Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress

For a moment he’d considered remaining in front of the open refrigerator door for a few moments. Cool the fires within. The woman was a sorceress in pixie clothing. How else could she have bewitched him so utterly? One glance and he knew for certain that underneath the figure-hugging black she was moulded just the way he’d dreamed. All she needed was the wings.

Hell.

And he’d just made an arrangement that required her here, in his apartment, for the next two and a half weeks. He shook his head at the irony.

No. This was strictly business. If she was going to be working in the dining/living room in the evenings—which was the ideal room with its floor-to-ceiling windows and huge table—wearing those figure-hugging outfits…He’d stay longer at the office and sleep on the futon. Maybe he should check into a hotel.

Then how would he keep an eye on her progress?

He needed to set some parameters, but some sort of celebratory offering was probably required first. A drink? He moved to the refrigerator once more, whipped out a bottle of Moët et Chandon Vintage Rosé, grabbed two glasses and headed to the living area.

Struck again by the sight of her sensational art against the wall, he slowed to study it once more. Who’d have thought the somewhat crazy little waitress was so talented? It would look right at home in the best galleries in the country. It looked right at home in his living room.

So did Didi.

She stood facing the windows, her hands laced together behind her head. The down-lights spangled her contrived riot of hair and he could smell her sweet almond fragrance from the other side of the room. He did his best to ignore her relaxed pose against Melbourne’s diamond-studded deep velvet panorama as she stretched her body from side to side, no doubt flexing her spine after hours of close work.

But there was something spellbinding about the way she moved, as if she listened to some inner rhythm, that had his feet stapled to the floor. His blood pounded thickly as his gaze devoured the slim waist and compact little ass like some ravenous beast. And those legs…How would they feel clamped around his waist?

Dangerous curves.

Dangerous thoughts.

‘We haven’t ironed out the details of this arrangement,’ she said.

Her voice startled him out of his semi-dazed state. Using his trick and watching him in the glass. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then again when she turned to face him. It was in her gaze too—a mutual awareness, quickly banked. If he’d blinked he’d have missed it.

‘No, we haven’t.’ He moved to the table, set down the bottle and glasses, dismissing the urge to suggest an alternative and completely inappropriate way to celebrate: Sealed with a kiss. Like a spark to oxygen, the thought of locking lips with Didi exploded into stunning, breathtaking life. He grappled with the bottle’s foil and cork. With those full rosy lips she’d suck away any bargaining power he possessed, of that he had no doubt. And on that not-so-sobering note, he said, ‘We’ll drink to it first.’

Didi shook her head. As much as she loved champers—and this looked like a bottle of the very expensive variety—this was way too important. ‘Details first. How much am I worth?’

He named a figure that swept the air out of her lungs with a whoosh.

‘That’s if you’re finished within the time frame,’ he reminded her.

She was suddenly elated and terrified all at once. That amount was seriously serious. It would set her up for a long time. Show her family artists did make money and finally, maybe, they’d accept her choice. Accept her. How long had she craved their acceptance, their pride? Doubts crept in. Was she up for it? ‘I’ll need an advance to purchase supplies.’

‘No problem. I can order you a credit card or give you cash, whichever you prefer. The apartment’s at your disposal day and night.’

She nodded, trying to absorb the details. At least he’d be out during the day, but evenings…‘I’m not used to people watching me work—or looking at the unfinished product.’

‘I’m paying you enough—that gives me the right to view it any time.’

He poured the bubbly into the glasses, looking satisfied with the deal. And why not? He dealt with mega bucks on a daily basis; this was probably no more than a drop in the Pacific Ocean to him. And he was correct—that amount of money on an unknown artist gave him every right to track her progress.

‘I’ll need time to design and collect materials.’

‘Not too long. I want to see something tangible within a few days.’

Panic stations. ‘Artists don’t work like that.’

‘Ah, but this one will. It’s too important, for both of us.’