Книга - Memoirs of a Millionaire’s Mistress

Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress
Anne Oliver


Wealth. Power. Pure passion… She’s about to experience it all! Cameron Black is everything that quirky artist Didi O’Flanagan loathes in a man – his arrogance, smooth charm and business tactics have her hackles rising. But when Cam offers her the commission of a lifetime Didi can’t refuse – even though it means she’ll be at his beck and call 24/7!Soon they are sharing hot nights in Cam’s luxury penthouse, and the chemistry is electric. And though she started off despising him, Didi’s starting to wonder whether she’ll ever be able to give up her position as millionaire’s mistress…







‘Didi, how do you feel aboutextending this arrangement a littlelonger? Say, three weeks?’



‘What do you mean?’ She tried to keep her voice even, her expression neutral.



But she knew what he meant, and blood pounded through her veins. A ball of fire lodged behind her breastbone, shooting flares up and down the length of her body.



He wanted her—here. In this bed. And she didn’t need rocket science to work it out.



If she wanted, for three weeks she could be Cameron Black’s live-in mistress.



Anne Oliver has wonRomance Writers of Australia’s awardfor Romantic Book of the Year two yearsrunning, with her first and second books!



2007: BEHIND CLOSED DOORS…

Cleo Honeywell has always loved Jack Devlin, but he moved to the other side of the world—without even a phone call! Now Jack’s back. Cleo is determined not to fall at his feet, or into his bed. But this time Jack can’t wait to get Cleo behind closed doors…



2008: ONE NIGHT BEFORE MARRIAGE

Still smarting from the way her ex dumped her, virginal Carissa Grace is looking for a single night of hot passion to help her move on. Then she meets tall, sexy hotel magnate Ben Jamieson, and it appears she has found exactly the man she’s been looking for…



Romantic TimesBOOKreviews gave this novela four-star review: ‘A terrific story.Anne Oliver has created a winner in Ben,the hot and sexy but equally complex hero.’



Anne Oliver’s novels are smart, sexy and sassy—step into her world…




MEMOIRS OF A

MILLIONAIRE’S

MISTRESS


BY

ANNE OLIVER




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


When not teaching or writing, Anne Oliver loves nothing more than escaping into a book. She keeps a box of tissues handy—her favourite stories are intense, passionate, against-all-odds romances. Eight years ago she began creating her own characters in paranormal and time travel adventures, before turning to contemporary romance. Other interests include quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish, and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege…and a dream come true. The winner of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year Award for short category in both 2007 and 2008, Anne lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and has two adult children. Visit her website at www.anne-oliver.com. She loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at anne@anne-oliver.com.



Also by this author:



HOT BOSS, WICKED NIGHTS

PREGNANT BY THE PLAYBOY TYCOON

BUSINESS IN THE BEDROOM

THE EX FACTOR

ONE NIGHT BEFORE MARRIAGE

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS…


With thanks to my editor, Meg Lewis.



For my colleagues and friends who supported me through tough times during the writing of this book, especially Gay—thanks for the roses!


CHAPTER ONE

‘DON’T date this man.’

Didi O’Flanagan paid scant attention to her workmate’s warning, barely glancing up as she scoured her bag for lip gloss. ‘Whatever he did, Roz, he probably doesn’t deserve to have his photo plastered to the mirror in a public restroom…’ Her words segued to a hum of approval, lip gloss momentarily forgotten.

Maybe he did deserve it. His eyes—deep dark blue—were the kind of eyes that could persuade you to do things you’d never do in your right mind…

‘Only the woman who put it here knows that.’ Roz leaned in for a closer look. ‘You must’ve really ticked her off, Cameron Black. Still, you are a bit of a hunk.’

‘Yeah…’ Didi had to agree. Dark hair, squared jaw. Perfect kissing lips. What did the rest of him look like? she wondered. She imagined a man with looks like that would keep his body toned to match. In fact she could imagine quite a lot about that body. ‘We could try Googling those “don’t date him” websites…’

‘Hmm, revenge. Undoubtedly a dish best served online…’ Roz agreed. ‘But right now, if we want to keep our jobs, we’d better get out there and start serving those impatient big-shots,’ Roz reminded her, heading for the door.



Didi blinked, feeling as if she’d somehow stepped out of a time warp. ‘Right behind you.’

Cameron Black. Why did that name sound familiar? Didi wondered. Shaking the thought away for now, she unscrewed her tube of colour, slicked coral gloss over her lips.

She twitched at a few blonde spikes, straightened her uniform’s little bow tie and fiddled with her name-tag, which always seemed to tilt at an angle no matter how many times she adjusted it.

She couldn’t resist; her gaze slid back to the printout on the mirror. Below the picture were the words, ‘He’s not the man you think he is.’ On impulse, she reached out. She didn’t care what he’d done, it wasn’t right. That was what she told herself as she peeled it off. There were two sides to every story. Not that she knew much about relationships. In her twenty-three years there’d been only one serious relationship, and that mistake had coloured her perception in a very uncolourful way.

But she couldn’t bring herself to crumple the paper and toss it in the waste basket on her way out as she’d intended. It seemed a sacrilege to spoil that perfect face. She folded it into quarters, then again, carefully creasing the lines before sliding it into the pocket of her black trousers.

A few moments later Didi circulated the crowded room with her tray of finger food. Predominantly male executives in business attire made for a sea of sombre suits interspersed with splashes of colour and the occasional whiff of feminine perfume.

Didi aimed a winning smile at the group of men she’d targeted as being the head honchos. ‘Would you like to try a crab cake with lemongrass sauce? Or perhaps one of these baked cheese olive balls?’

As expected, her smile was ignored as they continued their discussion around the model of a proposed development for one of Melbourne’s inner city precincts on a table in front of them, but a few greedy fingers plucked her dainty morsels off the tray.

Rude, rude, rude. Her smile remained, but inside she gritted her teeth as she skirted the group to reappear around the other side. She hated this subservient, thankless job. But right now she had no alternative if she didn’t want to slink home to Sydney and admit she’d made a mistake—

‘Thank you, Didi.’

The unexpected rich baritone voice had her looking up—way up—at the man who’d taken the last crab cake and had the courtesy to use her name. ‘You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy…it…’ Her voice faded away as her gaze met a pair of twinkling blue eyes…

This couldn’t be the man whose photo was warming her right hip even as he smiled. Could it?

Yes. It could—and it most definitely was. So the woman who’d left the picture in the Ladies had known he’d be here—maybe she still was, and wanted to witness his humiliation.

The cheap printout didn’t do him justice—he was gorgeous. His eyes were navy, almost black. And focused wholly on her. He’d shaved tonight; no sign of that stubble. Just smooth tanned skin… Her palms itched to find out just how smooth. The maroon and black tie’s sheen accentuated his snowy white shirt, drawing her attention to a prominent Adam’s apple and solid neck. His hair was shorter than it was in the picture and the room’s light caught threads of auburn amongst the brown.

He wore a pinstriped charcoal suit and she knew from her experience with fabrics that it was Italian and expensive. Touchable. Warm from his body heat. Her insides did a slow roll and her fingers tightened on the tray.

As she watched he lifted the crab cake to his lips before popping it into his mouth, still smiling at her, and for an instant she bathed in the warmth before he turned away.



No. She wanted to bask in that heat a moment longer. ‘You forgot to dip,’ she found herself saying. Loudly. Too loudly. His gaze swung back. ‘And that was the last one…’ She trailed off, lost for a moment in his eyes.

His lips stretched into a smile as he continued chewing. She had a completely inappropriate image of dipping her fingers in the sauce then sliding them between his lips, and her pulse quickened. ‘That’s too bad,’ he said, his voice a tone or two lower, his eyes a tad darker. As if he was sharing the same fantasy. ‘It was delicious nevertheless.’

‘Try a cheese and olive ball.’ She offered her tray up like some kind of entreaty. ‘It’s a different texture but if you like olives—’ Cheeks heating, she caught her runaway tongue between her lips to stem the verbal tide. What the heck was she doing?

‘I love olives.’ He selected one, his gaze once again focused on her, warming her from the inside out.

‘When you’ve quite finished.’ A man with thick white hair aimed his glare at her over the rim of a pair of butt-ugly spectacles. ‘As I was saying, Cam…’

Cam held Didi’s eyes for a second longer, then gave a conspiratorial wink before getting back to business.

Cam… Cameron Black. Didi mentally repeated his name as she watched one long tapered finger touch the model of his proposed development as he spoke. What would it feel like to have that finger touch her? Anywhere. For any reason…

Get real, she admonished herself. Step away before youmake a complete and utter fool of yourself.

This man was into property deals and big-business networking. He didn’t have time for the simpler things like social conversation. No doubt he spent his entire life dealing with men like Mr White Hair. He was one of those men for whom making money was more important than relationships—hence the poster, no doubt.



As she stepped back she couldn’t help noticing the arched façade of the model he was touching. She frowned, squinting without her glasses. It looked like her apartment building.

It was her apartment building. They’d been served with eviction notices months ago, but Didi hadn’t got around to finding herself a new place yet. At least not one she could afford.

Resentment simmered beneath her carefully cultivated waitress persona. That was where she’d seen his name. Cameron Black Property Developers were kicking her out along with several other families in three weeks; she’d seen the signage on the vacant lot next door where a pawn shop and a sleazy tattoo parlour had recently been demolished. All destined to be part of a new complex that would take months to complete.

A different kind of heat fired through her veins. The burn of disappointment, anger. Outrage. Greed was Cameron’s motivation. Certainly not concern for the residents who couldn’t afford to move to the more upmarket parts of town.

She should bite her tongue, turn around and head to the kitchen to refill her depleted tray. But she’d never been one who could keep her mouth shut. ‘Excuse me.’

Six heads turned, six pairs of eyes drilled into hers, but it was Cameron Black she focused on. ‘Have you given any thought to the tenants you’re turfing out at number two hundred and three?’

His jaw firmed, the warmth in his eyes vanished. ‘I beg your pardon?’

She waved a hand over the model. ‘I don’t know how people like you sleep at night.’ She scoffed out a humourless laugh. ‘Mrs Jacobs has been there for fifteen years—she’s had to go to Geelong to live with her daughter’s family. And Clem Mason’s—’

‘Watch yourself, girlie,’ Mr White Hair warned.

Fired up now, Didi didn’t spare him a glance. ‘Do you know how hard it is to find suitable accommodation at affordable rates, Mr Black? Do you care at all about the ordinary people trying to get by on the basics who live—make that lived—in that building?’

‘I’m not aware of any problems.’ His voice was cool professionalism. ‘Of course you’re not.’ And he’d probably trotted out that same line to the pinner-upper of the photo in her pocket. She could only shake her head on behalf of women everywhere. ‘Maybe that’s why you’re the current Pin-Up Boy in the ladies’ loo.’ Her voice carried way further than she’d meant it to and a hush descended around them like a suffocating shroud.

Twin spots of colour slashed Cameron Black’s cheeks and his mouth opened as if to speak, but she turned away, her runaway tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth. Before she made matters worse, she set her tray on a nearby table and quickly made her way towards the restroom.

She pushed through the door, found it empty and leaned back against its solid barrier with a heartfelt sigh. Tonight her mouth might just have cost her this job.

She stepped to the vanity counter and turned on the tap, dabbing her neck with cold water. Thankless or not, she needed this work. Why couldn’t she control her tongue? And why did the man-to-die-for have to be her evil landlord?

The door swung open with a whoosh, pushed wide by a very tanned, very firm, very masculine hand. Didi’s breath snagged in her chest. Then she steeled herself to meet Cameron Black’s grim reflection in the mirror.

Instead of feeling threatened, she felt…anticipation. It buzzed through her body, turning her legs to liquid and drawing her nipples into tight points of sensation. Damn him, she didn’t want to feel as if she were poised and breathless on the edge of a lava pit. She wanted to get herself together, and how could she do that when he’d invaded the only place she’d thought safe?



She turned so that she could meet him face to face on equal terms, gripping her fingers on the counter top at her sides for support. Except he had a good fourteen inches on her. Struggling to keep the nerves from her voice, she lifted her chin and met his gaze. ‘I think you made a wrong turn somewhere.’

‘Not me. You.’ His gaze darkened, indigo satin over hot coals, and his voice was silky smooth when he advised, ‘You really shouldn’t bad-mouth the people who help contribute to your pay at the end of the evening.’

How was it that even though his eyes remained fused with hers he managed to conjure a shimmer of heat up the entire length of her body as if he’d swept a hand from ankle to clavicle and every place in between?

She shook her head. ‘I tell the truth, Mr Black. Unfortunately the truth often gets me in trouble…’

When his gaze finally released her he scanned the room. ‘And how do you know my name?’

She arched a brow. ‘I’d suggest most of the women at this function know your name by now.’

His eyes narrowed. The door swung closed behind him, swirling the air and leaving the two of them alone. The scent of his cologne reached her nostrils in the draught he’d created. Without thought she breathed deep, inhaling its fragrance: snowflakes on cedar-wood. As if by some force she didn’t know she had, it seemed to draw him closer. It seemed to draw the walls in, suck the air away, until he was standing so close she could feel his body heat through the fine-textured weave of his shirt.

He placed his hands firmly on the counter top, a fingerprint away from hers, boxing her in. ‘What game are you playing at—’ and even though she was certain he remembered her name, his gaze slid over the swell of her left breast where her name-tag hung at its permanent forty-five-degree angle ‘—Didi?’



She slid an unsteady hand into her trouser pocket, the backs of her fingers bumping against his and sending fireworks shooting up her arm in the process, and pulled out the folded sheet of paper, thrust it at his chest. ‘It’s not my game.’

Straightening, he unfolded it and scanned the contents. She watched his jaw bunch, his knuckles whiten on the paper. In the silence that followed she could hear the quickened rasp of his breathing, could almost feel his anger as a third entity in the room with them.

‘I found it on the mirror.’

She flinched again when he closed a substantial fist around it, crumpled it beyond redemption with an impatient crackle, then shoved it in his pocket. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from asking for it back. Of course she wanted it back…so she could grind her heel into his face when she left her flat in three weeks’ time with nowhere to live.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been having some trouble with an ex girlfriend.’

‘No kidding. Did you kick her out too?’

‘As a matter of fact it was she who did the kicking.’

She was tempted to dole out more sarcasm but the complete lack of emotion in his expression stopped her—too complete. Too controlled. He’d blocked the pain, she thought, and stuffed her hands into her trouser pockets to curb her natural instinct to reach out to him. He was hurting, and she understood too well how it felt to be tossed aside. ‘Yeah, well, you’re better off without someone like that.’

AndI’m better off not knowing. She needed to remember who he was: Evil Landlord. He might be hot sex in a pinstripe suit but his motive in life was greed. Keeping her backside against the counter top, she sidled closer to the door—she had to get out before she changed her mind and offered something stupid, like sympathy. Or sex on the vanity unit.

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.


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 weekearly—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. AndasI’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 EvictionDay 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.’

Typical Didi-speak, but now the warmth and intimacy thing seemed to take hold as he continued to watch her. To distract herself she set her box on the floor, withdrew Charlie, buried her face in his soft fur and changed the topic. ‘Hey, you’re safe now, little guy.’ But was she?

‘It suits me the way it is.’ He turned his attention to Charlie. ‘That cat looks remarkably healthy for a stray. Are you sure it was abandoned?’

She rubbed the round tight tummy. ‘True, but if you found a cat stuffed in a box tied up with string and left by a toilet block what would you assume?’

He nodded, straightened, all formal again. ‘The bedroom’s this way.’ His tone matched his choice of furnishings—minimalist. ‘It has an enclosed balcony. Please keep the cat confined to that area.’

She followed him down a wide corridor. As she passed she glimpsed what must be his bedroom, then another filled with gym equipment…and her stuff.

‘Davis, the security guy downstairs, had your gear put in here.’ He gestured towards it, then stopped at the third door, swung it open. The mountain of cream and gold quilt looked inviting on the big double bed. ‘The guest bathroom’s at the end of the corridor.’

‘Great,’ she said into the tense silence. Her initial snap judgement might have been premature. How many people would have put themselves out this way for a virtual stranger? She murmured, ‘Thank you.’

He nodded, checked his watch. ‘I’m unlikely to be back before midnight so make yourself at home. If you’re hungry, feel free to fix something to eat.’

‘Thanks.’ Her gaze turned back to the bedroom. To the bed covered in his sheets. A shaft of heat slid through her belly. ‘Um…thanks again, I’ll be fine. Goodnight,’ she managed, and stepped inside. Closed the door.

She waited till she heard his footsteps fade. ‘Well, Charlie…’ She smoothed his fur and set him down. ‘So I guess it’s tuna fish dinner for you and a hot bath for me.’ But even though she forced herself to keep thoughts and self-talk upbeat she wondered with an ever-increasing knot in her stomach what she’d got herself into.


CHAPTER THREE

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 head lines. 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 cedarwood 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 waittill 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.’


CHAPTER FOUR

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.





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