Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress

‘Because if you don’t, I’ll be forced to propose marriage to you in front of your parents and I really wanted to do that without an audience.’

Her breath hitched, her chin came up and shocked eyes stared back at him as twin spots of colour skidded along her cheekbones. ‘You don’t do commitment, why would you want to marry me? And you’ve just tried to convince them you’re not suitable husband material.’

Would it always be this difficult with Didi?

Would he want her any other way?

‘Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe I’ve had time to think about it. About us.’ He pinned his gaze to hers, searching for the answer he wanted. Needed. The answer he knew was there. He was barely aware of Didi’s parents making their way to the door.

Keeping his eyes on hers, he crossed the few steps separating them and wrapped his hands around her upper arms. ‘I’m not asking them to marry me, I’m asking you. Damn it, Didi.’ He gripped her arms tighter, gave a little shake. ‘Look at the mess you’re making of this.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. You stubborn, difficult woman. I thought I’d ruin your reputation as an artist if people discovered my background and I was associated with you in a personal way. I didn’t say what I wanted to ask you on that last night—what I’d planned to ask—because I didn’t want to jeopardise your future. You’d worked so hard for success.’

‘Yes. And you gave me the opportunity I needed.’ She smiled for the first time. Only a tiny smile but it lit him from the inside out, spreading warmth through his limbs and hope in his heart.

He’d missed that smile. He’d missed her mess in the dining room, her clothes on the floor in his bedroom, her quick wit and charming idiosyncrasies. He’d missed her tousled hair tickling his nose as he slept.

‘What had you planned to ask me?’

‘I wanted to ask you to stay, to continue what we’d started.’

The smile faded. ‘You mean our little arrangement. I would have said no.’

In the silence that seemed to stretch to eternity he heard birds, the sound of cutlery rattling somewhere in the house. The sound of his heart splintering into a million pieces. ‘Would you mind telling me why?’

‘Because it wouldn’t have worked, Cameron.’

Desperation clawed its way back, his slippery hold on hope sliding through his fingers and they tightened once more. ‘No, it wouldn’t. I realised that when you walked out of my life. Because it wouldn’t have been enough. Because I love you. And you love me. Which makes marriage our best option.’

A soft choking sound issued from her throat but he couldn’t see her expression because her head dipped forward. Taking that as a promising sign—he refused to take it any other way—he grasped her hands and flattened them against his shirt.

‘Or we could compromise,’ he murmured against the top of her head. ‘It wouldn’t be my choice, but if we extended our arrangement by, say, sixty years or so…Exclusivity would be non-negotiable, however.’

Didi wanted to stand just like this, safe in Cameron’s aura of warmth for ever. Breathing in his scent, watching the way his chest moved as he breathed, listening to his heart. He loved her. He’d let her leave because he thought her career meant more to her than him and he wanted to protect it.

With her palms against his hard-muscled belly, she lifted her gaze from the weave of his shirt to the V of flesh at his neck, his Adam’s apple, the tiny patch of stubble he’d missed when shaving. The strong chin and those gorgeous lips. Last of all, she met his eyes, marvelling at the depth of emotion she saw there. Not clouded with denial the way she’d seen them on that last night, but naked and transparent, and, right now, tormented.

‘If you think I’m going to live sixty years as your mistress, think again.’

‘Di—’

‘Shh.’ She cut him off with a finger to his lips. ‘Not another word. There’s a place…’ Entwining her fingers with his, she tugged him towards the door.

And what better place than the gazebo at the bottom of the garden where the wisteria perfumed the air and a butterfly chased a gentle breeze over the lawn?

She sat on the wooden seat, patted the space beside her. When he didn’t sit, she looked up at him, shading her eyes from the sun’s glare. All she could see was his silhouette; she couldn’t read his expression and a little quiver of doubt rippled through her. Had she gone too far back in the house?

‘Well?’ she prompted in a very feminine coquettish fashion she’d never heard come out of her mouth before. ‘I’ve provided the privacy and the place. You mentioned something about a proposal…You’ve told, you’ve suggested, but you haven’t asked.’