At His Service: Millionaire's Mistress. Kelly Hunter

similarly experienced with textiles.’ Dared she mention Didi O’Flanagan’s considerably less experienced expertise?

      He scrubbed his hands over his cheeks, a wholly masculine sound—the only sound in the quiet room apart from the thump of Didi’s heart galloping in nervous anticipation.

      ‘Right now I’d settle for anything, bar tomboy stitch or macramé.’

      ‘Hmm.’ She drew in a tentative breath. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll have something for you to look at by tonight.’

      His hands paused on his jaw and Didi found those unnerving blueberry eyes focused on her. ‘You know someone?’ Spoken with barely concealed incredulity.

      ‘Yes.’ Surprising as that might seem to you. And just wait till you find out who.

      ‘Who?’ he demanded.

      She shook her head. ‘No questions.’ Her mouth turned dry. Could she impress this guy enough to display her work? ‘You’re going to the office, right?’ A horrible thought occurred to her. ‘You do have an office somewhere, don’t you?’ Preferably a long way away.

      ‘I do.’ But as he lowered his hands to the table top she couldn’t help but note the inflexible set of his jaw and his eyes didn’t precisely brim with confidence.

      ‘Look, I know we didn’t exactly hit it off, and last night … well, all is forgiven if—’

      ‘You’re forgiving me?’ His brows rose. ‘By the way, how’s that cat this morning? More to the point, where is that cat this morning?’

      Didi huffed out a breath, knowing she’d made a wrong turn somewhere. ‘Charlie’s fine, sleeping on my pyjamas last time I looked.’ She waved a hand as if it could erase last night’s little foray behind the sofa. ‘Forget about that for now.’ Please. ‘DO you trust me in your apartment?’

      His shoulders lifted inside his jacket, then he seemed to relax momentarily and a corner of his mouth kicked up. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

      Several scenarios presented themselves, none of which Didi wanted to contemplate. She forced a smile back at him. ‘You give macramé a go?’

      Didi waited fifteen minutes just in case Cameron changed his mind and came back. The phone rang and she had a moment when she thought he might have changed his mind, but it must have been a wrong number because whoever it was hung up. Thoughtful, she stared at the handset as she replaced it on its base. Was it him checking in with last-minute instructions? Or was he checking that she hadn’t run off with his valuables? Or perhaps it was a lady friend who’d hung up at the sound of a female voice?

      She shrugged away the odd little niggle that thought provoked, then hurried to where her boxes of supplies had been stashed, dragged them out and got busy. She unearthed her portfolio with photographs of smaller pieces she’d either sold or still had in her boxes. She had no idea what he wanted for the gallery, but first she had to impress him with her work.

      She had several pieces in various stages of completion, but her pride and joy was a quilt-sized work stretched on a frame, covered in black plastic and taped for safety. And how serendipitous that it blended so well with his living room, she thought, unwrapping it. Similar to Sheila’s work with black, white and silver and various shades between, but Didi had used fire-engine red as a focal colour.

      She set the piece against a bare wall, stood back and cast a critical eye over it.

      Twigs she’d painstakingly collected and bound in black, white and silver thread made up the tree, the leaves silver filigree she’d constructed by hand at a jewellery class. An embroidered black serpent wound its way through the branches along a piece of old barbed wire. Just visible behind the action were the subtly spray-painted but unmistakeably erotic shapes of male and female. The apples of red silk layered with organza, thread and delicately spray-painted for a three-dimensional effect completed the picture.

      She’d never shown her family. It would hurt too much to hear their dismissal of something she’d put her heart and soul into for months, using any spare cash she earned to purchase the supplies she needed.

      The big question was would it be good enough to convince Cameron Black to take a chance on her?

      He arrived home late. Didi had spent the day working on new material and suddenly there he was, watching her from across the living room with a doubtful expression in his eyes. Of course, he would, wouldn’t he? With every square centimetre of his ever-so-clean table covered in her stuff.

      ‘Hi.’ She threaded her needle through a piece of fabric, took off her glasses, blinking up at him as her eyes adjusted. ‘I’m sorry about the mess—I’ll clean it up right this—’

      ‘Forget the mess. I don’t have time to waste. I’ve got less than three weeks.’ Crossing the room, he shrugged off his jacket, slung it on the back of a dining-room chair at the far end of the table. Didi couldn’t help but notice Mr Immaculate’s shirt looked as pristine as it had when he’d left this morning.

      His eyes took in her scraps of fabric and silks then flicked to the sheet-draped work against the wall, back to her. Comprehension dawned. ‘So, you’re the artist.’ He sounded disappointed.

      Her pulse took a leap. Squashing down her insecurities, she replied, ‘I hope so.’

      ‘That’s why you recognised Sheila’s work.’

      She nodded. ‘I’ve always loved textiles. I took one of her workshops in Sydney a few years ago.’

      He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘So … what do you have to show me?’

      A hiatus while she stopped breathing. Oh, cripes, she wished he hadn’t said it in quite that way with quite that expression in his eyes. Scepticism. Her art was the one thing that truly mattered to her.

      Somehow she managed to make it across the room. Her arm trembled as she withdrew the sheet. And waited for a response. Any response.

      The right response.

      She thought she heard him mutter, ‘Apples again,’ and saw his jaw tighten.

      He had something against apples? ‘It’s called Before the Temptation.’

      ‘What else could you call it?’ His wry response still gave her no clue to his thoughts.

      Almost unbearable. How long he studied it, immobile, feet spread and arms crossed, she couldn’t be sure. Seconds? Minutes? She counted the beats of her heart. Lost count.

      Finally, he nodded. ‘Okay, Didi, you’ve got yourself a commission. Two and a half weeks to come up with something of the same standard.’

      Relief and excitement sent her soaring on helium balloons, making her voice breathless when she said, ‘I’ll need to know what you have in mind.’

      ‘Something half as big again. The rest’s up to you. I want your best.’

      ‘You’ll have it.’

      ‘Don’t let me down,’ he continued. ‘The press will be there, the minister for arts. I can’t afford—’

      ‘I won’t let you down.’

      He nodded. ‘I’m not an artist, but I’m guessing it’ll take all your time with only two and a half weeks to completion. All day, possibly some evening work too. Have you considered that?’

      She nodded. ‘Not a problem. I no longer work for the catering company, so I’m all yours.’

      Hands dipping into trouser pockets, his gaze swung to her at last, and she was blasted by the full force of those eyes—not sceptical now, but … unreadable in the room’s cool electric lights. They darkened considerably as his gaze flicked down over her tight black T-shirt and apricot chiffon scarf around her waist, to the black leggings and bare feet.

      Oh … Her toes curled against the