At His Service: Millionaire's Mistress. Kelly Hunter

to access her phone number through the rental agency that serviced the building and cross-reference it with the catering firm he always used. Apparently it hadn’t taken Bill long either because when he’d rung they assured Cam she was no longer working with their company and did Cam wish to file a complaint as well?

      Of course the name rang a bell—she lived in the building she’d been fighting for. It was due for major renovation in two weeks. They’d been served eviction notices as soon as the project had been finalised months ago. And they’d all vacated the premises except for Miss O’Flanagan in apartment six.

      He expelled a long breath. She didn’t deserve to lose her job for having the guts to stand up for her beliefs, however misguided they were in this particular circumstance. And she’d done him a favour by removing his photo. She obviously cared about others and respected their rights—even his, he thought, with a wry twist of his lips.

      He wanted a chance to explain his vision for the development and the reasons behind it. If she’d stop for one second and listen, that was. As for living arrangements … maybe he could speed things up if she was having trouble finding a place. Find her an apartment in one of his complexes somewhere.

      On the other side of the city.

      The warning rang in his head. Yeah. The further away, the better.

      Because he had a feeling this little pixie could run amok over his well-ordered life—the life he’d built from scratch—with just one look from her silver eyes or one word from that tempt-me mouth.

      CHAPTER TWO

       Two weeks later

      IT WAS a night for disasters.

      Rain pelted the pavement, but that was Melbourne.

      Didi’s apartment building was all locked up—one week early—and that was entirely Cameron Black’s work and the reason she now huddled on the front steps thinking of ways she might enjoy killing him. Slowly. After she got her stuff out.

      She’d had to abandon her excuse for a car on the other side of the city with some sort of mechanical failure that no one was willing to look at until tomorrow. Not that she had any hope of paying for repairs since she’d learned she was now unemployed when she’d rung to explain why she wouldn’t be able to work for the next couple of weeks.

      So she considered the fact that she’d managed the rest of the way by public transport with a bag of clothing and a box of abandoned and distressed young cat she’d found beside a public toilet block a minor miracle.

      Only to find herself locked out of her own apartment.

      And she couldn’t ring anyone from here because in her rush to help Donna she’d left her mobile behind in her apartment somewhere. She’d had to make do with Donna’s landline for the past two weeks.

      The busy inner suburban street was awash with wet colour, the untidy web of overhead cables dripped moisture. Trams jostled amongst the steady stream of vehicles on their way home, pedestrians huddled under umbrellas, and the aroma of Asian takeaway steamed the air. She’d kill for a fried rice about now.

      At least it was relatively dry here on the top step—an awning shielded her from the worst of the weather. She pulled out the tuna sandwiches she’d bought earlier, feeding the cat tiny portions through a peephole she’d created in the side of the box. Sometime soon she was going to have to find somewhere for the little guy to pee.

      ‘It’ll be okay, Charlie,’ she said, popping a bite into her own mouth, feeling more and more incensed with every passing minute. ‘It’s just you and me against the world and we’re not going down without a fight.’

      Finally. Cam came to an abrupt stop on the pavement and watched Didi from beneath his large black umbrella. She gazed up at the time- and weather-worn semi-circle of red bricks that created the arch above her, drawing his attention to the creamy curve of her neck. His own neck prickled beneath his cashmere scarf as a surge of heat engulfed him and he wondered how it would feel to trace a finger down that smooth column to the soft spot at the base of her throat—

      ‘This the place?’

      The removalist’s gruff voice caught Cam’s attention. He nodded at the two men who’d appeared beside him, digging out the building’s keys as he climbed the steps. ‘Apartment six.’

      At his approach, Didi’s gaze darted to his. Wariness changed to recognition, then her brow puckered and her pretty lips twisted into something resembling a sneer. ‘Well, if it isn’t the man himself.’ She pushed up, scattering crumbs. ‘What the hell is going on?’

      He stopped a few steps away. ‘My sentiments exactly, Miss O’Flanagan. I’ve been trying to contact you for the past two weeks.’

      ‘Why?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I had a personal emergency to take care of.’

      ‘And now you have another. I’ve been forced to call in the removalists.’ He kept his tone civil, firm. ‘If you can’t give me an alternative address you leave me no choice but to have your belongings placed in storage.’

      She blinked. ‘Storage? I’ve got another week.’

      ‘No, Miss O’Flanagan, you do not. Which you’d know if you’d bothered to answer your phone.’

      Her chin came up. ‘The phone I didn’t give you the number for.’

      ‘There’s always a way.’

      She stiffened. ‘Yes, I’m sure there is for someone like you. As it happens I don’t have my phone at the moment.’ The derision in her gaze fled as it shifted to the two men beside him, then to the truck parked at the kerb. ‘I need more time. I have no job, thanks to that night—how am I going to rent an apartment?’

      He shook his head. ‘Reconstruction starts tomorrow morning.’

      ‘Tomorrow morning? Well, that’s just peachy.’ Her mouth pouted in a way that made him want to lick the fruity word right off her lips.

      He quashed the urge and resultant heat immediately. Damn. Rather than her own lack of action, she made it sound as if he were the party responsible for her situation. Guilt niggled at him. She had shielded him from personal embarrassment, at least initially, by removing that poster. And he was her landlord after all.

      ‘You can’t put my things in storage,’ she stated, a hint of nerves behind the grit. ‘I need them.’

      ‘So, you’ll give me an address.’

      ‘I told you, I don’t have one.’

      ‘You don’t have a friend you can stay with?’

      ‘I’ve only been in Melbourne a couple of months, so no.’

      ‘You’ve obviously been staying with someone the past couple of weeks.’ He didn’t care for the image that unfurled in his mind—her compact body entwined with—

      ‘Not in Melbourne—not that it’s any of your business. And as I’ve already told you, I had another week!’ Her blade-sharp voice sliced the exhaust-heavy air.

      ‘No. You didn’t.’

      ‘I rang the agent last month about a week’s extension and was told it was okay. As the landlord you’re accountable for this mess.’

      ‘Obviously there’s been some sort of miscommunication.’ He frowned as he stepped past her, unlocked the door and motioned to the waiting removalists. ‘No extension would have been granted.’

      ‘But it was.’

      Grabbing her bag and box, she squeezed ahead of him into the narrow passage. He allowed her the dignity of opening her own front door with her key and followed her inside. She’d made some attempt at packing, he noted, glancing at the boxes stacked in the centre of the tiny living space. The odour of sour milk