The Playboy In Pursuit

Lucille almost rolled her eyes. He never ate till late. What was it with men that they never thought of anyone else’s time-table but their own?

‘I was planning on visiting my mother,’ she persisted in prickly tones.

‘You can do that another night.’

‘What if she’s ill in hospital?’

‘Is she?’

‘No, but what if she was?’ she challenged.

‘I’d buy her flowers and come with you. Then, afterwards, I’d take you to dinner.’

She sighed and gave up that tack. ‘Why do you want to take me to dinner? And I want the truth.’

He smiled that incredible smile of his. ‘The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you have to ask, then maybe you should have your sight checked. You’re a beautiful woman, Lucille. I like beautiful women. And I like taking beautiful women to dinner.’

So there it was, in a nutshell. If she’d been plain, he wouldn’t have asked her. The man’s motives were skin-deep. What else?

Lucille knew that if she went to dinner with Val Seymour he would surely make a pass before the night was out. Given her sexual responses to him so far today, she didn’t stand a chance in Hades of resisting him if he went into seduction mode. No point in kidding herself.

Lucille might have been out of the dating game for a good few years but she knew the score. Even ordinary thirty-something guys expected sex in exchange for the privilege of buying you some wine and a meal these days. A playboy like Val Seymour would consider it a foregone conclusion. Saying yes to dinner would be the same as agreeing to a one-night stand with him.

Given Lucille’s present vulnerability to the man, it was an incredibly corrupting thought.

‘Can I take a few minutes to think about it?’ she said, trying to sound cool and not panic-stricken.

Again, he looked surprised. But he recovered quickly, to flash her a warm smile. ‘Yeah. Sure. Take all the time you want. Meanwhile, let’s go look at my new digs.’

He took her arm on the walk across the car park to the lift, the touch of his hand doing incredible things to her whole body. Goosebumps erupted all over her skin and her heartbeat took off at a wild gallop.

Lord help me, she thought.

His hand dropped away in the lift, for which she was grateful, as she was for the talkative couple who got on at lobby level. The apartment they were to inspect was on the twelfth floor, by which time the lift was again empty, except for themselves.

‘I presume this place has a good view of Sydney,’ Val remarked when the lift stopped and they alighted onto a grey-carpeted corridor.

‘One hundred and eighty degrees,’ she answered matter-of-factly. ‘The Casino on the left, the Darling Harbour complex and Marina directly opposite, and the central business district on the right.’

‘It does sound perfect,’ he agreed.

And perfect it was, provided you liked blue. That colour dominated every room, ranging from the palest ice-blue to a bold navy. The walls, the floor coverings, the bench-tops, the soft furnishings. They were all blue in one shade or other. Sometimes the brighter, darker blues were combined and softened with grey. In other places the designer had contrasted them with white. White woodwork. White appliances in the kitchen. White lampshades and cushions.

The rooms were spacious, the furniture sleek and expensive, yet comfy and liveable. Huge squashy leather sofas and chairs. Roomy tables. Big beds.

There was a very big bed in the main bedroom. A very big spa bath as well. Large enough for the most decadent of orgies.

‘Now, that’s my kind of bath,’ Val remarked on seeing it, and Lucille tried not to think of his climbing into the darned thing with a bevy of naked beauties.

The bath, however, was not as big a hit as the terrace, which stretched the entire length of the best side of the building and was wide enough to easily accommodate the plethora of white wrought-iron furniture, grouped in several settings over the grey slate floor. Large white-painted pots filled with amazingly real-looking ferns gave it a summery resort-style look, and a built-in slate barbecue made it perfect for entertaining on balmy summer evenings.

Not this evening, however. A brisk breeze was blowing up from the water, promising a cool spring night and messing up Lucille’s hair.

Val’s hair, however, remained impervious to the wind. It stayed exactly as it was, totally messy and looking sexy as hell.

‘You’re right, Lucille,’ he said as he leant against the curved grey railing and soaked up the panoramic view. ‘I could happily live in this place. What’s the damage?’ he asked, glancing her way.

‘The damage?’ she echoed, having tuned out momentarily. She’d been too busy watching him move, and thinking the wickedest of thoughts.

‘How much does it cost?’

‘I thought money was no object,’ she reminded him stiffly, positioning herself so that her hair blew back from her face and not across it.

‘It isn’t. I just want to know how much this is going to cost Max. I’ll be charging it to the company’s expense account.’

‘Four thousand a week,’ she said, and he grimaced.

‘Not nearly enough.’

‘That’s the flat rate. It’ll climb once you add on the other services provided.’

When his eyebrows arched, she slanted him a droll look. ‘Sorry. Not that kind of service. I was talking about cleaning and meals and Internet shopping and such.’

‘You mean I won’t have to lift a finger?’

‘Only to open the champagne, which of course can also be ordered from here. Actually, you don’t even have to open the bottles if you don’t want to. There’s a butler service as well.’

His rather patrician nose wrinkled at this idea. ‘I’m not really into that sort of thing. But the champagne is a good idea. I’ll order a case. Dom Perignon, of course,’ he added with a wicked grin.

‘Your father really isn’t in your good books at the moment, is he?’

‘My father doesn’t know the meaning of good,’ he scoffed, then glowered, his mood dropping back into black and brooding. ‘I don’t want to talk about that bastard. I don’t even want to think about him.’ He sank back down against the railing, his head sagging, his attitude one of instant and utter wretchedness.

For a brief moment Lucille actually felt sorry for him, till she remembered that he was a bastard too, especially with women.

So this time he’d lost out with Flame, a potential bedmate. Tough! It wasn’t as though he’d been genuinely in love with the girl. Playboys like Val Seymour were only in love with themselves!

He straightened abruptly and turned to face her, his eyes still tormented.

Amazing how devastatingly attractive he looked, despite his emotional ravagement. The dark circles under his eyes suited his designer stubble and added to his bad-boy image.

‘Are you going to put me out of my misery by coming to dinner with me tonight, Lucille?’ he demanded to know. ‘Or are you going to condemn me to eternal depression?’

‘How will a date with me put you out of your misery?’ she challenged, as if she didn’t know. A conquest a day keeps depression at bay!

‘It just will,’ he said firmly. ‘I promise to be a gentleman, if that’s what’s worrying you. Just dinner and conversation. Nothing else.’

Lucille frowned. He actually sounded sincere. Who knew? Maybe he meant the ‘just dinner’ part. Maybe he simply wanted the distraction of company. Maybe he had been in love with that Flame female and was genuinely upset.

Lucille was startled to find she didn’t like that last thought. Perhaps because underneath she wanted him to want her as she wanted him. Oh, yes, there was no point in denying it, not to herself. She wanted him. Wanted him naked, wanted him in bed, wanted him right now, or at the very latest…tonight.

Any shock—or self-disgust—at this starkly explicit realisation was eventually overlaid by an angrily defensive train of thought. Why shouldn’t she want him? And why shouldn’t she have him, at least once? Now that her female hormones were up and running again, she’d be stupid not to take advantage of this situation. Erica was right. Who better to have sex with than a man who specialised in the practice?

It wasn’t as though Val would be hurt by her going to bed with him. Hell, he’d probably be grateful.

A decidedly erotic quiver ran down her spine at the thought. Despite his promise of gentlemanly behaviour, Lucille knew that a virile man like Val didn’t stand a chance of staying virtuous if she pulled out all the stops, then didn’t say no when he took the bait.

‘All right,’ she said, amazed that she could sound so calm in the face of such wicked plottings. ‘I wouldn’t want to be responsible for plunging you into eternal depression.’

‘Fantastic,’ he said, finding an instant smile.

Lucille smiled back. I’ve gone mad, she decided. Stark raving mad.

Whatever was Michele going to say?

Nothing, the devil’s voice whispered in Lucille’s head. Because you’re not going to tell her. Tonight is going to be your dark little secret. Your deep, dark little secret.

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