Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress. Anne Oliver
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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