Only he didn’t.
‘You might as well go home, Millie.’ Ross came over as the last of the rowdy businessmen finally tipped out onto the street, but the words she’d been waiting to hear all night didn’t sound quite so sweet now. Despite her tiredness, despite an empty suitcase waiting to be filled and a flight to be caught back to London in the morning, suddenly she didn’t want to go. Staring over at the table, she watched as he leant back in his chair and took a slow sip of his drink. Ross did the same. ‘I might as well get started on some paperwork—he looks as if he’s settled for the night.’
Millie couldn’t help but frown—an extra drink for a special customer was one thing, but for Ross to happily sit and while away an hour or two was unprecedented. This time Ross was only too happy to elaborate. ‘He’s a great tipper—as you’re about to find out.’ He held out a black velvet folder and peeled out an indecent amount of notes, taking his cut and handing the rest to Millie. ‘Looks like you’ll be staying in Singapore after all!’
‘Goodness.’
‘You deserve it. You’ve been a great worker—a real asset to the restaurant.’ He went over to the till and handed her an envelope. ‘There are your other tips and your wages, and there’s a reference in there, too. If you’re ever back in Melbourne, know that there’s always a job here for you.’
More than anything Millie hated goodbyes. Ross wasn’t even that much of a friend, but still tears filled her eyes as she took the envelope. Maybe it was emotion catching up, maybe it was the fact that no doubt she’d never be back, her dream trip to Australia to showcase her art having been nothing but a flop, but for whatever reason, she gave him a small hug.
Without this job she’d have been home weeks ago.
Without this job she’d still be wondering if she might have one day made it.
Like it or not, at least now she knew the answer.
* * *
There were a million things she had to do, but instead of turning left as she exited the restaurant Millie turned right, noisily clipping along Collins Street on black stilettos that 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 paintings, some holding his attention, others barely meriting a cursory glance.
‘Do you know him?’ Millie whispered, which was more than a touch rude, but she just had to know more about him.
‘Everyone knows who the Kolovskys are.’
‘I mean do you know him?’
‘I wish,’ Anton sighed. ‘The boutique may be a couple of doors down from me—but the Kolovskys are a million miles away. I did used to talk to the twins, though…’ Anton smiled at her frown. ‘They’re just as gorgeous. Millie have you any idea who you’re dealing with? They’re practically royalty here,’ Anton breathed, ‘and your beau tonight is first in line.’
His voice trailed off as Levander made his way back to them, and Anton spectacularly saved the rather awkward moment, rolling his eyes dramatically at Levander. ‘I’m scolding Millie for even considering being seen with you in her waitress garb. Mind you, perhaps it’s just as well—I assume you’ve seen her when she’s not working?’
‘Not yet.’ Levander turned and gave Millie a slow, lingering look, unashamedly undressing her with his eyes for an indecent amount of time as she stood there squirming. Not even turning back to Anton, he carried on talking. ‘But I am very much looking forward to it.’
‘Well, don’t get too excited,’ Anton sighed. ‘Millie has no end of paint-splattered shorts and T-shirts, but not much else.’
‘I see you have only one of Millie’s paintings in the window—while other artists there have two.’
‘The other artists have sold.’ Anton held his palms up to the air in a helpless gesture. ‘Actually, Millie, darling…’ He gave a little wince. ‘I’m not going to take you out of the gallery, but space is at a premium, and with this new exhibition I’m going to have to move—’
‘You have more of Millie’s work?’ Levander interrupted. ‘I would like to see it if I may.’
‘Of course.’ Anton gave Millie a wide-eyed look as he gestured him to the back of the gallery, to the tiny piece of wall that—for now at least—displayed her work.
‘Your price is too low…’ Levander ran a quick eye through Millie’s bio and gave a shake of his head. ‘And you come across too needy—too grateful that anyone should even stop to look at your work, let alone buy it. You need to raise your price.’
‘It was higher,’ Millie answered, ‘and I still didn’t sell.’
‘This is an exclusive gallery—yes?’ Levander waited for Anton’s hesitant nod. ‘People do not want rubbish on their walls—and at this price that is what they think they are buying.’
‘She’s an unknown.’ Anton’s bubbly demeanour dimmed a touch as his judgement was challenged, but Levander held firm.
‘Today she is unknown.’ He turned to Millie. ‘Change it before you leave. Rewrite your bio…’ He turned the page. ‘Each painting is now the cost of your air ticket—the price you paid to share your talent.’
‘It won’t work…’
‘So you have lost nothing. And she should have at least two in the window…’
‘Levander…’ Anton was blushing, flirting, and trying to be assertive all at the same time. ‘Millie’s already had three months on display in the window. I simply cannot—’
‘When is this exhibition you mentioned?’ Levander interrupted. ‘I remember my stepmother saying she wanted another nice piece for the boutique. Perhaps I should suggest that she comes for a look?’
‘I already sent an invite,’ Anton said dubiously, ‘and as usual it was politely declined.’
‘Nina wouldn’t have even seen it,’ Levander said dismissively. ‘It would have been her assistant who declined on her behalf. If I tell her about it myself, I can assure you she will come—and possibly my father too. Though I am not sure if I will be available.’
Anton was right—clearly Millie hadn’t a clue. Because at just the hint that they were coming to the preview Anton was a gibbering wreck, promptly dispatching her to choose another piece to go in the window before a ‘bored now’ Levander took her by the hand and led her outside.
‘You—you didn’t have to do that…’ Millie stammered, once they were out on the street.
‘No one has to do anything.’ Levander shrugged. ‘Your work deserves its chance.’
‘Thank you.’ Millie shook her head to clear it. ‘Your stepmother will go to the exhibition?’ she checked. ‘I mean, if she’s already declined… I’d hate for Anton to be disappointed—especially if he’s giving me so much of a prime position. He’s already been more than generous…’
‘She will be there,’ Anton said assuredly. ‘She will not want to go, of course. But when I tell her she is expected—that I have accepted on her behalf—she will have no choice but to go.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It would appear rude to not turn up—and in my family appearance is everything.’
‘Well, thank you…’ Millie said. ‘You’ve no idea how much it means.’
‘I have a very good idea what it means,’ Levander corrected her. ‘I know how important that first sale is—and, yes, I could have bought your painting—given you the red dot on your work for the world to see—but that would be cheating, yes?’
On so many levels, Millie realised, staring up at him. His skin was white in the street light, contrasting with the hollow shadows of his cheeks, his eyes two dark, unreadable pools.
‘It will sell—some things that are truly beautiful don’t always catch the eye first time around.’ Levander’s voice was a caress. ‘Sometimes you need to actually stop and take another look.’
He was certainly taking a good look now. His gaze was so intense, his face so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. She thought for a blissful second that he was going to kiss her, but instead it was his rich deep voice that bathed her senses, his eyes quizzical as they assessed her. ‘So, you leave tomorrow?’
‘In the morning.’
‘And have you enjoyed your time in Melbourne?’
‘I haven’t really seen anything of it.’ She gave a tiny shrug. ‘I’ve been to a few galleries, a couple of shows—but mainly I’ve been working…’ Her voice trailed off, her simple answer somehow giving him an opening she’d never intended. Millie’s breath caught in her throat as Levander took it.
‘Then we’d better get started. Come…’ He pointed to where a pony and trap was pulling in across the deserted street, tourists climbing down, the weary trap rider about to dismantle and head off home. He shook his head when Levander called for him to wait.
‘Sorry, mate. That was the last ride for the night—back again tomorrow.’
‘I will talk with him.’ Levander turned to go, but she shook her head.
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s late…’ Millie attempted, struggling in quicksand as she stared into his eyes. ‘And I’ve got a plane to catch tomorrow…’
‘Plenty of time to sleep on the plane, then.’
But a blip of sens
ibility was invading now. She was playing with fire here, and her assessment was based on not just what she had read—Anton himself had warned her, and Levander’s own dining companion hadn’t exactly given him a glowing reference.
‘You’re a cold bastard.’
The pain in her voice had been real, the emotion that had choked out those words hadn’t been manufactured—and Levander’s response had done little to dispute the accusation.
What the hell was she doing?
It would be madness to go with this man.
‘Really…’ Millie swallowed hard. ‘It’s probably not such a good idea. I’ve got so much to do, and you—well, you…’
‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘You just broke up with your girlfriend, Levander…’ She wasn’t going to play games. ‘You’re probably feeling a bit…’
‘You have no idea how I am feeling…’ Instead of walking away, he stepped closer, took her face in his hands, his warm skin actually cool on her stinging cheeks. ‘And I did not break up with my girlfriend—Annika is my half-sister…’
‘It was your half-sister you were rowing with?’
Levander nodded, his eyes narrowing. ‘What did you hear?’
‘Nothing.’ Millie blushed. The only thing she had heard was that he was a cold bastard, but she could hardly tell him that. ‘I just saw her flounce off.’
‘And that is all?’
After a beat of hesitation she nodded.
‘Siblings fight.’ His breath mingled with hers, and that cynical mouth was so close Millie could almost taste it—like a chocolate cake cooking in the oven, teasing her senses…
‘She’s really your half-sister?’ Millie checked, wanting to believe him but scared to at the same time. Wanting him to kiss her but worried that he would.
‘Who else would I allow to talk to me like that?’ Levander answered. ‘Now, you wait here.’
Playing the Dutiful WifeExpecting His Love-Child Page 15