Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress. Anne Oliver

folded sheet of paper, thrust it at his chest. ‘It’s not my game.’

      Straightening, he unfolded it and scanned the contents. She watched his jaw bunch, his knuckles whiten on the paper. In the silence that followed she could hear the quickened rasp of his breathing, could almost feel his anger as a third entity in the room with them.

      ‘I found it on the mirror.’

      She flinched again when he closed a substantial fist around it, crumpled it beyond redemption with an impatient crackle, then shoved it in his pocket. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from asking for it back. Of course she wanted it back…so she could grind her heel into his face when she left her flat in three weeks’ time with nowhere to live.

      ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been having some trouble with an ex girlfriend.’

      ‘No kidding. Did you kick her out too?’

      ‘As a matter of fact it was she who did the kicking.’

      She was tempted to dole out more sarcasm but the complete lack of emotion in his expression stopped her—too complete. Too controlled. He’d blocked the pain, she thought, and stuffed her hands into her trouser pockets to curb her natural instinct to reach out to him. He was hurting, and she understood too well how it felt to be tossed aside. ‘Yeah, well, you’re better off without someone like that.’

      And I’m better off not knowing. She needed to remember who he was: Evil Landlord. He might be hot sex in a pinstripe suit but his motive in life was greed. Keeping her backside against the counter top, she sidled closer to the door—she had to get out before she changed her mind and offered something stupid, like sympathy. Or sex on the vanity unit.

      Cam sensed her imminent departure but he wasn’t done with her. He slammed his hands back on the tiles on either side of hers. Wide and wary silver eyes snapped to his. She was petite. Dainty. But he knew the aura of fragility was purely that—an aura. He liked that about her—a woman with guts in a compact little package.

      She’d furrowed hands through her gelled hair and it stood up now in spiky disarray. With her name-tag askew and resting on one small pert breast, she reminded him of a rather untidy pixie. The jolt of attraction was swift and unexpected. And hot.

      He gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus. ‘Do you want to come with me now and voice your concerns about the new development to the rest of the investors?’

      ‘With that irritable and arrogant old man? No point. More important, I’ve still got half an hour of paid employment to go and, unlike some, I need the money.’ She made a noise of disgust and her breasts rose as she drew in a short sharp breath. ‘It’s people like you who barge in and buy up big, ripping up homes and businesses and lives and call it “development” when in reality it’s just a money-grabbing venture.’

      ‘It’s not—’

      ‘People like you,’ she interrupted, ‘wouldn’t understand the first thing about people from the other side of the tracks.’

      He had a fleeting but graphic image of a past he’d spent half his life trying to forget and his gut clenched. He pushed back from the counter, his fingers tightening into fists at his sides as he remembered how long and hard he’d fought to earn the wealth and respect he now enjoyed. ‘You know nothing about me.’

      She waved an accusatory hand at the peach-coloured sofa. ‘You followed me in here, didn’t you? That tells me something, and, let me tell you, it’s not flattering.’

      Her eyes flashed at him, a silver blowtorch, all heat and sparks and energy, setting spot fires snapping to life through his veins. In his thirty-two years no woman had ever ignited such a reaction in him.

      If he could direct that passion elsewhere… His groin tightened at the thought of where he could direct that delicate-looking hand with its clear varnished nails… ‘Tell me something else, Didi. Why did you fold my picture with such obvious care and put it in your pocket? Why not throw it in the waste bin?’

      Her cheeks turned a delicious shade of pink and her gaze dropped to her shoes. ‘I…wasn’t thinking.’ Then she pushed, her palm hitting him firmly mid-chest. ‘Now move.’

      Her touch was like a brand, searing his flesh. Heat radiated throughout his body and his first instinct was to cover that small hand with his and keep her there just a few more seconds and argue that she was, in fact, thinking. About him.

      But he stepped aside, the imprint of her hand still burning, and watched her march the two steps to the door, yank it open. If he wasn’t wrong, those rosy cheeks gave her away. Attraction. And right now she was about to walk. He should be relieved—he didn’t need the distraction; he certainly didn’t intend dating her. So why he found himself asking for her phone number was beyond his comprehension.

      She paused mid-stride, her fingers curved around the door frame, her eyes barely meeting his. ‘Why?’

      ‘I may decide to press charges against my ex.’

      She scoffed and resumed walking. ‘You can do that without my help.’

      He stood a moment, breathing in the sweet nutty fragrance she’d left behind, feeling oddly put out. ‘Damn right, Didi. I don’t need your help.’ I certainly don’t need you.

      He’d barely moved when her elfin face reappeared around the door. ‘What makes you think I’d want to help you?’ she continued as if she’d never left. ‘Maybe she did us girls a favour. Apparently you’re not the man she thought you were.’

      She looked him up and down thoroughly from his now sweat-damp brow to his black Italian leather shoes and he had the disturbing sensation she wasn’t looking at his clothes. ‘Makes one wonder what she meant considering you’re on the wrong side of the door here. Perhaps she knows something the rest of us girls don’t.’

      He didn’t bother with a reply. Didi whoever-she-was could imply whatever the hell she liked; Cam knew exactly what Katrina had meant.

      When Didi arrived home she knew she’d made the right choice in not giving Cameron Black her phone number. He was the single most dangerous man she’d ever met. He owned her apartment. He was going to tear it down.

      And she had the worst case of lust for him that she’d ever experienced. How dumb was that?

      Still in her coat, she was stepping out of her shoes when her mobile rang. She froze momentarily, then coughed out a laugh. Of course it couldn’t be him… Pulling her phone out of her bag, she checked caller ID, breathed a sigh of relief, but only for an instant because her friend Donna was on her own with a toddler and it was well past midnight.

      ‘Donna, what’s up?’

      ‘I’ve broken my leg…’ Distress tightened her voice. ‘Trent’s not home for another two weeks and I’ve got no one to help look after Fraser. Can you come?’

      Didi rubbed her tired eyes. Donna lived in the Yarra Valley, a couple of hours’ drive from Melbourne—too far for Didi to commute on a daily basis with her unreliable car.

      They’d met as volunteers at a kids’breakfast club in Sydney, then Donna had married and moved to Victoria with her husband, but he worked on an offshore oil rig half the time. Didi would have to stay with her, which meant she’d be unavailable for work—if she still had a job, that was.

      She glanced at her chaotic apartment and empty cartons. If you couldn’t help a friend in need… ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

      Didi threw a handful of clothes and essentials into a couple of canvas supermarket bags. At least she’d managed to pack away her precious art supplies. She still had three weeks before she had to vacate—cutting it fine, but it couldn’t be helped. She wasn’t about to let Donna down—Cameron Black and his big bad bulldozer would just have to wait.

      Cameron wasn’t sure which got