The Playboy In Pursuit

“What is it that you want of me?”

Lucille composed herself to take the plunge. “I want what you offered me on the phone.”

“And what was that? Please remind me…”

“A strictly sexual and very private affair,” she bit out.

“Ah, yes,” he drawled. “I do recall. I’m to be your secret lover and you, my secret playmate. So for how long would you envisage this…arrangement…lasting?”

Forever, came the involuntary thought.

Dear Reader,

I admit it! I find playboys fascinating. I love reading about their glamorous lives, their beautiful women, their many affairs. There’s something exciting about these wicked devils who dare to do what an ordinary man wouldn’t—or couldn’t.

I’ve always thought a playboy makes an excellent romantic hero, because he is the ultimate challenge. Can one special woman make an often cynical man reassess his lifestyle and yearn for something finer, deeper and more permanent?

When my editor asked me to write a trilogy, I happily chose playboys for my heroes. Three handsome Aussie males who seem to have it all but find, once they meet that one special woman, that they want her…her respect, her love. Only this time getting what they want isn’t so easy as it usually is.

I hope you enjoy AUSTRALIAN PLAYBOYS. Do write to Harlequin Presents® and let us know what you think—and which heroes personally appeal to you!

Miranda Lee

The Playboy in Pursuit

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘LUCILLE, when are you going to start dating again?’ Michele asked between sips of her cappuccino.

Oh-oh, Lucille thought ruefully. Here we go again.

‘Surely you don’t mean to stay single and celibate for the rest of your life,’ Michele swept on, ‘just because you had one bad marriage. I don’t doubt your Roger was a right royal pig, but not all men are like that. Take my darling Tyler, for instance…’

‘No, thanks,’ Lucille said with a dry laugh, then downed the last delicious mouthful of jam and cream doughnut. ‘He’s all yours.’

Michele plonked her coffee cup down with an exasperated sigh. ‘When are you going to believe that Tyler really loves me? That he’s really changed? That his playboy days are well and truly over?’

Lucille was tempted to say in thirty years or so. But that would have been too cruel. Michele was only three weeks back from her honeymoon and still glowing. Lucille didn’t have the heart to destroy her best friend’s romantic illusions about her handsome new husband.

But, truly, what chance did that marriage have of going the distance? Sure, Tyler seemed to be madly in love with Lucille at the moment. But would he feel the same in six months’ time, when the heat of the honeymoon cooled down and old habits kicked in?

The son and heir to the Garrison media fortune had a long history of throw-away girlfriends and Lucille had no faith in a wedding ring changing that. She’d warned her friend at the outset not to fall in love with such a man, just to have an affair and enjoy the sex—which was reportedly fantastic—without getting emotionally involved.

But of course that had been futile advice with someone like Michele. The girl was too nice for her own good. Heck, she’d stayed loving and loyal to her first boyfriend for ten years. And he’d been a total rat. What chance had Michele’s sweet heart had against the golden boy of Sydney’s social set, once he’d set his sights on her?

Yes, Michele’s marriage was doomed, in Lucille’s opinion. But she wasn’t about to say so. She regretted not being clever enough so far at pretending to believe it was a case of true love all round.

‘Don’t take any notice of me,’ Lucille said swiftly. ‘I’m just an old cynic. If anyone could make a man change it would be you.’ Michele might be twenty-eight-years old, and a brilliant advertising executive to boot, but underneath the brunette’s surface sophistication snuggled a soft, sweet soul. Life hadn’t made her hard, or cynical, as it had Lucille.

Maybe that was why Lucille enjoyed the other girl’s company so much. Because, for a while, she could soak in the warmth of her sweetness, rather like a lizard basking in sunshine.

She missed Michele no longer living in the flat next to her. She hated seeing the ‘For Sale’ sign out at the front of the building. Now she was really living alone, with no other close friends, just nodding acquaintances. Thank God their respective workplaces were both in North Sydney, so they could have regular lunches together, plus the odd shopping expedition.

Still, their friendship would never be quite the same now that Michele was married.

‘Don’t think you can avoid answering my first question.’ Michele resumed determinedly. ‘You’re only thirty years old, Lucille. And, might I say, one stunning-looking woman. I want to know when you’re going to get over Roger and move on with your life.’

Lucille might have resented any other person saying such things to her. But she knew Michele meant well and wasn’t just being a busybody.

‘I am over Roger,’ Lucille replied, coolly wiping her sugared lips with a serviette. ‘And I have moved on with my life. I have a challenging and satisfying career, a nice place to live, which is wonderfully close to my office, and a great girlfriend I can bitch to when I feel like it. I’d date if I wanted to. But the truth is, Michele, I’m just not interested in the opposite sex any more. I’m quite happy being single and celibate.’

‘What a load of old rubbish! You are not happy being single and celibate. You’re lonely as hell. And you are interested in the opposite sex. Women who aren’t don’t dress like you do. Just take a look at the outfit you’re wearing today.’

Lucille’s eyes blinked with surprise, then dropped to her favourite cream woollen suit. ‘This old thing? You have to be kidding. Okay, so the skirt’s on the short side, but the jacket’s thigh-length and not at all tight. I’d hardly call it a provocative outfit. My boobs are well hidden. I consider this suit on the conservative side of my wardrobe, actually.’ As opposed to the seriously sexy clothes she’d bought when she’d first left Roger and had gone through her wildly defiant stage.

Back then, she’d been determined to go out and paint Sydney red, but she had found when men made passes at her she just went cold all over.

‘Your boobs might be well hidden but your legs sure aren’t,’ Michele argued back. ‘And your legs are just as provocative, attached as they are today to five-inch heels. Haven’t you noticed the looks you’ve been getting from the male passers-by?’

They were sitting at an outdoor café on the main street in North Sydney, whose central business district was beginning to rival Sydney’s city centre across the bridge. Streams of office workers were always on the move at this hour, more than half of them male.

Lucille was used to male attention—the type that tall, voluptuous green-eyed blondes invariably got—so she really hadn’t noticed. Neither did she care.

‘Let them look,’ she said coldly. ‘Because that’s all they’ll ever get to do. Look.’

‘Lord, Lucille, what on earth happened in that marriage of yours to make you so bitter and twisted?’

Lucille stiffened, then shrugged. ‘I could never explain it in a million years. You have to live some things to understand them.’

Michele looked alarmed. ‘Your husband didn’t…abuse you, did he?’

‘Abuse me?’ Lucille considered that concept for a few moments. She’d never thought of her ex’s behaviour as abuse before. But of course that was exactly what it had been. Emotional abuse. That was why it had taken her so long to crawl out from under it. She’d been a type of battered wife for years, with all its accompanying loss of self-esteem and confidence.

But that was in the past now. Lucille saw no point in dragging it up for continual analysis. Her marriage to Roger was best forgotten.

‘No, of course not,’ she told her worried-looking friend. ‘He was just a low-down, cheating scumbag, okay?’

‘Okay. Look, I’m sorry I brought him up. I know you hate talking about him. And I’m sorry I nagged you about dating again. I just want you to be happy.’

‘Happiness doesn’t always come in the shape of a man, Michele,’ Lucille pointed out.

‘Agreed. But misery doesn’t always come in the shape of a man, either. It all depends on the man in question. And I don’t believe you’ve given up all hope in that regard. You yourself described your dream man to me one day a few months ago. If I recall rightly, aside from him being tall, dark and handsome, you said he’d have hot blood running through his veins, not cold beer. He’d genuinely like women and always put you first, even before his mates and his golf and his car.’

Lucille laughed. ‘Did I say that? I must have been day-dreaming. Such a species of male doesn’t exist. Not in Australia, anyway.’

‘Yes, he does. I married one.’

‘Tyler’s tall, fair and handsome.’

‘Don’t split hairs. I’m sure there are some fantastic dark-haired blokes around. But who knows? Maybe your dream man won’t be from Australia. You deal with a lot of foreign men in your job, don’t you?’

‘Well…yes…’

Lucille worked for an agency which specialised in handling the needs of corporate executives transferred to Sydney from overseas. Her title was that of Relocation Consultant.

As for the men she met in the course of her work…

If Lucille had been in the market for dating—or affairs—there were plenty of applicants. Not a week went by when some man didn’t hit on her. The fact that the majority of these men were married didn’t exactly reduce her cynicism about the male sex and their capabilities regarding faithfulness.

Still, best she not mention that little fact to Michele at this moment, either.

‘Unfortunately, Michele,’ she explained, ‘most of the foreign men I handle are family men. They come complete with wives and children. That’s why we’re in business. International companies finally realised that shifting husbands and fathers around the globe willy-nilly with no help was causing premature resignations. You don’t want me dating a married man, do you?’

‘Of course not. But surely some of these corporate execs must be single. Or at least divorced.’

‘True. Some are. And quite a few have already tried to chat me up, believe me,’ she confessed. ‘Several have even been very good-looking.’

‘And?’

‘No spark.’

‘Never?’

‘Never.’

‘I find that hard to believe, Lucille. You’re saying you’re never attracted to a man?’

Lucille decided a little blunt honesty was called for here, or Michele was never going to let this subject drop. ‘I used to think after I left Roger that I’d have no trouble having an affair, just for the sex. I like sex. Or I used to, once upon a time. But not even the most handsome, charming man turns me on any more. That part of me has died, Michele. My marriage killed it.’

‘I don’t believe that. Not for a moment. You’ve just been terribly hurt, that’s all. Your libido will come good one day, Lucille. Your divorce only came through last year, for pity’s sake. It’s just a matter of time.’

Privately, Lucille didn’t think she had enough time left in her life for that miracle to happen.

‘Meanwhile, dating doesn’t have to lead to sex,’ Michele swept on blithely. ‘What’s the harm in just going out with a guy every now and then? You don’t have to go to bed with him if you don’t want to.’

‘I assure you I definitely won’t want to.’

‘Fair enough. So stop looking for that spark before you say yes. The next time a nice guy asks you out, just go. Who knows? Maybe your hormones are just out of practice. They might fire up once you put yourself in the right environment. Nothing like a candlelit dinner to put a girl in the mood.’

Lucille smiled a wry smile. ‘You’re such an optimist. And a born romantic.’

‘I know you think that, but I’m not really. I’m actually a down-to-earth realist.’ Michele put down her empty coffee cup. ‘I’m also snowed under at work, so I’ll have to love you and leave you shortly. I only have this week to complete the campaign outline for Femme Fatale’s new line of perfumes. Did I tell you about that?’

‘No. What about it?’

‘Remember the girl my boss brought to my wedding?’

Lucille nodded. Who could have forgotten the striking creature on Harry Wilde’s arm that day? Cropped black hair. Big violet eyes. Seriously sexy dress.

‘Her name’s Tanya,’ Michele was saying. ‘Anyway, she was the mystery heiress who inherited Femme Fatale. You know? The sexy lingerie company? You don’t know?’ Michele asked when Lucille looked blank.

‘I’ve heard of Femme Fatale, but I know nothing of any mystery heiress.’

‘I thought I told you. Amazing story. It goes like this. The previous lady owner was killed in a car accident and left her controlling interest in the company to her nearest female relative, who just happened to be Tanya. Anyway, she was the girl Harry wanted the beauty salon for a while back. Remember, I asked you if you knew of a place where you go in a bag lady and come out a supermodel?’

Lucille did remember. She’d recommended Janine’s, a local and very expensive beauty salon where a woman could indulge herself in every treatment known to mankind. She’d treated herself to a day there after her divorce papers had come through, and continued to use their services on a regular basis. A girl had to have some vices, other than a penchant for doughnuts.

‘Some bag lady she turned out to be,’ Lucille said drily. ‘That girl was supermodel material from the word go.’

‘Well, I did warn you that Harry wouldn’t be seen dead with a real bag lady.’

What playboy did? Lucille thought caustically.

‘Anyway, apparently she’d been brought up in the bush and didn’t have too many clues on how to dress and present herself. Harry had her made over and voilà!’

‘Good enough for advertising’s Superman-about-town to take to bed, I presume,’ came Lucille’s tart comment.

‘It’s more than just sex. Neither of them have said anything yet, but Tanya’s sporting an enormous sapphire ring on her engagement finger. I’ve also seen Harry with her, and he’s not the Harry of old. He’s different. Gentler. Kinder.’

‘Another playboy changing his spots, Michele?’

Michele shot Lucille what supposedly passed as a killer look. But the girl didn’t have a real killer look in her repertoire. Lucille, however, could freeze a person at ten paces if needs be.

Chastened that she’d provoked her friend into even a semblance of fury, Lucille muttered, ‘Sorry,’ and dropped her far too expressive green gaze into the last dregs of coffee in her own cup.

‘And so you should be,’ Michele chided. ‘That cynicism of yours is going to get you into trouble one day, Lucille. What is it with you and playboys, anyway? From the little you’ve said, I gather your ex was just an ordinary Aussie guy. What have you got against men like Tyler and Harry? Why do you hate them so much?’

Lucille blinked. Hate? She didn’t hate them. She just didn’t trust them, with their too handsome faces, their flash cars and their corrupting bank balances. Having their way in life was as natural to them as breathing. Women fell for them in droves, invariably compromising their own moral standards and allowing themselves to be shamelessly used, either as temporary girlfriends or trophy wives.

This always struck a nerve with Lucille, perhaps because she hated the thought of any woman being used. She wasn’t sure if Tyler was consciously using Michele, but it worried her that he might be.

She could hardly say that.

‘I don’t hate Tyler,’ she said carefully. And, really, she didn’t. He was a very charming, very likeable man. ‘I…I just think it’s difficult for men like him to settle down to being husbands and fathers, that’s all. You’re my best friend, Michele. I want you to be happy.’

Michele’s face softened. ‘But I am happy. As for Tyler settling down… Please don’t worry about that. He’s a wonderful husband and he’s going to make a wonderful father. You know, Lucille, beneath the hype, playboys are just ordinary people, like you and me. They have hearts and feelings. They can fall in love. And they can change. Love changes them.’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll try to keep a more open mind in future.’ Not to mention a shut mouth! ‘And I promise to consider saying yes to the next suitable candidate who asks me out.’ Consider, then dismiss. Lucille felt confident there wasn’t man on this planet who could tempt her to go out with him, no matter how tall, dark and handsome he was.

‘Humph! You’re just saying that.’ Michele swept up her handbag from where it had been lying at her feet and stood up. ‘I have no doubt that, come Christmas, you’ll still be manless.’

‘Well, Christmas is only a couple of months away. Attractive, single foreign men don’t come along every day of the week, you know.’

‘I guess not. Oh, well, I tried. See you.’

‘I’ll give you a call if one shows up,’ Lucille called after her.

Michele grinned back over her shoulder. ‘You’d better, or you’re dead, girl.’

Lucille watched her friend hurry off down the street, the picture of confidence and happiness. Her head was held high, her stride jaunty, her shoulder-length brown hair blowing out breezily behind her.

Hard not to concede that marriage to Tyler Garrison suited her.

Or was it the sex?

Lucille stood up abruptly from the table. She wasn’t going to think about marriage, or sex. Or anything which made her feel down. She’d come a long way with recovering her self-esteem and she wasn’t about to start falling back into old patterns of feeling badly about all the years she’d wasted on Roger, or worrying about the fact she’d ended up frigid.

Who knew? Maybe Michele was right. Maybe her hormones were only sleeping. Maybe one day a man would walk into her life and change how she felt, both about the opposite sex and her own apparently lost libido.

Meanwhile, Lucille wasn’t going to hold her breath waiting for that to happen. She headed back towards her office with her own head held high, her stiletto heels clacking boldly on the pavement, her long honey-blonde hair blowing back from her exquisitely made-up face.

This time she did notice the male heads swivelling round for a second glance as she walked by. But this time her reaction to their ogling was pure satisfaction.

Not that Michele was right. She didn’t dress for men. She dressed for herself. To feel good. And to project the person she now was.

Not Mrs Roger Swanson, downtrodden doormat, but Lucille Jordan, a mature woman with a mind of her own, confident in her single status, her career and her person. And if her sexuality was in limbo, no way was she going to say so by dressing like some shy little mouse. She wanted her appearance to shout to the world that she was a success as a woman in every sense of the word.

Okay, so it was a lie. But the world was full of lies. And liars.

If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

That was the name of the game these days for Lucille.

Survival.

CHAPTER TWO

LUCILLE’S workplace was above a florist’s shop in a narrow side street. It had a steep, thigh-firming staircase leading up to a small reception area, behind which squatted four cubicle-style offices, none designed to impress.

No need, really. The staff at Move Smooth usually met their clients at the airport, or in hotel lobbies. Advance business was always done over the telephone, or by fax. They had an excellent word-of-mouth reputation and prided themselves on their personal as well as their professional touch. All the consultants were women, trained by the boss to soothe clients’ frayed nerves in five minutes flat, as well as anticipate problems before they popped up.

The boss was Erica Palmer, an ex-corporate wife in her late forties who’d experienced first-hand what was required in the relocation business. A strawberry blonde, Erica was attractive rather than beautiful, with a whip-thin figure, hard blue eyes and a reputation for ruthlessness. She’d started up Move Smooth several years earlier with the small fortune settled on her during her divorce, and now supervised her successful little moneyspinner from her multimillion-dollar harbourside home.

Lucille was her newest employee, poached from one of the real estate agencies Move Smooth regularly used. When Erica had offered her a job Lucille had jumped at the chance, having tired of the dog-eat-dog attitude which abounded in property sales. She wasn’t earning any less money and her job made her feel good at the end of most days.

There was nothing like the relieved smile and sincere thanks of a harassed wife’s face when she discovered that you’d found her just the right place to live, placed her children in good schools, stocked the cupboards and fridge with enough food to survive for a few days of jet lag, and provided the addresses and telephone numbers of everything she could possibly need, from doctors and dentists to video stores and all the local takeaways.

Move Smooth’s company motto was, ‘Attention to detail and perfection in all things.’

Which was another reason why Lucille dressed well. Her boss demanded it.

Not that Erica would ever have suggested the five-inch heels Lucille was wearing that day. Not really practical, considering the running around associated with the job. But Lucille didn’t have any appointments that Monday, so what did it matter? She liked wearing high heels and never donned any lower than three inches. It was partly a rebellious gesture, born from being told always to wear flatties because she was above average height and ‘men don’t like girls to be taller than them’.

Or so her mother had drummed into her when Lucille had started to date.

Lucille no longer felt inclined to follow any of her mother’s many maxims on feminine behaviour. With her divorce from ‘dear Roger’, she’d become a failure in her mother’s eyes, and nothing would ever change that. Her father hadn’t been too impressed, either. ‘What in God’s name do you want in a man?’ he’d asked, scowling at her.

Lucille had learned to live with both her parents’ disappointment and criticism by rarely going home, despite the Jordans living only a few miles away in the leafy Sydney suburb of Thornleigh.

Lucille struggled up the steep staircase in her extra-high heels, deciding that perhaps such shoes were best kept for trips to the theatre after all.