The Playboy In Pursuit

‘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.