The Playboy In Pursuit

‘You’re to ring Mrs Palmer straight away,’ their receptionist told her as soon she reached the top landing. ‘She said it was an emergency.’

Lucille hurried to her cubicle, reaching for the phone as she sank gratefully into her chair.

Erica answered on the second ring.

‘Lucille, Erica. Jody said there was an emergency.’

‘You can say that again. I have a volcanic Val Seymour in my lounge-room, pacing up and down like he’s Mount Etna on the smoulder, insisting I find him some place to rent for the next four months, starting this very night. Apparently he’s had a massive falling out with his father and refuses to even consider attempting a reconciliation. I did suggest he stay here with me for a few days till things calmed down, but you know Val.’

‘Actually, no,’ Lucille commented wryly, ‘I don’t. Know Val, that is. Though I do know who you mean.’ Hard not to when he and his father’s affairs graced the tabloids and women’s magazines with regular monotony.

Val Seymour was the illegitimate son of Max Seymour, legendary showbiz entrepreneur and the biggest womaniser since Errol Flynn. Max owned the harbourside mansion next to Erica’s and they had a longstanding friendship, which was probably sexual judging from the familiar way they acted together. Although sixtyish, Max was still a good-looking man, with piercing blue eyes, steel-grey hair, solid muscles and bottomless bank accounts. In short, he still had what was pretty irresistible to a lot of women.

Not irresistible to Lucille, however, who’d met Max a couple of times at Erica’s monthly parties and had found his suave aren’t-I-wonderful? attitude left her even colder than usual.

Val Seymour was a chip off the old block, from what Lucille had heard. Though she’d never met the man. He spent a lot of time overseas. She’d read the scandalous stories, however, and seen pictures in the papers.

Thirtyish, and handsome as the devil, he wasn’t in his father’s physical mould, having taken after his Brazilian mother, inheriting her dark hair, dark eyes and lean dancer’s body. His sexual behaviour, however, was pure Max; each man was touted always to have a fling with the leading lady in whatever show he was currently producing. Max Seymour was reputed to have bedded most of the world’s top female singers, dancers, skaters and stage actresses. According to the gossip rags, Val Seymour wasn’t far behind.

Of course, when the show stopped, so did the affair.

But there was always another show, and another dazzlingly beautiful and talented bedmate.

Only yesterday there’d been an article in a Sunday news supplement about the Latin American dance spectacular that Seymour Productions was bringing to Sydney’s Casino for the coming summer holiday season. There had been pictures of the show’s beautiful and flamboyant lead dancer standing between her two backers, her flashing black eyes turned flirtatiously up towards the son while the father’s arm had been wrapped possessively around the girl’s slender waist.

Her name was Flame. No surname. Just Flame.

No doubt not her real name. Still, as a stage name, it said it all. The advertisements for the show—which was called Takes Two to Tango—claimed that Flame’s dancing was hot enough to scorch the stage.

Lucille wondered if the falling out of father and son might have had something to do with competing for the fiery Flame’s favours. If Lucille was any judge of the behaviour of a bruised male ego, then it looked as if the father had won.

‘What kind of place is Mr Seymour Junior looking for?’ she asked Erica.

‘Something close to the Casino, he said. No more than five minutes away. A serviced apartment, not a house.’

‘The Casino has serviced apartments. Why doesn’t he lease one of them for the duration?’

‘Too small. He wants something with enough room to entertain. And have guests to stay overnight.’

Lucille refrained from saying that he only needed one bed for that. Or was he into orgies?

‘How many bedrooms?’ she asked.

‘Three at least, I’d say, to be on the safe side.’

‘And what budget are we looking at?’

‘Money is no object.’

Naturally not, Lucille thought caustically. Men like Val Seymour thought they could buy anything they wanted.

And mostly they could.

‘In that case, I don’t see any problem. There’s a beautifully appointed and serviced apartment ready for leasing in a new building just a short walk from the Casino. One of the reasons it hasn’t been snapped up so far is that the owner has an exorbitantly high rental on it. But, if money is no object, Mr Seymour should be settled on the superb slate terrace, sipping a cocktail with his current lady-love, before the sun sets on Sydney Harbour.’

Erica chuckled. ‘You do know Val.’

‘His reputation does precede him,’ Lucille said drily.

‘Mmm. He is gorgeous, though. If I were only ten years younger…’

She’d probably be sleeping with both Seymour men, Lucille conceded. Her boss was a woman of the world, all right. But Lucille did admire her for the way she’d survived—and succeeded—after her divorce. The only thing that surprised Lucille was that Erica still liked men so much. Or was it just the sex she liked?

‘I gather darling Val’s actually ladyless at the moment,’ Erica went on, rather confirming Lucille’s suspicion that Flame had chosen the father over the son. ‘So I’d watch him this afternoon, if were you. Max’s son is not the sort of man to sleep alone for long, and you’re a very good-looking woman, Lucille.’

A cold little laugh bubbled up from her throat. ‘Thank you, but I don’t think you have to worry about me falling for Val Seymour’s rather over-used charms.’

‘Don’t be so sure. You haven’t actually met him, have you?’

‘No. But I’ve seen photos. I already know he’s very handsome.’

‘Not the same as seeing the real thing in the flesh, darling. Believe me. Now, how soon can you be here to pick up Don Juan for an inspection?’

‘I thought he was going to take it, sight unseen.’

‘Just a sec. I’ll go into the lounge-room and ask…’

Lucille hung on for a good thirty seconds before Erica came back on the line.

‘No, he says he always likes to see something first-hand, before he puts his money down.’

Lucille didn’t doubt it. She wondered if he had potential girlfriends strip naked before he took them out. After all, the man was used to the very best. No point in wasting good money on dinner if the afters didn’t rate a perfect ten.

‘I’ll have to get the keys from the agent first,’ she said, and glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to two. ‘Shall we say two-thirty?’

‘Two-thirty okay, Val?’ Lucille heard Erica ask.

‘Can’t she make it sooner than that?’ came back the impatient reply. ‘I thought you said your office was only up the bloody road.’

‘It is. Can you get here any quicker, Lucille?’

‘No, I can’t,’ she returned with superbly controlled cool. ‘Tell Mr Seymour he’ll just have to wait. Give him time to calm down and find some better language.’

Erica was laughing as she hung up, but frowning when she opened the front door to Lucille at a quarter to three.

‘Not many women keep Val Seymour waiting this long, you know. He’s about to burst a boiler.’

Lucille shrugged. ‘It wasn’t deliberate. The council’s digging up the top of your road. Only one-way traffic. Sorry.’

‘Never mind. I tried to improve his ill-humour by telling him that you were a ravishingly beautiful blonde, recently divorced, and not dating anyone that I knew of.’

Lucille was taken aback. ‘Why on earth did you do that?’

‘Why not? You’re divorced, darling, not dead. Time to get back in the saddle, don’t you think? And who better to ride than a man like Val Seymour?’

Lucille shuddered. She couldn’t think of anything more revolting.

‘You know, I was like you for simply ages after my divorce,’ Erica persisted, ‘but then I met darling Max and he showed me that men and sex could actually be fun. Something I’d long forgotten.’

Lucille could not believe she was having this conversation. She’d never exchanged intimate confidences with her boss and didn’t want to now.

But neither did she want to offend her employer. Erica probably meant well.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘But as it so happens, I simply can’t stand the playboy type. They represent everything I detest in the male sex.’

‘No, darling, you’re wrong there. They represent everything you detest in a husband. But as a companion and lover, a playboy is simply the best. Men like Max and Val know how to give a girl a good time, both in bed and out. They know all the right moves, as well as all the right restaurants. They don’t mind spending money on you, either. For divorcees like you and me they’re ideal.’

‘Thank you for the advice, Erica,’ Lucille said, trying not to sound too annoyed, ‘but I’m not interested in taking any lover just yet. It’s much too soon.’

Erica’s hard blue eyes softened a fraction. ‘Fair enough. He must have been a right bastard, that husband of yours. Come on, then, let’s go get the impatient Mr Seymour out of here. He’s pacing again, and when Val paces, he practically wears grooves in the carpet.’

Lucille was only too happy to do just that, and terminate this irritating conversation. Bad enough that Michele was pushing her to date. Now her boss was suggesting she sleep with some over-sexed womaniser just for the fun of it!

Lucille couldn’t see any fun in sleeping with a man she didn’t respect. Even if she was interested in having a sex life, she wouldn’t be seen dead as some playboy’s pet! She’d choose a decent and more discreet lover, who wouldn’t expect her to perform on cue simply because he spent swags of money on her.

Gritting her teeth, Lucille followed her boss inside, leaving the front door open behind her for a quick exit.

The lower floor of Erica’s home was split-level and open plan: vast expanses of white-walled rooms, black-beamed ceilings and deep red carpet. Lucille trailed after Erica across the acre of foyer to where several curved steps led down into a huge sunken lounge-room.

When Erica stopped on the top step, Lucille drew alongside her.

‘You do see what I mean, though, don’t you?’ Erica whispered, nodding towards the man in question, who was wearing a path in front of the picture window below, oblivious of the magnificent view of the harbour beyond.

Lucille saw exactly what Erica meant. A one-dimensional photograph couldn’t possibly capture this man’s person, or personality. His restless energy. His animal litheness and grace. His sheer sexual magnetism.

He was pacing up and down, up and down, his hands sunk deep in his trouser pockets, his stride as long as his legs. His dark head was lowered, his attitude one of prowling menace, his pantherish aura enhanced by his wearing black from head to toe. Black trousers. Black crew-necked top. Black shoes and socks.

He reminded Lucille of a big black cat she’d once seen in Taronga Park Zoo, pacing up and down his too small enclosure, exuding a threatening air of suppressed violence.

As a child, Lucille had found the animal quite frightening, despite the security fence between them.

Val Seymour looked as wild as that jungle cat. And there was no security fence around him.

Just as well I’m no longer a child, Lucille thought caustically.

Still he was a sexy-looking beast. She’d give him that. Once upon a time she might have found him incredibly attractive. Once upon a time she hadn’t been immune to men.

‘You’re right,’ she murmured ruefully to her boss. ‘I’d better get him out of here before you have to replace the carpet.’

When Erica laughed, her visitor ground to a halt and glowered up at the pair of them.

Lucille flinched slightly at the impact of his piercing black eyes, framed as they were by his dark brows and a face which was as untamed-looking as the rest of him. He obviously hadn’t shaved for a few days. Neither had he brushed his hair.

She wondered drily if the designer stubble and messily spiked hairstyle were deliberate. Who knew, these days? Whatever, he looked as if he’d just climbed out of bed after a long weekend of drink and debauchery.

‘Lucille’s sorry she’s late,’ Erica said as she hurried down into the lounge-room. ‘Roadworks.’

Lucille followed her boss at a slower pace, wary of catching her stiletto heels in the thickly carpeted steps. No way was she going to risk a humiliating stumble in front of the likes of Val Seymour.

His brooding black gaze followed her every step, raking her from head to toe before lingering on her slender ankles and saucily shod feet. One of his dark brows arched slightly.

When his eyes lifted back to her face, she held them unswervingly, determined not to feel in any way undermined—or unnerved—by his physical appraisal of her.

‘Lucille Jordan,’ she said with cool politeness as she came forward and held out her hand.

Almost reluctantly, he fished his right hand out of his pocket and briefly shook hers. ‘Val Seymour,’ came his curt rejoinder. ‘Can we get going straight away?’

‘By all means.’

‘Good. Thanks for the bolthole, Erica. And the help. I owe you one,’ he tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the front door, leaping up the steps in a single bound.

‘Oh, goodie,’ Erica muttered salaciously under her breath, her eyes fixed on Val Seymour’s very nice backside.

Lucille rolled her eyes and hurried after her rapidly departing client.

CHAPTER THREE

AFTER a slight detour to circumvent the roadworks, it was only a ten-minute drive across the bridge and over to their destination at Darling Harbour, especially at this time of day. Peak hour traffic hadn’t yet begun to build.

But it seemed endless.

As much as she’d been determined not to be unnerved by Val Seymour’s intimidating male presence, Lucille found herself becoming more and more tense with each passing second.

If only he would say something, instead of just sitting there in a darkly brooding silence with his head tipped back against the seat, his eyes shut and his arms grimly folded. Lucille couldn’t make out if he was exhausted, or just being abominably rude.

Whatever, some light, ice-breaking conversation on her part wouldn’t have gone astray. But be damned if she was going to be the first to speak.

So the seconds ticked slowly away and Lucille’s irritation increased. By the time she steered her Oxford-green Falcon into one of the guest bays in the underground car park of their destination, she was seriously on edge.

‘We’re here,’ she brusquely informed her seemingly sleeping passenger as she turned off the ignition. When he made no immediate move, or reply, she exhaled a deep and weary-sounding sigh.

His eyes half opened and slanted over to meet hers. ‘That’s exactly how I’m feeling at the moment,’ he murmured. ‘Tired to the bone. Are you tired too, Lucille? Or are you simply wishing Erica hadn’t fostered such an impossible pain in the neck onto you for the afternoon?’

Everything he said flustered her inside, but especially his softly-voiced use of her Christian name. He had a lovely voice when he wasn’t snapping and snarling. Low and warm and sensual. Her name had rolled off his tongue like liquid chocolate. His eyes were sensual too, when half opened in that heavy-lidded way.

He would look like that after he made love…

‘No, not at all,’ she denied with seeming calm whilst her thoughts went simply haywire. ‘I get a little tense driving through the city centre, that’s all,’ she added by way of an excuse, struggling to regain her inner composure.

But the images of him lying next to her in bed persisted. Which was perverse. Val Seymour was the last man on earth she would want as her lover! Heavens, till this very moment, she hadn’t wanted any man as her lover.

Lucille looked into his lazily hooded eyes and was suddenly seized by more than a spark. It was an inferno, spreading all through her body, melting her frozen libido and giving her a thirst for things she thought she’d never thirst for ever again.

It took an enormous effort of will to look away from him. ‘Most people I deal with are under some kind of stress, Mr Seymour,’ she elaborated as she removed her car key and retrieved her purse from the back seat.

By the time she glanced back into his face, her eyes were quite composed, though she couldn’t say the same for the rest of her. ‘It’s my job to alleviate that stress by placing them in just the right accommodation. I’m sure you’re going to be thrilled with this apartment. It has everything you’re looking for. And more.’

He smiled a wry smile and sat up straight. ‘Erica said you were her best consultant and I can see what she means. You have great tact and stay cool in the face of rudeness—which is what I’ve been up till now. Please accept my apology. I’ve had a difficult weekend followed by an even more difficult day. Which is no real excuse for my boorish behaviour, but it’s all I have to offer. I’ll try to be more congenial for the rest of the afternoon, but I can’t promise perfection. And it’s Val, all right? Mr Seymour sounds like my father, and, believe me, the last person on earth I want to be reminded of at this moment is him. Fair enough?’

‘Fair enough,’ she agreed, successfully hiding her ongoing inner turmoil with a plastic smile. Thank God he had no idea of the thoughts still tumbling through her head. Where on earth had they come from?

It was all Michele’s and Erica’s fault, Lucille decided angrily. They’d put them into her mind. All that talk of lovers and libido! And then there was the man himself. He was something else, as Erica had pointed out. Sex on two legs. A walking woman-trap. Those eyes! And that mouth!

‘Right,’ the object of her agitation said as he unsnapped his seat belt and threw open the car door. ‘Let’s go check out this apartment. Though if you claim it’s perfect for me, Lucille, then no doubt it will be. A man would be a fool not to trust the judgement of a lady of your beauty and intelligence.’

He was out of the car in a flash, leaving her floundering after these last remarks. Common sense warned her that compliments to women would be an automatic part of his playboy arsenal, but why was he bothering to use them on her? She wasn’t his usual style of bedmate.

Was he looking for an easy bolster for his bruised ego? An afternoon quickie to soothe the savage beast?

Such a prospect didn’t repulse her nearly as much as it should have.

Oh, God.

She struggled out in her high heels, then cringed with embarrassment when she pointed the hand-held lock at the car and zapped the boot open instead of the doors closed.

‘Botheration,’ she muttered, hurrying forward to manually close the boot, then re-zap the doors.

‘I do that all the time,’ he said, materialising by her side with the stealth of a cat. ‘When I drive, that is. Which isn’t often. I don’t own a car. I travel too much to be bothered. I usually borrow one of Max’s when I’m in Sydney, but be damned if I will be this time. Sorry,’ he said with a quick smile. ‘Would you believe me if I said I don’t usually swear in front of ladies?’

Lucille didn’t. She’d already heard him swearing over the phone. Val Seymour was a man who did what he wanted, when he wanted, in front of whoever he wanted. He was being charming with a purpose in mind. She was sure of it. But what purpose? Seduction?

‘I’ve heard worse,’ she returned coolly, determined not to surrender to his easy charm.

His eyes glinted as they locked with hers. ‘You have? I’m surprised anyone would dare in your presence.’

Her shoulders squared defensively. ‘And what do you mean by that?’

‘You have a formidable air about you, Lucille. Somewhere between ice princess and stern headmistress. Though the shoes are a bit of a worry. They don’t fit either scenario.’

She blushed. She actually blushed.

He looked startled, and then confused. ‘I’m sorry. That was rude of me. Again. Yet I’d just resolved to be polite.’ His expression of bewilderment had a boyish quality about it which was even more dangerously attractive than his rampant sexuality. ‘I’m not having a good day, am I?’ he said with a sigh. ‘Forgive me?’

‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ came her starchy reply. ‘The client is always right.’

‘Ouch. Now I feel really guilty. Perhaps we should just get on with the inspection. Then I can say yes straight away, give you my credit card number and move straight in. After which you can be on your way and out of my reprehensible presence. Unless, of course, you need to check my references before I can take possession?’

His words took on a wicked double entendre in Lucille’s erotically charged brain. But instead of being shocked, this time she felt nothing but a warped amusement. How ironic that this man of all men could turn her on! It was truly laughable.

‘Mr Seymour,’ she chided drily. ‘You are being facetious.’

‘Would I do that?’ He smiled at her.

She couldn’t help it. She simply couldn’t keep up the ice princess act. Or was it the stern headmistress? She heartily disapproved of Val Seymour, and everything he stood for, but his charm was irresistible.

Her smile was still slow in coming, teasing the corners of her mouth before she finally surrendered to its pull.

His dark eyes danced at the sight of it, and her stomach flipped right over. The man was a devil, all right. An attractive and dangerous devil.

‘Does that mean I’m forgiven?’ he enquired flirtatiously.

Lucille decided enough was enough. She had to quickly regain control of this situation or she would be in deep trouble. As much as she might have been mentally fantasising about Val Seymour becoming her lover, she refused to let it actually happen. Pride demanded she keep him at bay and not do anything she might seriously regret.

‘Mr Seymour—’ she began in a businesslike tone.

‘Val,’ he corrected.

‘Val…’

‘Yes, Lucille?’

Why, oh, why did he choose that precise moment to say her name again? And to look at her like that again. With a warm, teasing smile and sparkling black eyes.

She shook her head in frustrated denial of his ongoing effect on her. ‘You are a truly irritating man.’

‘In what way?’ he asked, his very real puzzlement as disarming as his natural charm.

‘I was determined not to like you at all.’

Oh, God, had she really said that?

Now he was truly taken aback. ‘I’m flattered. But was that a compliment or a criticism?’

‘A fact,’ she snapped, annoyed with herself.

‘Well, I like you too,’ he returned, looking amused. ‘But I had no bad preconceptions of your character to battle against. You’ll have to tell me over dinner tonight just what terrible things you’d heard about me that made you determined not to like me.’

Her mouth went instantly dry. ‘Dinner tonight?’

‘You have another engagement?’

‘No, but…’

‘Erica said you weren’t dating anyone at the moment.’

‘No, but…’

‘Neither am I, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘No, but…’

‘No more buts, Lucille. You’re coming to dinner with me tonight and that’s that.’

Lucille could not contain a burst of exasperation. ‘Did it ever occur to you that I may not want to come to dinner with you tonight?’

The expression on his face was classic. Lucille wondered if any woman had ever said no to him.

But then she remembered Flame.

Flame’s defection was probably why she was being asked out in the first place. Loverboy needed his male ego stroking. Fast.

The thought piqued her own ego. ‘I was going to put a treatment in my hair tonight,’ she lied.

His eyes lifted to her hair, which had had the works at Janine’s only the week before and was shining with health. ‘It doesn’t look like it needs one, but if you simply must, you could always do that before I pick you up. I never eat till late.’