The Playboy In Pursuit

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.