Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress

And as for dressing up—or down—it wasn’t an option. Either he accepted her somewhat offbeat and eclectic style or he didn’t. She no longer had the luxury of money to waste on frivolous dresses or seduce-me nightgowns, nor did she feel a need to conform to the gurus of fashion.

And if she didn’t do something about this developing migraine, she thought as she rummaged in her bag for medication, she’d be no use to anyone, including herself.

She stripped off, shrugged into the robe’s comforting warmth, sat on the edge of the bed. Tempting to lay her head on the pillow—the one that smelled of him—just for a moment. Then she’d have that soak and then…

CHAPTER NINE

CAM closed his folder and glanced at his watch as the last of the attendees exited the room. The meeting had run late. He’d been running late since he arrived this morning.

It didn’t usually bother him—he practically lived at the office, often making up for lost time well after midnight when necessary. Tonight wasn’t one of those nights. Tonight anticipation snapped at his heels and he couldn’t wait to be out the door.

That brought him up short. Slow down, Cam. It wasn’t as if he needed to see her, he assured himself. He didn’t need anyone. Need threatened control, something he’d fought for most of his life, and won.

So he sent his driver home and set out to walk the forty minutes to his apartment. He deliberately took his time, strolling along tree-lined Collins Street where spring was showing itself with tiny green buds gleaming in the street lights. Ducking rattling trams and harried pedestrians at one of the busy intersections. Workers were cramming cafés for an early dinner, hitting the city gyms or shopping. The smell of fast food mingled with car exhaust fumes.

He found his pace picking up and slowed once more. Didi was in his head again, and too much for his peace of mind. He wanted to see how the work was coming along, the artist herself was a…fringe benefit. A diversion.

Yet even as he told himself that was all it was he knew he was fooling himself. Didi O’Flanagan was one hell of a diversion…and a whole lot more. The fact that they clashed on so many points only added to the appeal.

And the sex was…More. It was the only description he could come up with.

He found himself outside his apartment building and rode the elevator up. He’d been surprised to learn she came from wealth; she clearly championed for the disadvantaged. Why would her parents have nothing to do with her? There was obviously more to it than she was willing to let him see. A woman with secrets—a good reason not to trust her too easily.

The apartment was silent when he stepped inside. Charlie trotted towards him, twining himself around his legs, a furry ribbon with an appetite. Priorities, he reminded himself. He went to the living room to view the work-in-progress. Not much to see yet, but she’d been busy. Her glasses lay amongst the scatter. He fed the cat. So, now…where was Didi—and what was she doing?

His pulse rate accelerated as he headed for his bedroom and his steps quickened. As he stepped inside the spill of low light from the bedside lamp highlighted her face, glinted on her hair. Fast asleep, her complexion pale, smudges beneath her eyes.

Then his gaze fell on a bottle of pills on the night-stand. Gut-curdling dread clawed its way up his throat, choking off his air. Visions from the past flashed before his eyes. Amy had done this to herself on a regular basis. His mother had died of an overdose of prescription drugs.

He grabbed the bottle as he shook her shoulder with rough impatience. ‘Didi.’ For God’s sake. ‘Wake up!’ Belatedly a glance at the bottle informed him they were prescription pills for migraine.

She stirred. ‘Huh? What?’ He saw her wince as she opened her eyes, squinting in the glare. ‘What is it?’

He blew out a slow breath. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you. I just…’ He noted his hand wasn’t steady as he brushed hair from her brow. ‘Go back to sleep.’

She blinked up at him as her eyes adjusted to the light. ‘I was going to take a dip in that swimming-pool spa of yours. I guess I zonked out.’

‘Do you still have your headache?’ He cleared the residual panic from his throat and let his hand rest on her shoulder. She felt warm, soft. Alive.

‘No.’ She sounded surprised and rubbed her brow, checking. ‘No.’

‘Lie there for a bit. I have to go out for a while. Do you think you’ll feel like eating later? I can bring something back if you want.’

She rolled onto her side, the robe dipping and slipping, tempting his own appetite with generous slices of cleavage and thigh. She moistened her lips, drawing his gaze. ‘Why do you have to go out? Friday night’s for relaxing. Stay.’