Читать книгу The Playboy In Pursuit - Miranda Lee - Страница 8

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.