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The Playboy In Pursuit
Miranda Lee



“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





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.
‘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.’
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.

CHAPTER FOUR
HER phone rang at ten to eight, just as she was doing some last-minute frantic primping.
‘What a time for someone to ring,’ Lucille muttered as she hurried from her bedroom to the living-room.
Not that she hadn’t already had three hours to get ready since arriving home at five. But three hours simply weren’t enough for this kind of date. There was so much to be done. So much to be worried over, and to change her mind over. Not the least of which was what one should wear to seduce a man who’d been seduced by the best of them.
In the end she’d gone for broke, in a dress which would have revived an octogenarian on life support. It was part of the wardrobe she’d splurged on after her divorce had come through but never worn. Emerald chiffon with a low-cut V neckline, sheer tight sleeves and a softly layered skirt which fell to mid-calf, leaving her slender ankles and sexily shod feet in full view. Her cleavage was deep and her hair up in a fashionably dishevelled style, with tendrils falling all round her neck.
Lucille swept the receiver up to her ear, clinking with one of the crystal drop earrings she’d just hooked into her lobes.
‘Yes?’ she said sharply down the line.
‘It’s Val. I’m stuck in a traffic snarl on the bridge. I’m going to be late getting to your place.’
Hearing his voice brought home exactly what she was doing. This wasn’t some wild sexual fantasy she was about to embark on. This was a real man she was planning to seduce. And she was a real woman. A woman who hadn’t made love in so long she’d probably forgotten how!
Lucille’s stomach crunched down hard, then churned. She couldn’t go through with this. She simply couldn’t. What had she been thinking of? Aside from any other consideration, the man was a playboy, for pity’s sake. Maybe he would know all the right moves in bed, as Erica had pointed out. But her pride simply wouldn’t allow herself to let such a man think she was nothing but an easy lay.
Which he would.
‘Lucille?’ he prompted.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ she said stiffly. At least she would have time to change again, into something less provocative.
‘Sorry about this,’ he said.
‘It can’t be helped. You needn’t have worried. Or called.’
‘I didn’t want you to think I was deliberately keeping you waiting, or that I was an arrogant creep with no respect for time or women.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought that,’ she bit out, though she probably would have.
‘You sound a little upset.’
‘Not at all. I’m just not ready yet.’
His laugh was low and incredibly sexy, reminding Lucille of why she’d been brought to this.
‘Now I understand,’ he said. ‘I sometimes forget it takes women for ever to get dressed. Off you go, then, because I want you ready and waiting when I arrive. I’m literally starving.’
She bristled. ‘I thought you said you always ate late.’
‘I seem to have forgotten to eat today, and the cupboards in my new apartment were bare, except for coffee and tea.’
‘Oh, dear. I should have seen to that.’
‘That’s what Erica said when I called to thank her for everything. But don’t fret. I soothed her concerns by saying I was going out for dinner tonight and you’d promised to attend to the matter first thing in the morning.’
Lucille’s heart missed a beat. ‘You didn’t tell her you were taking me out to dinner, did you?’
‘No…’
‘Thank God.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why didn’t you want me to tell her?’
Lucille didn’t know what to say.
‘I have an awful feeling,’ Val went on drily, after an embarrassing stretch of silence, ‘that your reluctance to answer has something to do with your poor opinion of my character.’
Lucille didn’t deny it.
‘Mmm. We will explore this subject more in depth over dinner, when you can’t get away with going silent on me. Ah, the traffic’s moving. I might not be too long after all. Better shake a leg, Lucille, or you’ll be going to dinner in whatever you have on at the moment. Dare I hope it’s your birthday suit?’
She did end up going to dinner in what she had on at that moment, because Erica rang as soon as she hung up, chastising her for not catering to Val’s basic culinary needs on the spot, after which she tried to pump Lucille for her personal opinion of the man. By the time Lucille had neatly side-stepped her boss’s questions and got off the darned phone, it was too late to change. Her intercom buzzer began ringing before she could take more than two steps back towards her bedroom.
Lucille groaned, accepting ruefully that she would have to go to dinner as she was. Hopefully Val wouldn’t get the wrong idea about the way she looked. Not that she was all that provocatively dressed by modern standards. Val was probably used to his dates wearing a whole lot less. As long as she didn’t act provocatively, or flirtatiously, he would have no reason to get out of line.
The dangly earrings could go, however, she decided sensibly, unhooking and tossing them on the hall table as she hurried past on her way to the intercom beside the front door. Now that she’d come to her senses she could hardly believe that her self-esteem had let her sink so low as to actually consider throwing herself at such a man.
If she’d been able to politely get out of dinner, she would have. A bit hard, however, when he was right downstairs and she’d only spoken to him minutes before. All she could do was keep her defences in place and not let him get to her sexually a second time.
‘That you, Val?’ she said coolly, on flipping the switch.
‘The one and only. All dressed and raring to go?’
‘Just about.’ All she had to do was get her purse. ‘I won’t be more than a minute. You might as well wait down there.’
‘Fine.’
Lucille contemplated changing her shoes, but that old rebellious streak won out and she didn’t. A mistake, possibly, she worried as she rode the lift down to the lobby. The black patent high heels gracing her feet tonight made today’s cream stilletos look sedate. Not because they were higher. That would have been impossible. But because of the amount of exposed foot. There was only one pencil-thin strap anchoring her foot to the sole and another wickedly sinful one snaking around her ankle. They were painful shoes to wear, but made her feet look gorgeous and her sleekly stockinged legs even better.

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