The Playboy In Pursuit. Miranda Lee
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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