Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress. Anne Oliver
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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