“What is it that you want of me?”
Lucille composed herself to take the plunge. “I want what you offered me on the phone.”
“And what was that? Please remind me…”
“A strictly sexual and very private affair,” she bit out.
“Ah, yes,” he drawled. “I do recall. I’m to be your secret lover and you, my secret playmate. So for how long would you envisage this…arrangement…lasting?”
Forever, came the involuntary thought.
Dear Reader,
I admit it! I find playboys fascinating. I love reading about their glamorous lives, their beautiful women, their many affairs. There’s something exciting about these wicked devils who dare to do what an ordinary man wouldn’t—or couldn’t.
I’ve always thought a playboy makes an excellent romantic hero, because he is the ultimate challenge. Can one special woman make an often cynical man reassess his lifestyle and yearn for something finer, deeper and more permanent?
When my editor asked me to write a trilogy, I happily chose playboys for my heroes. Three handsome Aussie males who seem to have it all but find, once they meet that one special woman, that they want her…her respect, her love. Only this time getting what they want isn’t so easy as it usually is.
I hope you enjoy AUSTRALIAN PLAYBOYS. Do write to Harlequin Presents® and let us know what you think—and which heroes personally appeal to you!
Miranda Lee
The Playboy in Pursuit
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
‘LUCILLE, when are you going to start dating again?’ Michele asked between sips of her cappuccino.
Oh-oh, Lucille thought ruefully. Here we go again.
‘Surely you don’t mean to stay single and celibate for the rest of your life,’ Michele swept on, ‘just because you had one bad marriage. I don’t doubt your Roger was a right royal pig, but not all men are like that. Take my darling Tyler, for instance…’
‘No, thanks,’ Lucille said with a dry laugh, then downed the last delicious mouthful of jam and cream doughnut. ‘He’s all yours.’
Michele plonked her coffee cup down with an exasperated sigh. ‘When are you going to believe that Tyler really loves me? That he’s really changed? That his playboy days are well and truly over?’
Lucille was tempted to say in thirty years or so. But that would have been too cruel. Michele was only three weeks back from her honeymoon and still glowing. Lucille didn’t have the heart to destroy her best friend’s romantic illusions about her handsome new husband.
But, truly, what chance did that marriage have of going the distance? Sure, Tyler seemed to be madly in love with Lucille at the moment. But would he feel the same in six months’ time, when the heat of the honeymoon cooled down and old habits kicked in?
The son and heir to the Garrison media fortune had a long history of throw-away girlfriends and Lucille had no faith in a wedding ring changing that. She’d warned her friend at the outset not to fall in love with such a man, just to have an affair and enjoy the sex—which was reportedly fantastic—without getting emotionally involved.
But of course that had been futile advice with someone like Michele. The girl was too nice for her own good. Heck, she’d stayed loving and loyal to her first boyfriend for ten years. And he’d been a total rat. What chance had Michele’s sweet heart had against the golden boy of Sydney’s social set, once he’d set his sights on her?
Yes, Michele’s marriage was doomed, in Lucille’s opinion. But she wasn’t about to say so. She regretted not being clever enough so far at pretending to believe it was a case of true love all round.
‘Don’t take any notice of me,’ Lucille said swiftly. ‘I’m just an old cynic. If anyone could make a man change it would be you.’ Michele might be twenty-eight-years old, and a brilliant advertising executive to boot, but underneath the brunette’s surface sophistication snuggled a soft, sweet soul. Life hadn’t made her hard, or cynical, as it had Lucille.
Maybe that was why Lucille enjoyed the other girl’s company so much. Because, for a while, she could soak in the warmth of her sweetness, rather like a lizard basking in sunshine.
She missed Michele no longer living in the flat next to her. She hated seeing the ‘For Sale’ sign out at the front of the building. Now she was really living alone, with no other close friends, just nodding acquaintances. Thank God their respective workplaces were both in North Sydney, so they could have regular lunches together, plus the odd shopping expedition.
Still, their friendship would never be quite the same now that Michele was married.
‘Don’t think you can avoid answering my first question.’ Michele resumed determinedly. ‘You’re only thirty years old, Lucille. And, might I say, one stunning-looking woman. I want to know when you’re going to get over Roger and move on with your life.’
Lucille might have resented any other person saying such things to her. But she knew Michele meant well and wasn’t just being a busybody.
‘I am over Roger,’ Lucille replied, coolly wiping her sugared lips with a serviette. ‘And I have moved on with my life. I have a challenging and satisfying career, a nice place to live, which is wonderfully close to my office, and a great girlfriend I can bitch to when I feel like it. I’d date if I wanted to. But the truth is, Michele, I’m just not interested in the opposite sex any more. I’m quite happy being single and celibate.’
‘What a load of old rubbish! You are not happy being single and celibate. You’re lonely as hell. And you are interested in the opposite sex. Women who aren’t don’t dress like you do. Just take a look at the outfit you’re wearing today.’
Lucille’s eyes blinked with surprise, then dropped to her favourite cream woollen suit. ‘This old thing? You have to be kidding. Okay, so the skirt’s on the short side, but the jacket’s thigh-length and not at all tight. I’d hardly call it a provocative outfit. My boobs are well hidden. I consider this suit on the conservative side of my wardrobe, actually.’ As opposed to the seriously sexy clothes she’d bought when she’d first left Roger and had gone through her wildly defiant stage.
Back then, she’d been determined to go out and paint Sydney red, but she had found when men made passes at her she just went cold all over.
‘Your boobs might be well hidden but your legs sure aren’t,’ Michele argued back. ‘And your legs are just as provocative, attached as they are today to five-inch heels. Haven’t you noticed the looks you’ve been getting from the male passers-by?’
They were sitting