The Playboy In Pursuit. Miranda Lee
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to tell me over dinner tonight just what terrible things you’d heard about me that made you determined not to like me.’
Her mouth went instantly dry. ‘Dinner tonight?’
‘You have another engagement?’
‘No, but…’
‘Erica said you weren’t dating anyone at the moment.’
‘No, but…’
‘Neither am I, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘No, but…’
‘No more buts, Lucille. You’re coming to dinner with me tonight and that’s that.’
Lucille could not contain a burst of exasperation. ‘Did it ever occur to you that I may not want to come to dinner with you tonight?’
The expression on his face was classic. Lucille wondered if any woman had ever said no to him.
But then she remembered Flame.
Flame’s defection was probably why she was being asked out in the first place. Loverboy needed his male ego stroking. Fast.
The thought piqued her own ego. ‘I was going to put a treatment in my hair tonight,’ she lied.
His eyes lifted to her hair, which had had the works at Janine’s only the week before and was shining with health. ‘It doesn’t look like it needs one, but if you simply must, you could always do that before I pick you up. I never eat till late.’
Lucille almost rolled her eyes. He never ate till late. What was it with men that they never thought of anyone else’s time-table but their own?
‘I was planning on visiting my mother,’ she persisted in prickly tones.
‘You can do that another night.’
‘What if she’s ill in hospital?’
‘Is she?’
‘No, but what if she was?’ she challenged.
‘I’d buy her flowers and come with you. Then, afterwards, I’d take you to dinner.’
She sighed and gave up that tack. ‘Why do you want to take me to dinner? And I want the truth.’
He smiled that incredible smile of his. ‘The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you have to ask, then maybe you should have your sight checked. You’re a beautiful woman, Lucille. I like beautiful women. And I like taking beautiful women to dinner.’
So there it was, in a nutshell. If she’d been plain, he wouldn’t have asked her. The man’s motives were skin-deep. What else?
Lucille knew that if she went to dinner with Val Seymour he would surely make a pass before the night was out. Given her sexual responses to him so far today, she didn’t stand a chance in Hades of resisting him if he went into seduction mode. No point in kidding herself.
Lucille might have been out of the dating game for a good few years but she knew the score. Even ordinary thirty-something guys expected sex in exchange for the privilege of buying you some wine and a meal these days. A playboy like Val Seymour would consider it a foregone conclusion. Saying yes to dinner would be the same as agreeing to a one-night stand with him.
Given Lucille’s present vulnerability to the man, it was an incredibly corrupting thought.
‘Can I take a few minutes to think about it?’ she said, trying to sound cool and not panic-stricken.
Again, he looked surprised. But he recovered quickly, to flash her a warm smile. ‘Yeah. Sure. Take all the time you want. Meanwhile, let’s go look at my new digs.’
He took her arm on the walk across the car park to the lift, the touch of his hand doing incredible things to her whole body. Goosebumps erupted all over her skin and her heartbeat took off at a wild gallop.
Lord help me, she thought.
His hand dropped away in the lift, for which she was grateful, as she was for the talkative couple who got on at lobby level. The apartment they were to inspect was on the twelfth floor, by which time the lift was again empty, except for themselves.
‘I presume this place has a good view of Sydney,’ Val remarked when the lift stopped and they alighted onto a grey-carpeted corridor.
‘One hundred and eighty degrees,’ she answered matter-of-factly. ‘The Casino on the left, the Darling Harbour complex and Marina directly opposite, and the central business district on the right.’
‘It does sound perfect,’ he agreed.
And perfect it was, provided you liked blue. That colour dominated every room, ranging from the palest ice-blue to a bold navy. The walls, the floor coverings, the bench-tops, the soft furnishings. They were all blue in one shade or other. Sometimes the brighter, darker blues were combined and softened with grey. In other places the designer had contrasted them with white. White woodwork. White appliances in the kitchen. White lampshades and cushions.
The rooms were spacious, the furniture sleek and expensive, yet comfy and liveable. Huge squashy leather sofas and chairs. Roomy tables. Big beds.
There was a very big bed in the main bedroom. A very big spa bath as well. Large enough for the most decadent of orgies.
‘Now, that’s my kind of bath,’ Val remarked on seeing it, and Lucille tried not to think of his climbing into the darned thing with a bevy of naked beauties.
The bath, however, was not as big a hit as the terrace, which stretched the entire length of the best side of the building and was wide enough to easily accommodate the plethora of white wrought-iron furniture, grouped in several settings over the grey slate floor. Large white-painted pots filled with amazingly real-looking ferns gave it a summery resort-style look, and a built-in slate barbecue made it perfect for entertaining on balmy summer evenings.
Not this evening, however. A brisk breeze was blowing up from the water, promising a cool spring night and messing up Lucille’s hair.
Val’s hair, however, remained impervious to the wind. It stayed exactly as it was, totally messy and looking sexy as hell.
‘You’re right, Lucille,’ he said as he leant against the curved grey railing and soaked up the panoramic view. ‘I could happily live in this place. What’s the damage?’ he asked, glancing her way.
‘The damage?’ she echoed, having tuned out momentarily. She’d been too busy watching him move, and thinking the wickedest of thoughts.
‘How much does it cost?’
‘I thought money was no object,’ she reminded him stiffly, positioning herself so that her hair blew back from her face and not across it.
‘It isn’t. I just want to know how much this is going to cost Max. I’ll be charging it to the company’s expense account.’
‘Four thousand a week,’ she said, and he grimaced.
‘Not nearly enough.’
‘That’s the flat rate. It’ll climb once you add on the other services provided.’
When his eyebrows arched, she slanted him a droll look. ‘Sorry. Not that kind of service. I was talking about cleaning and meals and Internet shopping and such.’
‘You mean I won’t have to lift a finger?’
‘Only to open the champagne, which of course can also be ordered from here. Actually, you don’t even have to open the bottles if you don’t want to. There’s a butler service as well.’
His rather patrician nose wrinkled at this idea. ‘I’m not really into that sort of thing. But the champagne is a good idea. I’ll order a case. Dom Perignon, of course,’ he added with a wicked grin.