At His Service: Millionaire's Mistress. Kelly HunterЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 cedar-wood 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