Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress

He doubted she knew how husky she sounded, how provocative she looked, drowsy from sleep and sexy as sin. The whole effect shook him to his foundations and, coupled with the near heart attack she’d just given him, he was in no mood to analyse his angry response, nor why he felt the need to distance himself.

He rose. ‘I have a standing appointment on Friday evenings and I don’t intend to break it. Not even for you.’ In three weeks she’d be gone, a pleasant memory.

Her expression cooled. ‘This arrangement we have—I thought it was exclusive.’

‘It is.’ He turned away, strode to his wardrobe.

Didi flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling, unaccountably hurt, unreasonably disappointed. Why was she feeling this way? Because the memory of that earlier mystery phone call hammered at her and it was all too easy to draw her own conclusions. ‘I’m not going to sit here and wait for you every night,’ she said, listening to the rustle of clothes on the other side of the partially open door.

She could almost hear his eyes rolling back in his head as he said, ‘It’s not every night, Didi, it’s Friday nights.’

He strode back into the room and every accusation—every thought—dried on her tongue.

He was wearing jeans. Blue jeans. Faded, scruffy, worn jeans with a T-shirt that had been black once, and two sizes too small because it stretched over his chest like elastic over the Harbour Bridge.

And she’d thought he looked sexy in a business suit…She’d thought he couldn’t look more sexy, but he did, in a dangerous, bad-boy way that called to the wanton woman inside her.

And he was going out. Without her.

She so didn’t care. She wished she had a nail file and polish handy, or a magazine so she could flick through the pages ever so carelessly and show him just how much she so didn’t care. Instead she shrugged. ‘Slumming it tonight, huh?’

He stilled, every hard ripple in that impressive chest tense, every muscle in his jaw bunched. His lips compressed into a tight angry line. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes—not in that bad-boy way, but in a way that made her want to shrink back and wish the sarcastic words unsaid. Definitely the lowest form of wit.

‘Get dressed,’ he said calmly. Too calmly. ‘You want to see slumming? Come with me. Be ready in five minutes. I can’t be late. I won’t be late. Wear comfortable shoes and bring a jacket.’

There was no thought of refusal. Her fingers trembled as she dragged on jeans and a jumper she found amongst her stuff. This showed a side of Cameron she’d never seen, never known existed. A quick glance in the mirror reflected a face devoid of make-up, hollows beneath her eyes. She spiked her hair with her fingers—that would have to do. She dragged out her worn coat, slipped it on.

They rode the elevator down to the underground car park in silence, climbed into the car and merged into the evening traffic the same way. Considering the dress code it was almost absurd to be driving in such luxury with something classically high-brow playing through the speakers.

Whatever it was, this was very important to Cameron, and it would give her some insight into the man who didn’t talk about himself.

Fitzroy’s busy inner suburban street was crammed with traffic, tram lines and overhanging cables, some of the beautiful architecture of a bygone era mottled with peeling paint, boarded up or covered in graffiti. Light years away from Cameron’s exclusive Collins Street address. He parked in a side street.

‘You’re leaving this expensive piece of automotive engineering here?’ she said, incredulous.

‘It’s only a car, Didi.’

She bit back a retort that only an hour ago she wouldn’t have hesitated to use and climbed out.

It became obvious he was heading for what had once been an old department store. The tired red bricks on the second and third storey remained but the street-level façade had been given fresh paint and the windows at the front were large and brightly lit. Inviting. The sign read, ‘Come In Centre’.

She saw a medical clinic, still open. Lights spilled from the room Cameron explained was a youth counselling service. The atmosphere was vibrant and alive, busy. She followed him through a large recreational room where people, mostly teenagers, watched TV, played table tennis, or sat at tables talking.

She could smell unwashed bodies, poverty, fear, but she also sensed optimism and hope and determination.

‘This building’s for abused teenagers and runaways,’ he said as they made their way through the high-ceilinged room towards a canteen. ‘Here they can get a meal, see a doctor, talk with professionals who care, and generally hang out.’