Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress

Didi slid her arm through Amy’s. ‘Let’s find somewhere to talk…’

‘Cameron puts a message in the missing persons column in the paper every month. That’s how I know his phone number,’ Amy said, stirring her coffee.

‘So why haven’t you contacted him?’

She stared at her cup. ‘He’ll think I’m after his money. I was a drug addict…Did he tell you?’

Didi scooped the froth off her cappuccino and watched her. ‘Yes.’

‘I’ve cleaned up my life. I’ve even got a job—only a sales assistant—but I’d like to study some day. I’m saving up.’

‘Doesn’t the fact he’s put an ad in the missing persons tell you anything? He doesn’t care about your past. He’d help you. He’s set up a centre for kids and there’s a new gallery opening this weekend. And you know why? Because he thinks about you. All the time. Let me help.’ Didi reached out and covered Amy’s hand. ‘I’ll arrange for you to meet; somewhere neutral if you like. Give me your phone number.’ Didi pulled out her mobile.

‘You won’t tell him? Until I’m ready?’

‘No. He doesn’t even have to know it’s you he’ll be meeting. Let’s make it Sunday.’

‘Sunday?’ Amy paled, her hand tightening on her cup. ‘That’s too soon.’

‘No. It’s not. He’s been looking for you for too many years. I need your word, and I need your phone number.’

Amy nodded. ‘Okay. Might as well get it over.’

She gave Didi her number, Didi stored it in her phone, then slipped it back in her bag. ‘Remember, he loves you. Now, let’s you and I get to know each other.’

‘Calm down, you look fantastic and everything’s under control,’ Cameron reassured her as they headed into the gallery.

It was early, no one was here yet, but in half an hour the place would be full. Full of people who would be looking at her work. Influential people. Judging her creativity. Analysing her style and probably comparing it with Sheila’s.

Bats were flapping their wings in her stomach; she’d kill for a glass of water. Or something stronger. She wiped her palms down her thighs as they entered the gallery. ‘Oh…’

On the feature wall. The Eternal Flame. Artist: Didi O’Flanagan.

She couldn’t help it; she rushed over and traced her name with a finger, tears springing to her eyes. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Believe it,’ said the deep voice she’d become so familiar with.

She took a few steps backwards for the full effect and looked at it through someone else’s eyes. Vermilion silk threads leapt from the background of black silk. Living flames insinuating themselves in an abstract yet intricate design around silver filigree and smoked driftwood.

A glance around showed her smaller pieces amongst other artists’ works. Her Temptation piece hung by itself on another wall.

‘You’ll be taking a lot of orders tonight, I guarantee it. Congratulations.’

‘You’ve done a wonderful job with the displays. Thank you. For everything.’ Their eyes met. This was it. Soon it would be time to say goodbye. Her commission was finished, their time was up. Why did the happiest night of her life have to be the saddest?

Cam saw the emotion in her eyes but, hard as it was to keep from responding, he wasn’t saying anything yet. Later tonight he hoped to talk her into staying on longer. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could even think about taking their relationship to a new level. Although what that new level might look like was still unclear.

She looked stunning, as unique as her art. Like a model in a fashion magazine. Leggings in fabric of a black and white geometric puzzle reached to mid calf. She wore a sleeveless T-shirt in a similar pattern topped with a macraméd concoction of thin strips of grey leather and burgundy wooden beads. A heavy necklace of similar beads in dark red, black and ivory hung to her waist. Five wooden beaded bracelets adorned her arms. She had silver glitter in her spiked hair.

And he knew she wore his diamond necklace hidden next to her skin.

Two hours later he watched her talking animatedly with an art critic while photographers snapped pictures. She’d spoken to a throng of journalists. He’d heard her being touted as an emerging star in the art world. People were buying; not only her works but others. Champagne flowed as artists he’d supported celebrated.

‘She’s talented,’ a female voice said behind him to another woman beside her.

Pride swelled inside him. Of course she was.

‘Yes,’ the other woman replied. ‘She dropped off the social scene a few years ago. There were rumours…I heard she was virtually stood up at the altar.’