At His Service: Millionaire's Mistress. Kelly Hunter

Don’t doubt yourself or your abilities.’

      She drew herself up as he approached. ‘I don’t.’

      ‘Good.’

      ‘Even though you haven’t said a word about my work,’ she pointed out.

      ‘Doesn’t the fact that I’m commissioning you say it all?’ His knuckles inevitably skimmed hers as he handed her the pink bubbly, sending a fizz of sensation through her fingers and up her arm. That first brief skin-to-skin contact left her wanting … more.

      ‘We’re in this together,’ he said. ‘A team. You create and I’ll provide you with meals, coffee, chocolate, headache pills if necessary … whatever you need.’

      She clinked her glass to his. ‘Okay. To teamwork.’ The fruity bubbles sparkled through her system as she took the first sip, their happy hiss and pop tickling her nose and prompting her to smile and say, ‘I’ll tell you now, I only eat dark chocolate. Soft centres.’

      ‘Ah, a woman after my own taste.’

      He grinned, an easy grin that reminded her of the first uncomplicated moment when she’d met him when he was just an attractive man with a flirtatious wit. Like Jay. Despite the warning bells that told her to avoid such men at all costs, she grinned right back. And why not? It wasn’t as if they were going to fall into bed—she wouldn’t let that happen. ‘And olives,’ she continued. ‘You like olives, if my memory serves correctly.’

      ‘Cheese and olive balls …’ His smile faded and just like that the atmosphere changed from light and casual to something darker, deeper. Different.

      His gaze dropped to her mouth, which suddenly felt dry and chapped and tingly and she had to force herself not to run her tongue over her lips.

      Her relationship with Jay had tarnished the way she viewed men. But none had made her feel so aware of herself as a woman. And if she was right in her assumption of his reaction, a desirable woman. He could even—perhaps—polish that tarnish away.

      If she moved closer would he kiss her?

      She couldn’t help it, she looked right back. She could imagine being kissed by those lips. Her own were practically puckering up in anticipation.

      And where would that leave her?

      In that big bad bed of his having the best sex of her life?

      And more breathless and brainless than she already was, no doubt.

      Big mistake. She knew next to nothing about him except that he was rich, gorgeous … and attracted to her. And his poster-boy status suggested a playboy and put her defences on alert. Yep, way too much like Jay.

      So she chose the only alternative and stepped back. Away. Paying careful attention to keep her glass—and her voice—steady as she said, ‘Tell me about this gallery of yours.’

      He regarded her a moment through thoughtful eyes as if he, too, was mulling over the sexual tension between them. ‘It’s my latest building development.’

      ‘Another bunch of displaced people, then?’ And instantly felt less-than-stellar for the jibe. Did she want to blow this whole deal before she got started? Especially when his eyes glinted with some emotion she didn’t recognise … Regret? For past business actions maybe? Or for something that struck much deeper and closer to the heart.

      She was still frowning when he said, ‘I’m not the bastard you seem to think I am.’ And took a breath—

      She perked up, ready to listen. Personal information, great, he hadn’t volunteered a word about his personal life. But either the sound of scratching and an annoyed yowl from her bedroom distracted him or he deliberately chose not to elaborate.

      ‘Charlie,’ she murmured. ‘He’s lonely. And hungry, no doubt.’

      ‘No doubt.’ The dismissive tone didn’t bode well for poor Charlie. ‘It was a disused warehouse,’ he continued, ignoring the feline sounds. ‘Boarded up and covered in graffiti. High ceilings, plenty of space. It has a whole new look.’

      ‘What type of art are you showcasing?’

      ‘Paintings, textiles, jewellery, you name it. The idea is to foster new talent.’

      ‘So why a Sheila Dodd commission? She’s hardly new.’

      ‘I’ve admired her work for several years and a big name brings in more customers and encourages new sales.’

      ‘Why me? With your contacts you must know others who fit the bill.’

      ‘This opening’s being publicised as a big event in the art community. I don’t have the time to look for someone at such short notice.’ He glanced at the piece, looked back to her. ‘Your work’s unique—I’m prepared to take a chance. I want you.’

      His voice was neutral, all business, but his eyes … his eyes imbued a different meaning to those last three words. Her pulse seemed to throb in her throat, making it difficult to swallow. She gulped down more wine and held his gaze.

      But he didn’t want her so much as need her and that gave her a sense of power that she’d never had. Which emboldened her to say, ‘I have another request … Perhaps favour is a better word? It’s about Charlie.’

      ‘Ah. Yes. Charlie.’ His tone predictably cooled.

      ‘Could we perhaps compromise?’ Her parents had often mentioned the word and Didi in the same breath. ‘If I’m here for nearly three weeks, it’s hardly fair to keep him shut away by himself all day while I work. Would you agree to him being in here with me?’ Cameron didn’t look impressed with her idea—his brows lowered, his lips thinned, then pursed as if about to speak. ‘And I know he’d love the sky garden,’ she hurried on. ‘He couldn’t do much damage there and if I could leave the door open a fraction …’

      He blew out a sigh. ‘I guess we can try it before he strips the paintwork on the bedroom door to kingdom come.’

      She paused, knowing, hating that she had to say, ‘I love him to bits, but I know I’m going to have trouble finding a place that will take me and a pet … if you know anyone who wants a cat …’ She blinked away a sudden moisture.

      ‘I’ll ask around at the office,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile he’s okay here.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She polished off her wine and felt the grin pull at her cheeks as the bubbly danced through her system. ‘And it’s a wonderful compromise. I’ll go tell him the good news now.’

      ‘You do that. Then we’ll eat; I assume you’re hungry?’

      ‘Famished,’ she called as she all but skipped on those pretty bare feet across the room and disappeared from view down the passage. ‘All I’ve had today is an apple.’

      Yeah. The apple. Cameron stared at the place where she’d been seconds ago. It was as if she’d left something of herself there. Hell, his whole apartment suddenly seemed crammed with her presence. His gaze lobbed on the usually pristine dining-room table, now a jumble stall jammed with her stuff. Littering his floor was a haphazard scatter of cardboard boxes brimming with colour. A fresh spicy fragrance permeated the air.

      It was as if a cellar had been opened to let in the sunshine.

      He slammed the door on his overactive imagination. Shaking his head at the absurdity, he strode to the kitchen. What the hell was wrong with him? He despised clutter. Didn’t tolerate disorganised people. The squalid mess of his childhood would live with him for the rest of his life.

      Three weeks. For art’s sake he could manage three weeks. And what was that about compromise? She obviously had no idea of the meaning of the word … What was that odour?

      He glared at the two containers as he yanked them out of the microwave. One hot gourmet dinner and one ruined tray of greying prime fillet steak, steamed beyond redemption. Blast it.