Читать книгу At His Service: Millionaire's Mistress - Кэтти Уильямс, Kelly Hunter, Cathy Williams - Страница 12

THE first touch of Didi’s mouth against his detonated an explosion that knocked Cameron sideways and shattered the illusion that control was his rock-solid foundation, that he could pull away any time.

Sparks. They sizzled along his nerves with the spectacular ferocity of frayed power cables, snapping and crackling through his blood, sending his hormones spearing into the sky like some crazed Eureka Tower.

He felt her instant response—the heave of her breasts as she struggled to drag in air and push him away, then her mouth softening, opening, hands rising to clutch at his shirt. The moan deep in her throat as he changed the angle for better access.

Her taste was a sweet temptation, luring him deeper to sample the dark lusciousness of her tongue, to drink in its hot honey flavour as it writhed with his.

This was no ordinary kiss. This was the force of a wrecking ball at its most dramatic, splintering thought and crumbling to dust barriers he’d thought impenetrable.

Had he thought himself immune to emotion? He tried telling himself this was a severe case of lust but somehow the condition sounded grossly inadequate. Because something else was happening here. Something he didn’t want to think about because if he did he’d know he’d made a bigger mistake than he’d ever dreamed of.

Instead he pulled her closer, shifted nearer, between thighs that seemed to melt apart at his wordless command so he could feel her sultry heat seep through his shirt and into his skin.

Her softness yielded to his burgeoning hardness, hot blood beating through his body as his hands slid from her hips to the curve of her bottom and found the hem of her T-shirt. Fingers barely steady crept beneath to find smooth alabaster skin, the delicate arch of her spine as she leaned into him.

Her grip on his shirt tightened. Jersey-clad legs clamped around his waist, locking their lower bodies in an iron embrace. He rocked against her. Sweat broke out on his brow, his lungs seized. The urge to rip away the thin barrier and drive into her—right here, right now, without thought for the consequences—

He wrenched his mouth away from her satiny warmth. Backed up a step. It was torture to slide his hands beneath her thighs, over firm shapely calves and untangle her legs from around him. Madness to look into her wide silver eyes and see his own ardour reflected back. Had he forgotten so soon? Lust was one thing, this emotional whatever it was … was something else.

He didn’t do emotion. Not since Katrina.

Chewing on passion-plumped lips, she drew in a breath, her breasts rising with the effort, drawing his attention to her nipples outlined clearly against her T-shirt.

‘A-a-ah.’ Her breathy voice drew the sound out like spun toffee.

‘I—’ A stab of pain in his lower leg cut through his senses and he stumbled back a step. ‘What the …?’

Charlie. He glared down at the cat, who’d apparently polished off his silver-service main course and decided trouser-clad legs were a convenient dessert.

‘What?’ Didi still had a death-grip on his shirt and now one of the animal’s damn claws seemed to be lodged tight in the leg of his Armani trousers. He teetered dangerously for a couple of seconds before rocking forward on the balls of his feet only to feel one shoe land on something squishy.

‘Bloody cat.’ He shook his leg free and the animal bounded away with a hiss of annoyance, no doubt in search of its next victim of choice—the French silk drapes, perhaps.

His body still pulsed, his leg throbbed, his pride was dust beneath his feet. There was a rip in the fabric and—he checked—a disgusting disc of squashed fillet steak on the bottom of his shoe.

He looked back at Didi, who’d relinquished her hold on his shirt to cup her hands over her mouth and nose. ‘It’s okay,’ he reassured her. ‘Hardly a scratch.’

Didi stared at Cameron while she tried to regain control of her runaway emotions. Her lips felt as if they’d been buzzed by a supersonic jet; her pulse was galloping for a win in the Melbourne Cup.

Alcohol on an empty stomach had snatched away reason and common sense. Planting her butt on the counter top had been her first mistake.

He looked … worried? No, he looked confused. Blame the champers for the fit of giggles that bubbled up her throat. She must be borderline loony because why would she feel like laughing when she’d just been kissed senseless and he was probably going to kill her cat and fire her and life was never going to be the same again?

She couldn’t help it; the half-laugh, half-cough tumbled out, convulsive and slightly hysterical.

His gaze narrowed slightly, his bemused expression didn’t alter. ‘Are you laughing?’

‘I’m sorry, it’s just …’ She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her scarf. Her sudden amusement faded as he bent and she saw him twitch at the hem of his trouser leg to inspect the damage to his flesh—twin stripes of red. ‘Are you okay?’

He grabbed a tissue, moistened it under the tap and dabbed at the wound. ‘I’m probably going to die of blood poisoning or tetanus but don’t let that spoil your evening.’

‘Let’s have a look.’ She slid off the bench but he was scraping meat from the bottom of his shoe and she couldn’t see. ‘Where’s your first-aid box?’

‘I don’t need first aid. Or maybe I do, but not for my leg.’ He straightened and met her eyes. ‘What just happened here—’

‘Was a kiss, Cameron.’

At least that was what she’d thought it was. But she’d never thought a simple kiss by the kind of man you’d sworn to avoid could suck the air from your lungs and leave you in need of an oxygen mask. Burn you from the inside out until you were cinders. Send your heart spinning in a thousand different directions until you didn’t know which way was up. The answer: it wasn’t a simple kiss. Which only led to another question: what was it?

But she was hardly going to tell him all that, was she? The best option was to feign nonchalance. As if she exchanged saliva with almost-strangers every day of the week. So she shrugged. ‘It was fun, Cameron.’

‘Fun.’ His tone mocked and his eyes, darkly assessing, pinned her own, holding her immobile, stripping away clothes, flesh and façade until she understood the meaning of naked to the core.

It took all her strength to drag her eyes away. ‘My guess would be you thought so too,’ she managed, whirling away to drag open cupboards. ‘About that first-aid box …’

But she could feel his gaze tracking her movements, like a hot glue gun oozing heat down her spine, her bottom, her legging-clad thighs.

Suddenly he was behind her. She felt his shirt brush her sleeve, his breath against her bare arm as she reached for the next cupboard. Her heart rate, barely back to something approaching normal, picked up pace once more.

Then he leaned closer, the hard planes of his chest abrading her spine, her nape, the back of her head as he reached to the top shelf. She could smell the residue of cologne he’d used this morning, and, beneath that, the scent of soap and man. This man. She’d smell it in her sleep tonight, and a few nights more. Many nights more.

‘Here,’ he snapped. Rather than the super-dooper kit she expected, he pulled out an old ice-cream tub with a loose assortment of Band-Aids, painkillers, tubes and bottles. He stepped back and Didi swayed at the sudden loss of contact. Her head was spinning, her legs felt numb.

He lifted out a tube of antiseptic cream, barely glanced at her as he said, ‘Looks like you should sit down. Or perhaps you should eat.’ He flicked his head at the counter top. ‘There’s a dinner there. It should still be hot.’

Probably a sensible idea, even if her stomach churned at the thought of food. ‘I think I will.’ She peeled off the lid, grabbed a spoon, filled a tumbler of water and perched on a kitchen bar stool at the end of the counter top. But even the fragrance of sweet-spiced Moroccan lamb didn’t tempt her appetite out of hiding.

She dug out a token chickpea or two, rolled them around her mouth, barely swallowed. Gulped water. Then the sight of Cameron placing one foot on a chair, rolling up his trouser leg and exposing one firm calf with thick masculine hair dried her mouth all over again.

The two distinct raised welts were dealt with swiftly and she stared as he rubbed in antiseptic cream with long blunt fingers.

Dark olive skin overlaid the hard muscle. Her own fingers tingled and her creativity took flight. Oh, how would it feel to run her hands up his leg? What was it about this guy? She’d never even looked at Jay this way. This wicked, wanton way.

She’d take off his shoe, his sock. Start at the toes and work her way up. From the smooth skin of his instep to the rougher skin above the sock line. She’d watch his eyes darken to that gorgeous blueberry as she crept her fingers higher, beneath the trousers to fondle his kneecap. Higher, where the tops of his thighs would be hard, like wood, then to the inner thigh where it would be softer, hotter …

‘How is it?’

His voice penetrated the sexual shroud she found herself immersed in. As she blinked it away she became aware of her own heart beating a thick, heavy rhythm against her ribs. Aware of his eyes studying her with a searing intensity that made her wonder if he could read her thoughts.

She managed a smile, hoped it looked casual and tried for light. ‘Mmm, good. Want a taste?’

His gaze dropped to her mouth, the sexual glitter in his eyes making her lips feel swollen and sensual, as if she’d invited him to taste something far more intimate. A taste he’d already acquainted himself with, and her pulse spiked at the memory.

Which was probably why he said, ‘Thanks, but I’ll eat later. When I’ve finished at the office.’ He rolled down his trouser leg, capped the tube. He didn’t want an encore. In fact she got the distinct feeling he did, in fact, consider it a mistake, as he’d said before he kissed her.

She told herself she was not disappointed. She did not need another reminder of her own mistakes. Rather, she felt a growing unease that he was leaving his own apartment on her account. Guilt because he shouldn’t have to do that. She set the spoon on the counter top with a chink of silver on granite. ‘I thought you’d finished for the day?’

‘I’ve got some last-minute details to finalise before I leave for Sydney.’

‘You’re going to Sydney?’

‘First thing in the morning. I’m viewing some glass figurines and wooden carvings I intend purchasing for the gallery. I’ll be gone a couple of days. You’ll be okay here alone, won’t you?’

He didn’t pause for an answer, just dragged a wallet from the back pocket of his trousers, pulled out a couple of business cards and a wad of fifty-dollar bills. ‘I haven’t had time to organise a credit card but this should cover your expenses while I’m away. I use a limo service; I’ll let them know the car’s at your disposal.’ He counted the cash, laid it on the table.

She stared. She’d never seen anyone lay down such a large amount of cash at one time and not blink an eye. Perhaps it simply wasn’t enough for him to bother about. ‘You’re not afraid I’ll do a runner with your money?’

He shook his head once. ‘You’ll hang out for the prize. You stand to earn ten times that amount—and earn a name for yourself at the same time.’ Spoken with an almost indiscernible disdain for those beneath his privileged position of wealth and power. She recognised it and anger flared, hot and harsh. ‘How dare you presume to pigeonhole me—or anyone else for that matter—because I don’t live at a fancy address?’

He flashed her a look, a cold blue flame that froze and burned, holding her in its grip for a few tense heartbeats, and for a gut-curdling moment a stranger seemed to stare back at her. He’s not the man you think he is. The poster pinned to the ladies’ room mirror streaked through her mind.

She slid off the stool and took a step back, rubbing arms that suddenly felt chilled. Who was this man she’d committed herself to work for? Whose apartment she’d be living in for the next couple of weeks?

The man who’d kissed her with toe-curling expertise.

The man she’d kissed back.

His gaze relented a little but his face remained stony and unforgiving, the lines around his mouth suddenly looked deeper. ‘You’re mistaken,’ he said quietly. ‘I judge people by the way they live their life, not their address.’

‘I’m—’

‘Any problems, speak to Davis downstairs or call my mobile.’ He turned and headed to the dining room, collected his jacket.

Trailing in his wake, Didi nodded, hugging her own threatened security within her crossed arms.

As he shrugged into his jacket he said, ‘If you’re cold, turn up the thermostat; it’s on the wall by the front door.’

‘I’m not cold.’ Just uncertain.

‘I’ll be late back tonight and gone early. Have some work in progress for me to look at when I get back.’

‘I will.’ Spoken with a certain amount of trepidation.

He paused, looking grimly awkward. ‘We should clear the air about that moment …’

She was almost tempted to let him bumble through an explanation, but, really, she didn’t want to discuss it either. ‘I told you, it was a bit of fun. Let’s leave it at that.’

He nodded and she sensed his relief. His remote expression relaxed into some semblance of the guy who’d toasted their partnership with her less than an hour ago. ‘See you on Friday.’

Then he was gone. Didi sank into the nearest available sofa. She hoped her creativity wasn’t shot to pieces. Charlie wandered in, jumped up onto her lap and began purring, bumping his head against her hand. ‘There you are. You just wanted in on the action, didn’t you? Or were you jealous, hey? Well, you don’t have to worry, there won’t be any more.’ Cameron’s kiss might be the hottest thing since supernovae were discovered but they’d never be compatible.

Except in bed.

She had no doubt he’d be an absolute god in bed. But he’d never be suitable in the ways that counted. Yet she hardly knew him, how could she make any kind of judgement?

Well, she knew some things. He’d never understand what it was like to wonder where your next dollar was coming from or where you were going to sleep tonight. Mind you, neither had she until she’d made the decision to go it alone.

‘Don’t bother coming back until you’re prepared to take your place as a part of our family and communicate rationally,’ her mother had said when Didi had flounced into the lounge room and announced she was leaving. Fitting in with her family’s lifestyle had never suited her. A lifestyle Cameron Black would be totally at home with.

But who was he really? With his lifestyle, looks, his way with women, he reminded her too much of the man who, to her humiliation, had left her to cancel their wedding plans alone. But she’d seen glimpses—shadows—of someone else behind that polished façade. Drained of energy, she closed her eyes. Cameron Black Property Developers might have a reputable name but Cameron Black, the man, was someone else entirely.

The wide steel doors slid open on a cushion of air and Cam stepped into his night-darkened office on the fifteenth floor with its twinkling vista of lights below, but he barely gave them a glance as he strode past the empty reception area. He’d kissed her. Didi. The woman he’d commissioned to work for him.

Why, for God’s sake? Because he’d been unable to help himself. He’d been bewitched. No, he told himself, it was simpler than that—he was horny. Scowling, he rifled through his files until he found the Sydney contacts. She didn’t call the shots where his sex life was concerned. So why had it felt as if he’d been sledgehammered? As if he’d been the one out of control?

He tossed the necessary paperwork into his briefcase then moved to his computer, booted it up. He’d not go to Sydney next weekend as he’d originally planned, but tomorrow.

Just a kiss. That was all it was, right?

Who knew what might have happened if the damn cat hadn’t decided to take a piece out of him?

Sex might have happened.

Fast furious sex on his kitchen counter. The image of him whipping her leggings down and plunging himself into that warm wet heat had his pulse stepping up, his blood rushing to his groin. He swore. He didn’t do emotional, he didn’t do trust, not where women were concerned. Not any more.

He tapped keys, booked a seat on the six a.m. flight and printed out his boarding pass. He wanted the best Didi could do with her needlework. He needed her creativity on the wall, not in his bed.

Didi spent the following morning designing something on paper, deciding on materials, sorting through what she already had and what she needed to purchase.

This was what she needed to concentrate her thoughts on, she told herself as she pulled out skeins of tangerine and vermilion silk and matched them to the aubergine. Not the sexy man who was paying her, offering her the chance she’d been waiting for.

Next she took Cameron’s offer of the limo service and shopped like a queen—for supplies. But it was liberating selecting materials without having to think of the cost. Paying for them with the cash he’d left, then riding back to his apartment without having to depend on an unreliable car, the hassles of parking or public transport. The carefree way she’d done as a child.

She and her sister had been raised as the privileged daughters of a society couple. Their parents graced the social pages regularly and she’d attended numerous functions over the years. As a teenager, she’d accompanied her mother to her charitable events, had witnessed firsthand what it was like to live in the gutter with no support, no hope. She’d seen the despair in those eyes and what that desperation led to—drugs, crime, death. It had changed the way Didi viewed her place in the world.

Over the years she’d devoted regular early mornings to helping out with the kids’ breakfast club on the seamier side of the city, lent her expertise to an arts programme for women and children in shelters, volunteered late shifts at a halfway house for those undergoing drug rehabilitation.

People were all equals as far as Didi was concerned.

Mum didn’t see it that way. They’re not like us, dear. Her mother would tell Didi, ‘It’s our duty as Christians to help those less fortunate than ourselves.’ But she didn’t want to soil her silk ensembles doing it.

Nor could Didi imagine Cameron Black getting his designer suits dirty in a soup kitchen or handing out blankets to the homeless on a frosty night.

Bulging shopping bags hanging from both arms, she stepped onto the footpath in front of his apartment building, glancing at a young woman at the entrance as she passed. Even in skinny jeans and a casual black velvet jacket, she was stunning. At around six foot, she was a statuesque brunette with clear blue eyes. Yes, she’d fit right in amongst the tenants who resided here, Didi thought.

Whereas she’d never fitted in. Her older sister, Veronica, took after their parents—tall, dark. Immaculate. At eighteen she’d married a wealthy middle-aged owner of several luxury yachts that ferried rich tourists around the Harbour and now lived a life of luxury in one of Sydney’s most affluent suburbs.

She nodded to Davis at the security desk and crossed the ornate foyer, stepped into the elevator. If her sister could see Didi now …

Should she answer that? Didi frowned at her mobile over her glasses while the familiar tune rang out over the soft CD she’d been working to. She didn’t need any distractions, but what if it was Cameron checking up on her with some request or other? She could tell him she’d started, even if she didn’t need to hear his deep velvet voice on the other end of the line. She set down the frame she was in the process of constructing and answered with a crisp, ‘Hello?’

‘Surprise!’

‘Veronica?’ Thinking of the devil in Prada had somehow conjured her up. Didi leaned back in her chair, removed her glasses, stunned to hear her sister’s voice. Veronica hadn’t spoken to her since she’d left Sydney. She rarely spoke to Didi in any case, unless it was to denigrate her. So why was she ringing now? Didi rubbed the frown pleating her brow. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m well. Are you busy?’ When Didi didn’t answer, Veronica said, ‘I didn’t know if you’d be able to take personal calls while you’re working. Some work-places have a strict policy on mobile phones. I was going to leave a message.’

‘Ah-h-h … No, it’s cool.’ The little lie tripped off her tongue—as far as her family knew, she worked in a gallery and she wanted to keep it that way. ‘We’re fairly casual here.’

‘Great. Listen, I’m in Melbourne for a couple of days—Daniel’s at a residential conference in Brisbane and I told him I needed a break to explore Melbourne’s shopping arcades. And to see you of course,’ she added. It sounded like an afterthought. Definitely an afterthought.

More like you’re checking up on me. Didi’s stomach dived to her feet as her hand tightened on the phone. ‘You’re in Melbourne? Now?’ Oh, she was so dead.

‘I’m at the airport. I should be in the city in, say, thirty minutes. What’s the gallery’s address? I’ll come straight there.’

‘No!’ Think.

‘What’s wrong?’ A definite edge of suspicion. ‘I’ll only stay a few moments. We can catch up after—’

‘I’m not actually working at the gallery today …’ She paused, looked around at her apartment. Cameron wasn’t due home till tomorrow night. He’d never know Veronica had set foot in the place. ‘I’m working from home,’ she continued. ‘I’ve been commissioned to do a piece for the opening of a new gallery.’ That part was true, at least.

‘Oh … that’s … great.’

She heard her sister’s tentative approval and breathed a sigh of almost-relief. Her sister could go home and report everything was fine with Didi and maybe, just maybe, her family would accept her choice and let her back into their lives again without disgrace. She gave her Cameron’s address. ‘Speak to Security, they’ll buzz you through.’

‘I can’t wait to see this new apartment and it’ll give us time to catch up. I’ll stay overnight if that’s okay.’

‘Oh …’ A jolt of alarm shot through her, and she sprang out of her chair. ‘Fine,’ she finished faintly. What else could she say? ‘See you soon.’

Two bedrooms. Veronica could sleep in the room she’d been using.

Which left Didi with Cameron’s room …