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At his Service:
Millionaire’s Mistress
Memoirs of a Millionaire’s Mistress
Anne Oliver
Playboy Boss, Live-in Mistress
Kelly Hunter
The Italian Boss’s Secretary Mistress
Cathy Williams
MILLS & BOON
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About the Author
When not teaching or writing, ANNE OLIVER loves nothing more than escaping into a book. She keeps a box of tissues handy—her favourite stories are intense, passionate, against-all-odds romances. Eight years ago she began creating her own characters in paranormal and time travel adventures, before turning to contemporary romance. Other interests include quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish, and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege … and a dream come true. The winner of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year Award for short category in both 2007 and 2008, Anne lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and has two adult children.
Visit her website at www.anne-oliver.com. She loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at [email protected]
With thanks to my editor, Meg Lewis.
For my colleagues and friends who supported me
through tough times during the writing of this
book, especially Gay—thanks for the roses!
CHAPTER ONE
‘DON’T date this man.’
Didi O’Flanagan paid scant attention to her workmate’s warning, barely glancing up as she scoured her bag for lip gloss. ‘Whatever he did, Roz, he probably doesn’t deserve to have his photo plastered to the mirror in a public restroom …’ Her words segued to a hum of approval, lip gloss momentarily forgotten.
Maybe he did deserve it. His eyes—deep dark blue—were the kind of eyes that could persuade you to do things you’d never do in your right mind …
‘Only the woman who put it here knows that.’ Roz leaned in for a closer look. ‘You must’ve really ticked her off, Cameron Black. Still, you are a bit of a hunk.’
‘Yeah …’ Didi had to agree. Dark hair, squared jaw. Perfect kissing lips. What did the rest of him look like? she wondered. She imagined a man with looks like that would keep his body toned to match. In fact she could imagine quite a lot about that body. ‘We could try Googling those “don’t date him” websites …’
‘Hmm, revenge. Undoubtedly a dish best served online …’ Roz agreed. ‘But right now, if we want to keep our jobs, we’d better get out there and start serving those impatient big-shots,’ Roz reminded her, heading for the door.
Didi blinked, feeling as if she’d somehow stepped out of a time warp. ‘Right behind you.’
Cameron Black. Why did that name sound familiar? Didi wondered. Shaking the thought away for now, she unscrewed her tube of colour, slicked coral gloss over her lips.
She twitched at a few blonde spikes, straightened her uniform’s little bow tie and fiddled with her name-tag, which always seemed to tilt at an angle no matter how many times she adjusted it.
She couldn’t resist; her gaze slid back to the printout on the mirror. Below the picture were the words, ‘He’s not the man you think he is.’ On impulse, she reached out. She didn’t care what he’d done, it wasn’t right. That was what she told herself as she peeled it off. There were two sides to every story. Not that she knew much about relationships. In her twenty-three years there’d been only one serious relationship, and that mistake had coloured her perception in a very uncolourful way.
But she couldn’t bring herself to crumple the paper and toss it in the waste basket on her way out as she’d intended. It seemed a sacrilege to spoil that perfect face. She folded it into quarters, then again, carefully creasing the lines before sliding it into the pocket of her black trousers.
A few moments later Didi circulated the crowded room with her tray of finger food. Predominantly male executives in business attire made for a sea of sombre suits interspersed with splashes of colour and the occasional whiff of feminine perfume.
Didi aimed a winning smile at the group of men she’d targeted as being the head honchos. ‘Would you like to try a crab cake with lemongrass sauce? Or perhaps one of these baked cheese olive balls?’
As expected, her smile was ignored as they continued their discussion around the model of a proposed development for one of Melbourne’s inner city precincts on a table in front of them, but a few greedy fingers plucked her dainty morsels off the tray.
Rude, rude, rude. Her smile remained, but inside she gritted her teeth as she skirted the group to reappear around the other side. She hated this subservient, thankless job. But right now she had no alternative if she didn’t want to slink home to Sydney and admit she’d made a mistake—
‘Thank you, Didi.’
The unexpected rich baritone voice had her looking up—way up—at the man who’d taken the last crab cake and had the courtesy to use her name. ‘You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy … it …’ Her voice faded away as her gaze met a pair of twinkling blue eyes …
This couldn’t be the man whose photo was warming her right hip even as he smiled. Could it?
Yes. It could—and it most definitely was. So the woman who’d left the picture in the Ladies had known he’d be here—maybe she still was, and wanted to witness his humiliation.
The cheap printout didn’t do him justice—he was gorgeous. His eyes were navy, almost black. And focused wholly on her. He’d shaved tonight; no sign of that stubble. Just smooth tanned skin … Her palms itched to find out just how smooth. The maroon and black tie’s sheen accentuated his snowy white shirt, drawing her attention to a prominent Adam’s apple and solid neck. His hair was shorter than it was in the picture and the room’s light caught threads of auburn amongst the brown.
He wore a pinstriped charcoal suit and she knew from her experience with fabrics that it was Italian and expensive. Touchable. Warm from his body heat. Her insides did a slow roll and her fingers tightened on the tray.