Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress

by Anne Oliver

  He rose. ‘I have a standing appointment on Friday evenings and I don’t intend to break it. Not even for you.’ In three weeks she’d be gone, a pleasant memory.

  Her expression cooled. ‘This arrangement we have—I thought it was exclusive.’

  ‘It is.’ He turned away, strode to his wardrobe.

  Didi flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling, unaccountably hurt, unreasonably disappointed. Why was she feeling this way? Because the memory of that earlier mystery phone call hammered at her and it was all too easy to draw her own conclusions. ‘I’m not going to sit here and wait for you every night,’ she said, listening to the rustle of clothes on the other side of the partially open door.

  She could almost hear his eyes rolling back in his head as he said, ‘It’s not every night, Didi, it’s Friday nights.’

  He strode back into the room and every accusation—every thought—dried on her tongue.

  He was wearing jeans. Blue jeans. Faded, scruffy, worn jeans with a T-shirt that had been black once, and two sizes too small because it stretched over his chest like elastic over the Harbour Bridge.

  And she’d thought he looked sexy in a business suit…She’d thought he couldn’t look more sexy, but he did, in a dangerous, bad-boy way that called to the wanton woman inside her.

  And he was going out. Without her.

  She so didn’t care. She wished she had a nail file and polish handy, or a magazine so she could flick through the pages ever so carelessly and show him just how much she so didn’t care. Instead she shrugged. ‘Slumming it tonight, huh?’

  He stilled, every hard ripple in that impressive chest tense, every muscle in his jaw bunched. His lips compressed into a tight angry line. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes—not in that bad-boy way, but in a way that made her want to shrink back and wish the sarcastic words unsaid. Definitely the lowest form of wit.

  ‘Get dressed,’ he said calmly. Too calmly. ‘You want to see slumming? Come with me. Be ready in five minutes. I can’t be late. I won’t be late. Wear comfortable shoes and bring a jacket.’

  There was no thought of refusal. Her fingers trembled as she dragged on jeans and a jumper she found amongst her stuff. This showed a side of Cameron she’d never seen, never known existed. A quick glance in the mirror reflected a face devoid of make-up, hollows beneath her eyes. She spiked her hair with her fingers—that would have to do. She dragged out her worn coat, slipped it on.

  They rode the elevator down to the underground car park in silence, climbed into the car and merged into the evening traffic the same way. Considering the dress code it was almost absurd to be driving in such luxury with something classically high-brow playing through the speakers.

  Whatever it was, this was very important to Cameron, and it would give her some insight into the man who didn’t talk about himself.

  Fitzroy’s busy inner suburban street was crammed with traffic, tram lines and overhanging cables, some of the beautiful architecture of a bygone era mottled with peeling paint, boarded up or covered in graffiti. Light years away from Cameron’s exclusive Collins Street address. He parked in a side street.

  ‘You’re leaving this expensive piece of automotive engineering here?’ she said, incredulous.

  ‘It’s only a car, Didi.’

  She bit back a retort that only an hour ago she wouldn’t have hesitated to use and climbed out.

  It became obvious he was heading for what had once been an old department store. The tired red bricks on the second and third storey remained but the street-level façade had been given fresh paint and the windows at the front were large and brightly lit. Inviting. The sign read, ‘Come In Centre’.

  She saw a medical clinic, still open. Lights spilled from the room Cameron explained was a youth counselling service. The atmosphere was vibrant and alive, busy. She followed him through a large recreational room where people, mostly teenagers, watched TV, played table tennis, or sat at tables talking.

  She could smell unwashed bodies, poverty, fear, but she also sensed optimism and hope and determination.

  ‘This building’s for abused teenagers and runaways,’ he said as they made their way through the high-ceilinged room towards a canteen. ‘Here they can get a meal, see a doctor, talk with professionals who care, and generally hang out.’

  ‘You did this.’ Didi looked up at him with new-found respect, but his eyes were an unforgiving navy steel. ‘You renovated this building. You financed it yourself.’

  His shoulders tensed, he put his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and kept walking. ‘It doesn’t happen on its own.’

  ‘Stop.’ She caught his arm, felt the resistance beneath her fingers. He didn’t want to be touched, but she needed the contact. Needed to say, ‘Hang on a minute. I’m sorry I said what I said back at the apartment. I’m sorry for a lot of things I’ve said to you,’ she finished quietly.

  The steel in his eyes didn’t soften. If it was possible, they hardened. ‘You couldn’t begin to understand the meaning of destitute. You chose the way you currently live your life. You chose to leave your family. These kids don’t have that luxury.’

  She knew. It made her feel ashamed. But Cameron…‘Why did you do it? Why are you involved?’

  Shadows flitted over his gaze but he shook his head and kept walking.

  They reached the restaurant-sized kitchen where a round woman with flyaway brown hair and two double chins was dishing greens and mash and some sort of spicy-smelling stew onto plates for the kids lined up at the counter.

  ‘Ah, Cameron, right on time.’ The woman smiled at them over her ladle. ‘And you’ve brought us a new assistant. Good, because we’re really busy tonight. Sandra couldn’t make it.’

  ‘Hello, Joan. This is Didi,’ he said, walking behind the counter. He tossed Didi an apron. ‘Let’s get started, then. Joan’ll fill you in on what needs to be done. I’ll be back in a few moments.’

  ‘Welcome, Didi.’ She smiled with genuine warmth, brown eyes twinkling. ‘I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes.’ Joan glanced at Didi’s sneakers, filled another plate. ‘Cameron’s never brought a girlfriend here before.’

  Didi felt her cheeks warm. ‘I’m not his girlfriend.’ Just his temporary mistress. ‘I’m working on an arts project for him.’

  ‘And supporting him in your free time, good for you. There’s not many willing to put in the effort on a Friday night.’ She pulled loaves of bread from the shelf behind them, set them in front of Didi. ‘You can start on the sandwiches. You’ll find everything you need in the fridge. You’ll need a knife.’ She handed her a key, gestured to a drawer. ‘We keep them locked away—one never knows…’

  They worked side by side, ladling stew and cutting sandwiches.

  ‘You’re working here on a Friday night,’ Didi prompted after a few moments. ‘Do you help out often?’

  ‘Every week. Cameron looked out for my son when he turned up here lost and alone. Thanks to him, my abusive ex is locked up and I have my son back.’ She flicked hair off her face with the back of her hand. ‘I don’t know where these kids would be without him.’

  Every so often Didi saw Cameron walk through the canteen, talking to kids. Holding a hand, squeezing a shoulder. Listening. Caring.

  Who was this man? She’d mentally accused him of not wanting to soil his suit yet here he was, hands-on and involved. Again, why? In the short time they’d known each other he’d not spoken of family and she hadn’t asked. What was the point? It wasn’t as if he were going to introduce her, nor did she want to meet them. Their relationship wasn’t the kind that involved family.

  Shaking off the hollow feeling, she plastered ham and tomato onto buttered bread. She didn’t want to dissect her emotions because right now they were too close to the surface and too vulnerable. If she let him, he could steal her heart and leave her dead inside.

  No. Once was more than enough. But now, as he leaned over a table to speak with a couple of boys in their late teen
s she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him.

  She tried observing him from a purely feminine viewpoint without the tug of emotion. Below the T-shirt’s short sleeves, the hard definition of his arms, olive-skinned and dusted with dark hair. The innate strength in that upper body. The way his jeans hugged his tight backside, the faded denim down the front of his thighs and where the zipper chafed…

  I know what’s inside those jeans.

  The recent memory of his body over hers—inside hers—speared through her and the knife she held slipped on the tomato she was holding. Which was okay, she told herself. It was a purely sexual zing—no emotions hence no vulnerability.

  Until he glanced over as if he’d known she was watching and their gazes locked. Intense cobalt eyes studied her. Even from across the room she felt the heat all the way down to her toes. Sexual attraction, she assured herself. Tonight they’d act on that attraction. Again. Another zing hummed through her like an electrical jolt. Anticipation.

  But the sound of voices, the smell of food and kids, faded. The whole scene blurred around the edges. Only Cameron remained in focus, as if she were looking through a tunnel. She saw his fingers tighten on the edge of the table. His jaw tightened infinitesimally. He didn’t straighten but she knew the muscles in his back had turned rigid.

  She knew because it was happening to her.

  His eyes relayed a message she didn’t want to read—emotion. She felt her own emotions flow to him on a tide of something perilously close to trust.

  Vulnerability.

  No. Dragging her eyes away, she concentrated on loosening her grip on the knife, rolled tension from her shoulders. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Wasn’t going to happen. Not even when she noticed he was making his way towards her, still watching her with those bluer-than-blue eyes.

  ‘Not your boyfriend, eh?’ Joan chuckled. ‘He’s been distracted all evening. And you too, I think.’

  Didi glared at the sandwich as she sliced it into ruthless triangles, not being distracted by the man and her unwise reaction to him. ‘I don’t need a man in my life.’

  ‘Ah, but maybe he needs you,’ Joan murmured.

  Didi’s laugh came too fast, sounded too brittle. She reached for more bread, more ham. Cameron’s ‘need’ for Didi wasn’t the kind Joan was referring to. It would never be anything else. Cameron had made it quite clear their three-week arrangement was all there was.

  And she’d agreed.

  So…maybe that made it okay to watch him as a purely sexual being…She lifted her eyes…He was talking to a boy with a baseball cap on backwards and dirt-stained hands.

  A shout nearby had Didi turning sharply. A teenager had collapsed and was lying on the floor. Cameron was beside the girl in seconds. ‘Call an ambulance!’ he yelled as pandemonium broke out amongst the crowd gathering around the unconscious girl. ‘Everyone move back. Joey, go wait out the front for the ambos.’

  Joan flew into action, phoning the emergency services while Didi rushed around the counter and elbowed her way to Cameron’s side. ‘Anything I can do?’ Didi’s heart was thumping. The girl was sheet white, her lips blue, skin cold to the touch when Didi took her hand.

  ‘Stay out of the way.’ His attention didn’t waver as Didi chafed the girl’s hand and kids jostled for a better look.

  ‘And get those kids back,’ he barked. ‘She’s unresponsive, barely breathing.’ He shoved up her sleeve, revealing the tell-tale bruising. ‘Overdose.’ He expelled a four-letter word, then muttered, ‘Lizzie, when are you going to learn?’

  He knew her name, Didi thought. He knew the kids’ names. Didi absorbed that information for a split second, then, snapping into action, she shooed the audience back, giving Cameron air and space to work.

  He checked the patient again. ‘Mask.’ His voice snapped with authority—no nerves, just an iron control—obviously he’d done this before, and more than once.

  Joan appeared, dropping to her knees beside him, handing him the requested mask. He placed it over the girl’s mouth and nose and immediately began resuscitation.

  Seconds dragged by without end. Cameron worked steadily, breathing for the girl while Joan checked her pulse and Didi kept a clear space between them and the onlookers.

  Finally, finally, the wail of a siren. Chaos, noise as paramedics rushed in with equipment. Pressing her lips together to bring the circulation back, Didi turned away. She couldn’t look at Cameron right now. Black spots danced in front of her own eyes. Blame her earlier migraine and medication and lack of food, but, damn, she would not pass out in front of him.

  She knew now why he’d been so panicked when he woke her earlier. She’d left her pills on the night-stand, he’d jumped to conclusions. And little wonder. She sank onto the nearest chair.

  A few moments later she heard the wail of the sirens fade as the ambulance sped away, the background noise of voices and chairs scraping and the drum of her own heartbeat.

  She didn’t know how long she sat there. She knew Cameron and Joan were busy, calming kids, talking to those who’d been with Lizzie. Making phone calls.

  ‘You okay?’ Cameron sat down at the table opposite her, his warm steady hand enveloped her own and dark eyes met hers. Sweat dotted his brow. The lines around his mouth looked deeper. He’d probably been on the go all day and then this…and now her. ‘Yes. Is…she going to be all right?’

  The worry lines etched deeper into his brow. ‘We’ve done what we can, now we wait. I’ll phone the hospital later.’

  ‘You were brilliant back there.’

  He shook his head. ‘You look beat. Let’s get you out of here.’

  She squared her shoulders and sat straighter. ‘I might look a little under the weather tonight, but I’m not the fragile woman you think I am. I’ve worked in drop-in centres like this in Sydney. I’ve seen it before.’

  She saw a new respect in his eyes but he only said, ‘You were ill this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m fine now. I can wait if you’re not done.’

  ‘I was on my way over to tell you we were leaving.’

  ‘I need to help Joan clean—’

  ‘She’s got it covered. We’re closing up now.’

  Didi noticed the kids dispersing. A security guard manned the door. ‘Where will they go now?’

  ‘Wherever they came from.’ He blew out a breath. ‘At least they know they’ll be safe here, if only for a little while. Come on.’

  ‘They trust you,’ Didi murmured. And trust, not the sexual buzz she got from his touch, had her putting her hand in his when he offered it over the table top.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CAM parked the car in the basement. He must be mad—a willing woman waiting to warm his bed and blot out the memories that stalked him tonight more than most, and he was hesitating.

  The tension in the car had been building all the way home. He’d blanked out the past hour’s events and concentrated on nothing except how quickly he could get Didi naked. A survival mechanism, he supposed.

  Now he burned, his groin hardening to her proximity, her subtle soap scent teasing his nostrils. He could be inside her slick wet heat in under five minutes, filling his hands with silky flesh and familiarising himself with her taste in all those musky feminine places he’d not explored to his satisfaction yet.

  Blocking out the bad.

  So why was he gripping the steering wheel and saying, ‘How about a stroll?’

  She turned to him, her eyes unreadable. ‘If you want.’

  But he couldn’t interpret that tone of voice as he watched her push open the door. He’d made a mistake taking her there tonight, he thought now, grabbing a jacket from the back seat. Allowing her to see more of him than he’d intended.

  He pressed his keypad, the click of the locks echoed in the car park’s stillness, then he turned to Didi. Her skin appeared almost translucent under the harsh fluorescent light and he hesitated. ‘You sure you’re up to it?’

  She wrapped her coat tighter
about her. ‘Of course I am.’

  They walked a few moments, not touching. They crossed Flinders Street and took the pedestrian bridge over the River Yarra to Southbank. The night breeze carried the smell of the river. An enticing aroma of Japanese cooking. He could hear the ebb and flow of voices and a band playing a nightspot nearby. If he looked up, the Eureka Tower blotted out the stars. If only he could blot out the past as easily.

  His mouth was dry; he longed for a double whisky on ice. Something to dull the edge. ‘I could do with a drink. There’s a bar I think you’ll like.’ He took her hand in his.

  Polished auburn marble spread warmth throughout the lobby, shards of light refracted rainbows from the huge chandeliers.

  ‘We’re not dressed for this place,’ Didi said as they passed function attendees in glittering gowns and crisp dinner suits making their way down the wide curving staircase. ‘It’s five star, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘You should feel right at home, then.’ Realising sarcasm was inappropriate, he squeezed her fingers. ‘No one’s looking at us.’

  It occurred to him that Kat wouldn’t be seen dead in worn jeans in a place like this. Kat wouldn’t be seen in worn jeans, period, nor had she ever accompanied him to the drop-in centre. Whereas Didi had apparently been involved in a similar voluntary capacity.

  He found a spot in the lounge bar, relatively private, overlooking the lobby where water rippled over marble and ornate gilt mirrors reflected elaborate floral arrangements on glass-topped tables.

  ‘What would you like?’

  She shook her head as she removed her coat. ‘Nothing alcoholic; I took that medication earlier. A pot of green tea if they serve it.’

  ‘Tea, it is.’

  She folded her arms, rested them on the table, her shadowed cleavage above a faded pink T-shirt a temptation to forget about Lizzie and Amy and the whole damn world and concentrate on the sweet diversion she could offer.