Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress. Anne Oliver

a prominent Adam’s apple and solid neck. His hair was shorter than it was in the picture and the room’s light caught threads of auburn amongst the brown.

      He wore a pinstriped charcoal suit and she knew from her experience with fabrics that it was Italian and expensive. Touchable. Warm from his body heat. Her insides did a slow roll and her fingers tightened on the tray.

      As she watched he lifted the crab cake to his lips before popping it into his mouth, still smiling at her, and for an instant she bathed in the warmth before he turned away.

      No. She wanted to bask in that heat a moment longer. ‘You forgot to dip,’ she found herself saying. Loudly. Too loudly. His gaze swung back. ‘And that was the last one…’ She trailed off, lost for a moment in his eyes.

      His lips stretched into a smile as he continued chewing. She had a completely inappropriate image of dipping her fingers in the sauce then sliding them between his lips, and her pulse quickened. ‘That’s too bad,’ he said, his voice a tone or two lower, his eyes a tad darker. As if he was sharing the same fantasy. ‘It was delicious nevertheless.’

      ‘Try a cheese and olive ball.’ She offered her tray up like some kind of entreaty. ‘It’s a different texture but if you like olives—’ Cheeks heating, she caught her runaway tongue between her lips to stem the verbal tide. What the heck was she doing?

      ‘I love olives.’ He selected one, his gaze once again focused on her, warming her from the inside out.

      ‘When you’ve quite finished.’ A man with thick white hair aimed his glare at her over the rim of a pair of butt-ugly spectacles. ‘As I was saying, Cam…’

      Cam held Didi’s eyes for a second longer, then gave a conspiratorial wink before getting back to business.

      Cam… Cameron Black. Didi mentally repeated his name as she watched one long tapered finger touch the model of his proposed development as he spoke. What would it feel like to have that finger touch her? Anywhere. For any reason…

      Get real, she admonished herself. Step away before you make a complete and utter fool of yourself.

      This man was into property deals and big-business networking. He didn’t have time for the simpler things like social conversation. No doubt he spent his entire life dealing with men like Mr White Hair. He was one of those men for whom making money was more important than relationships—hence the poster, no doubt.

      As she stepped back she couldn’t help noticing the arched façade of the model he was touching. She frowned, squinting without her glasses. It looked like her apartment building.

      It was her apartment building. They’d been served with eviction notices months ago, but Didi hadn’t got around to finding herself a new place yet. At least not one she could afford.

      Resentment simmered beneath her carefully cultivated waitress persona. That was where she’d seen his name. Cameron Black Property Developers were kicking her out along with several other families in three weeks; she’d seen the signage on the vacant lot next door where a pawn shop and a sleazy tattoo parlour had recently been demolished. All destined to be part of a new complex that would take months to complete.

      A different kind of heat fired through her veins. The burn of disappointment, anger. Outrage. Greed was Cameron’s motivation. Certainly not concern for the residents who couldn’t afford to move to the more upmarket parts of town.

      She should bite her tongue, turn around and head to the kitchen to refill her depleted tray. But she’d never been one who could keep her mouth shut. ‘Excuse me.’

      Six heads turned, six pairs of eyes drilled into hers, but it was Cameron Black she focused on. ‘Have you given any thought to the tenants you’re turfing out at number two hundred and three?’

      His jaw firmed, the warmth in his eyes vanished. ‘I beg your pardon?’

      She waved a hand over the model. ‘I don’t know how people like you sleep at night.’ She scoffed out a humourless laugh. ‘Mrs Jacobs has been there for fifteen years—she’s had to go to Geelong to live with her daughter’s family. And Clem Mason’s—’

      ‘Watch yourself, girlie,’ Mr White Hair warned.

      Fired up now, Didi didn’t spare him a glance. ‘Do you know how hard it is to find suitable accommodation at affordable rates, Mr Black? Do you care at all about the ordinary people trying to get by on the basics who live—make that lived—in that building?’

      ‘I’m not aware of any problems.’ His voice was cool professionalism. ‘Of course you’re not.’ And he’d probably trotted out that same line to the pinner-upper of the photo in her pocket. She could only shake her head on behalf of women everywhere. ‘Maybe that’s why you’re the current Pin-Up Boy in the ladies’ loo.’ Her voice carried way further than she’d meant it to and a hush descended around them like a suffocating shroud.

      Twin spots of colour slashed Cameron Black’s cheeks and his mouth opened as if to speak, but she turned away, her runaway tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth. Before she made matters worse, she set her tray on a nearby table and quickly made her way towards the restroom.

      She pushed through the door, found it empty and leaned back against its solid barrier with a heartfelt sigh. Tonight her mouth might just have cost her this job.

      She stepped to the vanity counter and turned on the tap, dabbing her neck with cold water. Thankless or not, she needed this work. Why couldn’t she control her tongue? And why did the man-to-die-for have to be her evil landlord?

      The door swung open with a whoosh, pushed wide by a very tanned, very firm, very masculine hand. Didi’s breath snagged in her chest. Then she steeled herself to meet Cameron Black’s grim reflection in the mirror.

      Instead of feeling threatened, she felt…anticipation. It buzzed through her body, turning her legs to liquid and drawing her nipples into tight points of sensation. Damn him, she didn’t want to feel as if she were poised and breathless on the edge of a lava pit. She wanted to get herself together, and how could she do that when he’d invaded the only place she’d thought safe?

      She turned so that she could meet him face to face on equal terms, gripping her fingers on the counter top at her sides for support. Except he had a good fourteen inches on her. Struggling to keep the nerves from her voice, she lifted her chin and met his gaze. ‘I think you made a wrong turn somewhere.’

      ‘Not me. You.’ His gaze darkened, indigo satin over hot coals, and his voice was silky smooth when he advised, ‘You really shouldn’t bad-mouth the people who help contribute to your pay at the end of the evening.’

      How was it that even though his eyes remained fused with hers he managed to conjure a shimmer of heat up the entire length of her body as if he’d swept a hand from ankle to clavicle and every place in between?

      She shook her head. ‘I tell the truth, Mr Black. Unfortunately the truth often gets me in trouble…’

      When his gaze finally released her he scanned the room. ‘And how do you know my name?’

      She arched a brow. ‘I’d suggest most of the women at this function know your name by now.’

      His eyes narrowed. The door swung closed behind him, swirling the air and leaving the two of them alone. The scent of his cologne reached her nostrils in the draught he’d created. Without thought she breathed deep, inhaling its fragrance: snowflakes on cedar-wood. As if by some force she didn’t know she had, it seemed to draw him closer. It seemed to draw the walls in, suck the air away, until he was standing so close she could feel his body heat through the fine-textured weave of his shirt.

      He placed his hands firmly on the counter top, a fingerprint away from hers, boxing her in. ‘What game are you playing at—’ and even though she was certain he remembered her name, his gaze slid over the swell of her left breast where her name-tag hung at its permanent forty-five-degree