The Playboy In Pursuit

‘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!