needed re-heeling, barely even glancing into the exclusive shops as she headed to the gallery for one final glimpse of her work in the window.
And then she saw it. Millie’s head turned so abruptly that she was positively whiplashed as she put a very beautiful face to a very beautiful name.
House of Kolovsky.
The cerulean blue frontage and the embossed gold lettering were familiar the world over—yet so far removed from Millie’s existence that till now she’d barely even given the building a glance. Unable to resist now, though, she teetered forward, gazing into a magnificent window, dressed with ream after ream of the heavy silk that was so much the Kolovsky trademark, with opals as big as gulls’ eggs seemingly casually tossed in—but the effect was so stunning Millie was in no doubt that each jewel had been placed with military precision, along with the tiny lights that were twinkling and catching the fluid colour of the fabric.
Kolovsky was renowned for its stunning fashion collections as well as the fabrics themselves: rich, heavy silks that were supposed to have the same magical effect as opals—capturing the light and even, it was rumoured by devotees, changing colour according to a woman’s mood. Millie had raised her eyebrows in rather bored disbelief when she’d read that in a magazine, but standing with her nose practically against the window, seeing the heavy, fabulous tones and sumptuous attention to detail, Mille could almost believe it. What she was finding rather more difficult to fathom, though, was what had taken place earlier. She had flirted with none other than Levander Kolovsky.
She had seen him before—it was all coming to her now: notorious bad boy, the darling of the tabloids here in Melbourne, his every move, his every comment, his every encounter faithfully and libellously documented.
Millie let out a gurgle of laughter. She’d been flirting with the biggest rake in Melbourne. Just wait till she told Anton!
Peeling herself away from the window, Millie allowed herself just one final glimpse. She would have loved to feel her body draped in something so exquisite. Not that she could ever afford it. Millie sighed, picking up her pace and walking the few doors down to the gallery. She could barely afford anything at the moment—which was how a tortured artist was supposed to start, Mille reminded herself. But her usual pep-talk was starting to lose its oomph—cold reality hitting home as she stood on the pavement outside the gallery.
Very soon she wouldn’t be a struggling artist.
Instead she’d be a teacher.
Seeing a light on inside, Millie stood well back, not wanting Anton, the owner, to see her tears as she bade goodbye to her dream.
‘Which one is yours?’ How long she’d stood there staring Millie had no idea. She’d been so lost in her own world she hadn’t noticed someone approaching, hadn’t heard him next to her. Only now that he was, every nerve sizzled with awareness.
‘That one.’ Millie pointed to a tiny oil painting with a shaking hand, wondering what his take would be. It was a field of flowers and grass, every blade smiling, every flower wearing a different expression, and in the middle was a wooden child bearing no features—it was quite simply her favourite piece, evoking for Millie such emotion and memory that it would truly break her heart if it ever did sell. Yet it was the one she had hoped would launch her career.
‘Were you on drugs when you painted this?’
‘No.’ Millie let out a little laugh, not just at the question but at the pronunciation. His English, though excellent, was laced with a heavy dash of fabulous accent, and that he could make such an offensive remark sound somehow sexy was certainly a credit to him.
She glanced over at him. His face was at the window, and he was peering at her work with a frown. For an artist it was actually a compliment—someone trying to fathom her work, instead of a brief, cursory glance and then on to the next one.
‘My brother’s autistic—when I was younger I remember the doctor explaining to me that the reason he didn’t cuddle or kiss or show affection was because of the way he saw the world. The clouds, the trees, the grass and animals were in his eyes just as important as us—to him, people were the inanimate objects. That’s me.’ She pointed to the frozen lifeless object in the middle, waited for his comment. For an age it didn’t come. He was looking, really looking, at her picture.
‘I knew a child once—he screamed if he had to go to bed. Not just screamed…’ Slate eyes turned to hers and Millie was lost. ‘Every night it was as if he was terrified. Do you think to him the bed was real? That perhaps he thought he would hurt it…?’
‘Maybe.’ Millie was flustered, wondering who he was referring to, wanting to know more. But it didn’t matter anyway. The fact that her work had provoked such thought, a memory, such a question, was reward enough in itself. ‘I don’t know, but I guess it’s possible.’
‘And may I ask the name of the artist?’
‘You may. It’s Millie.’ She smiled. ‘Millie Andrews.’
‘Your accent?’ He frowned just as Millie had when trying to place his. ‘England? London?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Are you here on holiday?’
‘A working holiday…’ Millie gave a rueful smile. ‘I go home tomorrow.’
‘Shame.’
She’d been flirted with on many occasions, but never so blatantly and never by anyone so divine.
‘Millie?’ He pondered on her name for a moment. ‘I am not familiar with that. Is it short for something?’
‘Do we have to go there?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Millicent.’ She winced. ‘My parents must have been—’ She didn’t get to finish. Anton was frantically waving in recognition as he came to the window, gesturing for her to come inside. It would have been rude to say no, to shake her head and carry on this delicious conversation. So, extremely reluctantly, she turned to bid Levander goodnight.
Clearly he had other ideas. As the door opened, instead of walking away, instead of concluding their time together, he blatantly extended it, moving to the door, then stepping back to allow her to go first, his hand taking her elbow. It wasn’t just his boldness that startled Millie but the contact itself—the firm, warm, incredibly male contact that had her more flustered than she cared, or rather dared to admit.
‘Ready for the off?’ Anton’s effeminate voice rang out as he scooped her into a hug, but it lasted about point three of a second. He dropped her like a hot coal as he clapped eyes on her companion.
‘My, my, Millie. And I thought you were supposed to be working tonight.’
‘I—I am.’ Millie stammered. ‘I was. Anton, this is…’
‘I know who it is.’ Anton beamed. ‘Welcome, welcome, Levander—and may I say I just love your new range?’
‘It is not my range.’ Levander smiled tightly. ‘I deal with the business, not the fashion.’
‘Well, I adore it anyway,’ Anton gushed, but Levander wasn’t listening. Instead he wandered around the gallery, squinting as he peered closely at the
