Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress

The next experience was sitting beside him in his big classy car that suddenly didn’t feel so big. Soft leather seats, the lingering fragrance of aftershave and mints. Body heat.

She shrank against the door as far away as she could get and concentrated on the box on her knee, soothing the more and more agitated animal within with quiet murmurs. In the absence of radio or CD noise he sounded more like his larger jungle cousins. At least it gave her something else to focus on.

Until that familiar hand with its sprinkling of dark hair appeared in front of her as he leaned sideways to adjust an air vent on the dash sending a spurt of warm air her way. She held her breath. As if she needed any more warmth.

‘So…this friend you’ve been with…’ Checking the rear mirror, he replaced his hand on the steering wheel. ‘That’s not an option for a few days, I take it?’

‘Accommodation-wise?’ she said, keeping her tone enigmatic. ‘Marysville’s a long drive away. My working life’s here, in Melbourne.’ When she found another job, that was.

She had something to prove. To her family, to herself. It didn’t help that she’d told them she’d found work in a gallery and had a stunning apartment overlooking the Yarra. When she’d returned from a couple of years overseas after leaving school, they’d told her if she didn’t intend going to university or making some sort of commitment and/or compromise she was on her own. She’d taken them literally and moved out.

They saw her passion for textile design as a waste of time—an argument she was never going to win. Creativity didn’t pay; artists didn’t make money. And until she did, until she showed them what she was capable of, she was stuck with waitressing—or not, since she was now unemployed.

They stopped at a small supermarket for pet supplies, and fifteen minutes later she followed his broad-shouldered shape through the revolving glass door of a luxury building.

Then he was whisking her skywards to his apartment. His penthouse apartment. But as she stepped into the living room surprise knocked her back a step. She hadn’t expected to find his taste so…formal, so cool. So impersonal.

Maybe she should have.

Still holding the cat’s box, she took in her surroundings. Almost everything was white. Stark white sofas bordered a black rug over white marbled floor tiles that seemed to go on for ever, giving an impression of endless space. A couple of glass-topped occasional tables with black-shaded lamps that threw out a harsh bleached light. Oyster-coloured curtains framed night-darkened floor-to-ceiling windows, which offered a stunning view of Melbourne’s high rises.

Not a speck of dust, she noted as her eyes scanned the room. Nothing out of place. Not a coffee cup, TV guide, or book in sight. Nothing to make it homey or liveable. How did anyone live in such sparse surroundings? Because he probably spent little time here, she decided. Probably busy sleeping elsewhere.

She wandered to the window. ‘Great view from up here. I imagine you see some beautiful sunsets—if you take the time to look.’

‘Sunrise actually.’ He set her bag on the floor. ‘The view faces east. And yes, I make the time.’

‘I didn’t take you for the contemplative sort.’

‘You wouldn’t, would you? You’re the sort who makes snap decisions about people before you have the facts. You’re also impulsive and driven by emotions. You only see what you want to see.’

His blunt appraisal stung. Some sort of comeback was due and she lifted her chin. ‘Whereas you’re driven by cool, calculating intellect.’ More like sunrise was a pretty backdrop while he planned how to make his next million. ‘Sunrise should be about a new day—hope—something that comes from the heart…Oh, my…’

She trailed off as her gaze snagged on a major piece of textile art that hadn’t been visible from the entrance. Without taking her eyes from it, she fished in her bag for her rose-tinted reading glasses and moved in for a closer inspection.

The asymmetric mural took up almost the entire wall, a forest bound with thread and paint beneath swirling drifts of snowflakes constructed with silver thread and beads in a disordered hexagonal fashion. She couldn’t resist reaching out to touch the tactile feast, the subtly different shades of texture. ‘A Sheila Dodd original. It must be worth a fortune.’

‘Yes, and yes. You’re familiar with her work?’ His tone turned considering, as if he didn’t believe someone like Didi would know anything about artists like Sheila Dodd. Or Monet for that matter.

She met his speculative gaze full-on. ‘She’s my inspiration.’