How To Pleasure A Playboy: A Rich List Romance

  How To Pleasure A Playboy

  A Rich List Romance

  Talia Hunter

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Thanks for reading!

  Also by Talia Hunter

  About the Author

  One

  Nose wrinkled, Lacey knocked on the front door of her neighbor’s apartment.

  “Crystal, I have your medicine,” she yelled over the yapping of the elderly woman’s dog.

  Black mold speckled the ceiling. Under the soles of Lacey’s Doc Martin boots, the carpet had rotted to the floorboards. It broke her heart to watch the once-beautiful Baxter Apartments falling to pieces around her, but the rich playboy asshole who owned the place refused to spend a cent on repairs.

  Crystal’s door opened with a creak of rusty hinges. A haze of incense smoke drifted out. “Lacey, come in. How’s your father doing?” Her neighbor was wrapped in an enormous rainbow-colored blanket, complete with tassels. Crystal’s dog bounded out to sniff Lacey’s feet, his fluffy tail wagging. Wolf wore a colorful knitted coat.

  “About the same.” Lacey handed Crystal her package and eyed the blanket. “Your radiator’s not working again?”

  “I was hoping you’d fix it.”

  Good thing Lacey always wore her sturdy boots. She followed Crystal into her freezing living room and gave the metal fixture a hard kick. Pity she couldn’t do the same to Bronson Reyne, the owner of the Baxter Apartments. Even if it didn’t fix his arrogance, it would be satisfying as hell. Especially if she aimed just right.

  The radiator let out a loud gurgle. “That’s it.” Crystal gave a little laugh. “I know it’s silly, but I can’t bring myself to kick it hard enough. And you’re so sweet to pick up my things for me. I’m going to miss you like crazy.”

  “Miss me?” Lacey checked the radiator to make sure it was getting warm.

  The old woman sunk into one of her patchwork armchairs and Wolf leaped into her lap. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It pains me to say it, but I have to accept that awful man’s offer.”

  “You what?” Bronson Reyne had sent his tenants letters offering them each ten thousand dollars to rip up their fixed-rent tenancy contracts and move out. Lacey had burned hers, and she’d assumed her neighbor had done the same. “But you can’t move out. You’ve been here, what, forty years? Longer?”

  “Thirty-nine years.” Crystal sighed. “Now the place is so damp, my son’s insisting. And I have to admit, the stairs are starting to best me. Poor Wolf doesn’t get to go outside as often as he used to. Sometimes he has to cross his legs and hold on.”

  “Then Bronson Reyne should fix the elevator. If we stick together, we can pressure him to repair this place. I know we can do it.”

  “I’m afraid it might be getting too old.” Crystal scratched Wolf’s head, gazing around her trinket-filled living room with a sad smile. “It’ll hurt my heart to leave, but it’s Mother Nature’s cycle. None of us can deny her, no matter how young we feel inside.”

  “You know how Dad feels about the Baxter. All he talks about is coming home. Letting a rich playboy pull it down would finish him off.” Lacey ran her hand over the plaster filigree on the wall. Like everything in the building, it was crumbling. “We can’t let Bronson Reyne turn Dad’s home into rubble.”

  “I remember the day you were born. Right across the hall, so I was sure I’d hear you crying at night. But you were so good, even then. An angel. And your mother so proud.”

  Lacey looked away, pushing her glasses up her nose. All the times Crystal had told that story, she’d never mentioned Lacey’s father being proud of her. Now he was dying, and she had one last chance to do right by him. If Bronson Reyne thought she’d let him pull her father’s home down without a fight, he was dumber than a toupee in a tornado.

  “You know what?” she asked. “I’m going to pay him a visit and tell him where he can stick his new development.”

  “Who, the owner? You think he’ll see you?”

  “I won’t give him a choice. His new nightclub’s opening in King’s Cross on Friday night. He’ll be there, and I’m going to get an invitation. He can hardly refuse to talk to me in a public place.”

  At least, she hoped she could get an invitation. When she went back to her own apartment across the hall, she called her business partner, Ally, to ask her.

  “Ally, I need to get into Play nightclub on Friday. Think it’s possible?”

  “Opening night?” Ally sounded surprised. “You’re not much of a clubber.”

  “My landlord will be there.”

  “Okay. Let me make a few calls and see if I can get you in.”

  Lacey thanked her and rang off. Waiting for Ally to call back, she checked Myrtle’s tank to make sure he was okay. Then she turned the heater in her bedroom on and climbed into bed fully dressed, propped up on pillows with her laptop and a bar of chocolate. She was typing up her father’s old newspaper columns, but it was boring work, and hard to focus while her bedroom was still so cold. When her phone finally rang again, she snatched it up.

  “Bad news,” said Ally. “I called the club’s manager to get you a press pass, and he hadn’t heard of Liaison. Can you believe it?”

  “What? He doesn’t know who we are?” Lacey put on a mock-horrified tone. When Ally had published her insider stories about movie star Max Oberon, their blog had hit record readership numbers. They’d had an exciting year, but it was quietening down. Perfect time for a juicy story to pick things up again.

  “He said you’ll have to dress nice and line up with everyone else.”

  “Dress nice? I suppose he means sexy?”

  “Well, you know what these clubs are like. So, yeah, it wouldn’t hurt.” Ally hesitated. “No offense, but do you own anything sexy?”

  “Depends how hot you think jeans are. I have a pair that’s ripped high above the knee. Positively indecent.”

  “I’ll loan you something.”

  “Listen Ally, I’d like to write a series about Bronson Reyne and the Baxter. He’s an arrogant playboy throwing working folk out on the street, and I want to tell the story. What do you think?”

  “You could give it a try and see how it goes over.”

  Lacey let out her breath. Now Ally had agreed, she could make saving her home her full-time mission. “I’ll work it on social media too. Get some buzz going.”

  “Okay. Push it hard and we can monitor how our readers respond.”

  As soon as Lacey signed off, she opened Twitter and sent a tweet:

  #PamperedPlayboy Bronson Reyne wants to destroy my home, but I won’t let him. #SaveTheBaxter

  Then she pulled up the Liaison blog and started writing a new post.

  I live in the Baxter, a lovely old building in desperate need of repair. My parents moved into the Baxter thirty years ago, and now my father’s coming to the end of his life. All he wants is to spend his last months in the home he loves.

  She wrote a long article, filled with anecdotes about growing up in the apartment building, and signed it off with a final thought.

  If we put enough pressure on Bronson Reyne, together we can save the Baxter. Join me on Twitter and help me prove that money won’t always triumph over heart.

  After publishing the story, she sent another tweet. And by Friday evening, she’d started collecting dozens of replies and retweets each time.

  Ally had promised to bring her something to wear to the nightclub, and turned up with a slinky red dress. “The lights in your hall keep flickering,” she complained when Lacey let her in. “With all the stains on the walls, and the broken elevator, it feels like a scene from The Shining.”

  “It’s nicer in here.” Lacey led her into the living room. “I have the fire going.”

  Ally draped the red dress over the back of the couch and held her hands up to the flames. “Thank goodness for the fireplace. It makes your place feel much cozier.”

  “I’m lucky. Only four of the top floor apartments have them, and mine’s the only one that works.”

  “Think you can convince the owner to fix the building up?”

  Lacey picked up the red dress and held it against herself. Tossing her hair back, she struck a sexy pose and dropped her voice into a throaty purr. “One look at this dress and he’ll agree to anything.” Then she wrinkled her nose and switched to her normal voice. “At least now I might get close enough to ask.”

  “As soon as my fingers defrost, I’ll do your hair and makeup. Shall I try straightening your curls?”

  “Good luck.” Lacey lifted a hand to push at her mop. “You’ll need it.”

  Sure enough, it took over an hour before Ally finally stepped back with a grunt of satisfaction. “There. What do you think?”

  Lacey blinked at herself in the mirror. All that spraying, cursing, and straighteni
ng had forced her hair to hang in a glossy sheet, and Ally had done a great job with her makeup. Running her hands over the tight red dress, Lacey gave her friend a slow smile. “I feel like a juicy piece of bait on a very sharp hook.”

  “Ready to catch a playboy?”

  “Hope so. If they let me in the club.” Lacey adjusted the front of the low-cut dress, pulling it further up to cover her tattoo. At least the fact that Bronson Reyne was a sleazebag gave her a better chance of getting in. With his reputation as a womanizer, he probably told the doormen to admit anyone with boobs. The man was as shallow as a bird bath.

  “Have you figured out what you’ll say to him?”

  “That’s the easy part. Even if I can’t change his mind, at least he’ll know I won’t go quietly.”

  “Put these on.” Ally handed her a pair of red high heels.

  Lacey slipped them on and winced. “How do you even walk?”

  “They’re not that high. Besides, I don’t actually go out in them. They’re for… special occasions.” Ally flushed, and Lacey rolled her eyes. Her friend had gotten married a month ago and had a permanent pink glow on her cheeks.

  “Please don’t tell me about your sex life.” She bent to peer at the shoes. “At least they don’t have visible stains.”

  “You look gorgeous. Just need one final tweak.” Ally adjusted Lacey’s dress, tugging the neckline lower so her cleavage — and her tattoo — jumped out. Then she slipped off Lacey’s glasses. Without them, everything was blurry. “There. Now you’re a sex bomb.”

  Lacey grimaced. “Not sure about the sex part, but I don’t mind being a bomb. Hopefully I’ll get to blow up at Bronson Reyne.” She picked up her phone and typed a quick tweet, squinting at the screen.

  Going to meet #PamperedPlayboy tonight and Save #TheBaxter. Leaving sharp objects at home! Wish me luck.

  “Now I’m ready.”

  Ally held up one hand. “Wait a minute. You’re not taking that bag.”

  “Why not?” Lacey looked at her trusty leather hold-all. It wasn’t that bad, was it?

  “Don’t you have a little purse?”

  “I don’t see the point of owning a bag that won’t hold everything I need, and I can’t go out without my phone, keys, money, glasses, and lipstick. And I’m taking a hairbrush in case it rains and my hair goes frizzy. After all that effort to straighten it, be a shame if it springs back into a bird’s nest.”

  Ally sighed. “Doesn’t go with the dress, but fair enough.” She grabbed her own bag and headed to the door. “You know I’d come if I didn’t have plans with Max. But it’ll be easier for you to ambush Bronson if I’m not there.”

  “He won’t know what hit him,” promised Lacey, wobbling behind her in the red high heels. “If I don’t break my legs on the way.”

  Two

  Bronson Reyne went to the opening of his new Sydney nightclub with not one, but two women. Tina and Ellie were beautiful, and so what if their conversation made his eyes glaze over? The important thing was that they looked good getting out of his limo. He had a reputation to keep up.

  He offered the women an arm each to escort them inside his club, and stopped to exchange a few pleasantries with the bouncers before going in. There were plenty of well-wishers who wanted to congratulate him, so it took a while to get to his private table.

  The three of them had settled in with their drinks when he noticed the brunette in the red dress. She was carrying a ridiculously large bag and squinting over at his table as though there was something wrong with her eyes. But her breasts were spectacular.

  “You know her?” Tina nodded toward the woman.

  “Not yet.” Bronson took a sip of whisky, admiring the way her red dress skimmed the woman’s curves. She looked like she was plucking up the courage to come over, and he’d like to get a closer view of the tattoo peeking above her neckline.

  Ellie leaned over to get Tina’s attention. “Did you hear about the casting for that new movie…?”

  Bronson tuned their conversation out. The club was at capacity, and he was busy watching the bar, making sure the new staff were coping with the crowd. No doubt there’d be a few teething problems, especially because he hadn’t been able to move as many of his regular staff in as he would have liked. He’d also had to hire a new manager, but so far everything seemed to be running well enough. Profits should be substantial.

  His table was in the perfect position. To the reporters covering the club opening, it would look like Bronson was sitting back enjoying himself. But from here he had a good view of everything, and was ready to step in if anything went wrong.

  The song changed to one with a faster beat, and Bronson frowned. What was the DJ doing? This early, he should play a few favorites to get the crowd warmed up. He could slip into the heavier stuff later. Dammit, he’d have to go over and have a quiet word to the man.

  “Hi.” The brunette in the red dress stopped in front of their table, shouting to be heard over the music. “You’re Bronson Reyne, aren’t you? Do you mind if I sit down?”

  She sat without waiting for an answer, dropping her bag onto the floor next to her. Then she leaned forward to give Bronson an excellent view of what he could now see was a crescent moon tattoo with the word Moonstruck written inside it. When his gaze went back up to her face, she was frowning, probably assuming he’d been admiring her breasts. Which, to be fair, he had.

  She glanced sideways at Ellie and Tina. “I’m not here to join your harem.” Her tone was sweet. “I want to talk to you about something serious.”

  “Drink?” He raised his hand and the waitress almost tripped over her feet in her rush to get to their table. She was one of his brand new hires, and understandably nervous.

  “No, thanks.” Red dress said. But the waitress put a glass in front of her anyway and filled it from the bottle of Champagne already on their table.

  Red dress waited until the waitress had gone, then picked up the glass and took a sip. “Do you give expensive French Champagne to everyone who comes by?” She had lovely light brown eyes and full lips, and her hair hung in a glossy curtain he wouldn’t mind running his fingers through. But there was a hint of scorn in her expression, as though she didn’t like him and was trying not to show it. Interesting. Men usually came over to tell him how great a night they were having. Women usually hit on him. So far, she’d done neither.

  “I only offer it to my most beautiful guests,” he said to test her reaction.

  She gave him a narrow-eyed look. “What about the women you’re already with?”

  Tina and Ellie had gone back to their conversation about the movie they were planning to audition for. They were happy enough to be sitting with him, the publicity being as good for their careers as it was for his business.

  “Why don’t we start with your name?” he asked.

  “I’m Lacey Gibson. And I’m here to ask for a favor.” She gave him a forced smile. “If I ask nicely, will you listen to what I have to say?”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “It’s about the Baxter. I’m one of your tenants.”

  Now her dislike of him made sense. Some of the building’s tenants had accepted his generous offer right away. Some were still thinking about it. A few were insisting that Bronson repair the old ruin. He didn’t need a crystal ball to tell which side red dress was on. Pity. He’d been hoping she’d be more interesting than that.

  “Mr Reyne, please don’t pull down the Baxter. Repair it instead.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  “Have you even been inside to take a look? It’s a beautiful building.”

  Another song started and it was even faster than the last one. Time to do something about it and change the conversation at the same time.

  He got to his feet and held out one hand. “Dance with me.”

  “What?”

  “I want to dance. So either we talk on the dance floor, or not at all. Your choice.” He waited, watching her make up her mind before she rose to her feet.

  “I can’t dance in these.” She kicked her shoes off. Without them, she came up to his shoulder. Her gaze was full of defiance, daring him to object. Maybe thinking because this was a swanky club with a dress code, the owner wouldn’t want to dance with a barefoot woman. If so, she couldn’t be more wrong. Anything that gave the gossip columnists more to talk about was fine by him.