He crossed to the window, stood with his back to her to hide his body’s response. ‘Just take yourself and that damn cat back to bed and shut the door behind you.’ And stay there.
‘You don’t like animals. How sad.’
The quiet censure in her tone put him on the defensive. ‘I don’t like animals in my apartment.’
‘That’s why I’d never live in an apartment. No garden, no fresh air and sky, no pets.’
He tried to confine his gaze to his own reflection in the night-darkened glass, but like lightning to metal his eyes were drawn to the image of the woman behind him. To the way her delicate fingers massaged the cat’s fur. To the way her pyjama top dipped on one side exposing a sharply delineated collarbone—
‘So you’ll be wanting to find yourself somewhere more to your liking as soon as possible.’
The air stirred with a tense silence that echoed around his heart. Pulled at him as he heard her say, ‘Naturally,’ and watched her reflection turn and walk away, shoulders slumped. His fingers curled and tightened at his sides. Damn it.
Why had he taken his hostility towards Kat out on his house-guest? Even if she did rub him the wrong way. In so many ways…Shaking unwanted feelings off, he followed her ribbon of freshly showered almonds-and-honey scent along the hall. ‘Didi…’
She halted at her door, hugging her cat to her like a child with a teddy bear. But she gave him no time to form the words he might have said. ‘Thank you for your generosity this evening, Cameron Black. Goodnight.’
The door closed with a tight click, leaving only her fragrance to mingle with his self-recrimination.
He stared at the barrier a moment, listening to the sound of her moving around on the other side and wondering what she was doing. When the sound stopped abruptly, he couldn’t help but picture her climbing into bed in those oversized pyjamas.
A big picture, a bad picture. A very bad picture because he didn’t want to think about what those pyjamas hid. Nor did he want to imagine how he might go about finding out once and for all what that mobile mouth of hers tasted like, even if it was just to shut her up for a moment or two.
He gulped in a deep breath, heard it whistle out through his teeth. Finally he peeled his gaze away from the paintwork. Right now was a good time to hit the treadmill running.
The sound of his mobile woke Cameron from a sleep crowded with unwanted dreams of passionate pixies. Eyes still closed, he reached for the phone. ‘Cameron Black.’
‘Good morning, Mr Black. Sasha Needham calling for Sheila Dodd. I apologise for ringing you this early but I’ve just had a call from Sheila in the UK.’
‘Yes?’ Cam dragged his eyes open, checked the digital clock on his night stand. Five forty-five a.m.
‘Sheila sends her sincere apologies but she’s unable to finish the piece you commissioned within the agreed time frame. She’s had a family crisis and will be staying on in the UK for the next few weeks.’
He pushed upright, wide awake now and already one step ahead. ‘The gallery opens in less than three weeks.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Black. Sheila realises it’s short notice. She’s given me the names of some possible alternatives…’
He closed his eyes again, scrubbed a hand over his morning stubble. ‘Email them to me along with their credentials et cetera and I’ll get back to you.’
Tossing off the quilt, he rose quickly, his bare feet barely registering the change from plush carpet to cool tiles as he moved to the bathroom and splashed cold water over his face.
Over the past two years he’d worked like a demon to turn a graffiti-covered warehouse in Melbourne’s inner suburbs into something unique. An art gallery, not only for prominent artists but also for undiscovered talent from the lower socioeconomic areas. An opportunity for those willing to put in the effort to start something worthwhile. A second chance.
The way he’d been given a second chance.
He stared into his own eyes. Heaven knew where he’d be now without it. He’d been one of those kids, and this gallery was a memorial to the one person who’d made it possible to start over.
Cam had poured a large sum of money into publicity; the minister for the arts was attending the official opening along with the press. If he couldn’t have Sheila’s work on display in time for the opening, he’d damn well have to find someone else pronto.
Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, Cam slid open the French doors and welcomed the sounds of distant early morning traffic and brisk winter wind blowing through the potted palms on his sky garden patio. The fading glow of sunrise tinged the clouds a dirty pink, crisp air tingled his cheeks. He shrugged inside his suit jacket. Who said apartment living and nature were mutually exclusive?