cool. So impersonal.
Maybe she should have.
Still holding the cat’s box, she took in her surroundings. Almost everything was white. Stark white sofas bordered a black rug over white marbled floor tiles that seemed to go on for ever, giving an impression of endless space. A couple of glass-topped occasional tables with black-shaded lamps that threw out a harsh bleached light. Oyster-coloured curtains framed night-darkened floor-to-ceiling windows, which offered a stunning view of Melbourne’s high rises.
Not a speck of dust, she noted as her eyes scanned the room. Nothing out of place. Not a coffee cup, TV guide, or book in sight. Nothing to make it homey or liveable. How did anyone live in such sparse surroundings? Because he probably spent little time here, she decided. Probably busy sleeping elsewhere.
She wandered to the window. ‘Great view from up here. I imagine you see some beautiful sunsets—if you take the time to look.’
‘Sunrise actually.’ He set her bag on the floor. ‘The view faces east. And yes, I make the time.’
‘I didn’t take you for the contemplative sort.’
‘You wouldn’t, would you? You’re the sort who makes snap decisions about people before you have the facts. You’re also impulsive and driven by emotions. You only see what you want to see.’
His blunt appraisal stung. Some sort of comeback was due and she lifted her chin. ‘Whereas you’re driven by cool, calculating intellect.’ More like sunrise was a pretty backdrop while he planned how to make his next million. ‘Sunrise should be about a new day—hope—something that comes from the heart … Oh, my …’
She trailed off as her gaze snagged on a major piece of textile art that hadn’t been visible from the entrance. Without taking her eyes from it, she fished in her bag for her rose-tinted reading glasses and moved in for a closer inspection.
The asymmetric mural took up almost the entire wall, a forest bound with thread and paint beneath swirling drifts of snowflakes constructed with silver thread and beads in a disordered hexagonal fashion. She couldn’t resist reaching out to touch the tactile feast, the subtly different shades of texture. ‘A Sheila Dodd original. It must be worth a fortune.’
‘Yes, and yes. You’re familiar with her work?’ His tone turned considering, as if he didn’t believe someone like Didi would know anything about artists like Sheila Dodd. Or Monet for that matter.
She met his speculative gaze full-on. ‘She’s my inspiration.’
‘Inspiration … For what exactly?’
‘What I do.’ Didi turned back to admire the work but didn’t elaborate on the fact that she produced pieces along similar lines to the prominent Aussie artist and hoped to one day bathe in the same limelight. ‘I enjoy creating things, whether it’s food or fashion or fabric.’ She flicked him a glance. ‘That surprises you.’
‘I’m fast learning not to be surprised by anything about you.’
He was watching her with an expression she either couldn’t or didn’t want to read. All she knew was it made her … prickly, itchy. Bitchy. ‘It’s a pity it’s all so—’ she waved her free hand at the room ‘—monochrome.’
One eyebrow rose. ‘My designer thought otherwise.’ Then he seemed to reflect on that a moment and said, ‘What would you change?’ as if he’d never given his choice of interior decoration a thought.
‘Personal opinion of course, but you don’t think it’s lacking a little warmth and intimacy?’ When he didn’t reply she looked around at the bare surfaces. ‘Where’s the ambience? A few homey pieces like photos, a rock collection, a pottery figurine. A mix of plump red or apricot cushions, warm yellow light and a bluesy CD.’
Typical Didi-speak, but now the warmth and intimacy thing seemed to take hold as he continued to watch her. To distract herself she set her box on the floor, withdrew Charlie, buried her face in his soft fur and changed the topic. ‘Hey, you’re safe now, little guy.’ But was she?
‘It suits me the way it is.’ He turned his attention to Charlie. ‘That cat looks remarkably healthy for a stray. Are you sure it was abandoned?’
She rubbed the round tight tummy. ‘True, but if you found a cat stuffed in a box tied up with string and left by a toilet block what would you assume?’
He nodded, straightened, all formal again. ‘The bedroom’s this way.’ His tone matched his choice of furnishings—minimalist. ‘It has an enclosed balcony. Please keep the cat confined to that area.’
She followed him down a wide corridor. As she passed she glimpsed what must be his bedroom, then another filled with gym equipment … and her stuff.
‘Davis, the security guy downstairs, had your gear put in here.’ He gestured towards it, then stopped at the third door, swung it open. The mountain of cream and gold quilt looked inviting on the big double bed. ‘The guest bathroom’s at the end of the corridor.’
‘Great,’ she said into the tense silence. Her initial snap judgement might have been premature. How many people would have put themselves out this way for a virtual stranger? She murmured, ‘Thank you.’
He nodded, checked his watch. ‘I’m unlikely to be back before midnight so make yourself at home. If you’re hungry, feel free to fix something to eat.’
‘Thanks.’ Her gaze turned back to the bedroom. To the bed covered in his sheets. A shaft of heat slid through her belly. ‘Um … thanks again, I’ll be fine. Goodnight,’ she managed, and stepped inside. Closed the door.
She waited till she heard his footsteps fade. ‘Well, Charlie …’ She smoothed his fur and set him down. ‘So I guess it’s tuna fish dinner for you and a hot bath for me.’ But even though she forced herself to keep thoughts and self-talk upbeat she wondered with an ever-increasing knot in her stomach what she’d got herself into.
CHAPTER THREE
CAM glanced at the time on his computer screen as he checked his last unread email. Half past midnight. Surely his house-guest would be asleep by now? Because he didn’t want to have to deal with her again tonight he’d stopped by his office on his way home from dinner.
Nor did he want to dwell on the fact that for some perverse reason she’d been slipping into his dreams over the past couple of weeks and doing wicked things to his libido. Of course she’d been on his mind, he told himself—she’d caused him unnecessary inconvenience and concern.
He switched off his computer, swiped his hands over the back of his neck. Okay, dreams—he could deal with those—but in-the-flesh reality was a different matter. So he’d give her another half-hour to be on the safe side.
But that didn’t stop him from imagining her in his apartment. Relaxing in the bathroom’s spa and steaming it up with her intriguing blend of feminine fragrance. Drinking from his cups. Curled between his sheets with only one room separating them.
He made a coffee in the kitchenette, then sat at his secretary’s desk and flicked through The Age to kill time and divert his thoughts from what was going on in his apartment.
But his mind refused to glance further than
