At His Service: Millionaire's Mistress. Kelly Hunter

She sounded surprised and rubbed her brow, checking. ‘No.’

      ‘Lie there for a bit. I have to go out for a while. Do you think you’ll feel like eating later? I can bring something back if you want.’

      She rolled onto her side, the robe dipping and slipping, tempting his own appetite with generous slices of cleavage and thigh. She moistened her lips, drawing his gaze. ‘Why do you have to go out? Friday night’s for relaxing. Stay.’

      He doubted she knew how husky she sounded, how provocative she looked, drowsy from sleep and sexy as sin. The whole effect shook him to his foundations and, coupled with the near heart attack she’d just given him, he was in no mood to analyse his angry response, nor why he felt the need to distance himself.

      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?’