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.’
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
