CHAPTER ONE

THEY had to be breaking up, Millie decided.

Or rather he was breaking up with her.

To keep her brain from freezing over as she served patrons long into the night at the terribly exclusive Melbourne restaurant, Millie Andrews invented a background for each of the tables she waited on.

And now, as the clock edged past midnight, there were just three tables left.

One was a rather boozy celebratory business dinner, which thankfully, now that the bar was closed, was starting to wind up. The second consisted of a rather strained couple. The lady had duly eaten her way through fish and salad, minus dressing, and was clearly uncomfortable in her very tight black velvet dress. Millie decided she had probably just had a baby and was feeling horribly self-conscious at being out with her very good-looking but extremely passive-aggressive husband—'You don't really want dessert, do you, darling?'

And then there was the beautiful pair.

Blonde, svelte and jangling with nerves, a stunning woman was imploring her dining partner to 'just, please, listen'—reaching for his hand, her throaty voice urgent as her…Millie couldn't quite make this one out—husband, fiancé…? No neither fitted. Boyfriend? Or just lover, perhaps…? As he sat and listened impassively, utterly unmoved by her desperate pleas.

'Please, if you would just listen to me—really listen…'

They were too rich to notice or care that a waitress was clearing away their barely touched plates, and Millie's ears were on elastic as the blonde beauty begged for her chance, her bright, blue eyes glittering with tears as she choked the words out and reached for his hand again. 'Before you say it cannot happen, just hear what I have to say first…please.'

'Perhaps you should try listening…'he growled. His voice was accented, deep, low and just divine, but since till then the only words he'd growled in Millie's direction had been, 'Rare steak, fresh tomato salad,' so far she hadn't been able to place it. 'All night I have told you no, yet still you persist.'

'Why do you think I persist, Levander?'

Russian, Millie finally recognised, lingering rather too long over clearing the table. His salad had barely been touched; his steak was only half eaten. If she'd followed protocol, she should have asked then if everything had been to his satisfaction—if, by chance, there was a problem with his meal—but the intense conversation and his mood certainly didn't encourage interruption, and, given that it was her last night in Melbourne, protocol went where it belonged.

Straight out of the window.

'You persist because you hope I change my mind. How many times do you have to hear me say it to understand that I never will?'

Even as she backed away, and even though the kitchen had long ago closed, Millie was tempted to offer them the dessert menu. Prepared even to whisk up dessert herself if it meant she could listen on.

They fascinated her.

Fascinated her.

From the second they had walked in she had been entranced.

By him.

As he'd walked through the door, standing tall, brooding and vaguely familiar in a charcoal suit, loosening his tie as his eyes scowled over the room, a low murmur had gone around and every head had turned—especially Millie's, as she'd tried and failed to place him. Ross, the manager, had raced over and steered them to the most private table at the back of the restaurant, then delivered Millie a quick warning before he dispatched her to take their orders.

'Nothing's too much trouble, okay?'

His date was beautiful, yes—on any other night she'd be a fascinating subject—but the glamorous woman faded into insignificance beside her date, because he was…

…exquisite.

As an artist Millie was often asked where her inspiration came from—and here was a fragment of the answer.

Inspiration came in the most unexpected places and at the most unexpected times. Twelve hours before she left Australia—twelve hours before she headed home for London—her head should be buzzing with "to do" lists. She should be adding up her tips and working out if she could afford the night in Singapore she'd booked en route. Instead she was consumed with this fascinating man—his beauty was, quite literally, inspiring.

His bone structure was impeccable, and his features had Millie's fingers aching to pull out a sketchpad and capture them: in perfect symmetry, as with all true beauties, his high cheekbones razored through his face, a strong jawline was dark and unshaven against his pale skin. His thick, longish hair was charcoal, not quite black, but too dark to be called brown, and whatever pallet his creator had used, the brush had been dipped twice in the same well—his eyes held the same bewitching hue, only deeper and glossier.

His date was gorgeous—possibly one of the most beautiful women Millie had seen—yet she dimmed beside him. The whole restaurant dimmed a touch, and she wanted to capture that, make him the sole focus—like endless Russian dolls, Millie mused, seeing the germ of the picture she would create in her mind's eye: him—the biggest most stunning, most exquisitely featured—and the rest—his date, the other clients, the staff, the street outside—ever diminishing objects, growing smaller and smaller till there was nothing left.

'You are a cold bastard.' His date hissed the words out, almost spat them across the table. But he didn't flinch and neither, Millie noted, did he attempt to dispute the fact.

'It must be hereditary.'

'So that's it? After all I've told you—you can just sit there?' Still he didn't answer—utterly bored, he had the audacity to yawn as she promptly burst into tears. 'You're not even going to think about it?'

Copyright © 2007 by Carol Marinelli.