reach, she slotted her fingers behind it, loosening the knot and yanking the silk sideways in one swift movement. ‘It is now.’ Grinning, she smoothed it all the way down his chest, her eyes following the path of her fingers, every part of his body responding to the touch. ‘That’s better. It looked like it was strangling you.’

Perceptive girl. Or maybe it was blazingly obvious, he thought, reaching up now to undo the top button of his shirt. He’d never thought this apartment overly warm. Until this woman had turned the heat up.

‘Okay. I made a mistake. I intended to impress you with my gourmet dinners specially imported from the Six Spice Deli around the corner.’

Now it was he who manoeuvred along the counter top so Didi was directly in front of him, her knees bumping his waist. So he could rest his hands on her hips. So he could look directly into her eyes and say, ‘And I’m probably about to make another one,’ as he laid his lips on hers.