How To Pleasure A Playboy: A Rich List Romance Page 2

  “Come on.” He put his hand to the small of her back to lead her onto the dance floor, heading toward the DJ. After a discreet word with the man, he turned to see Lacey was already dancing to the frenetic song without a trace of self-consciousness. Watching her red dress cling to her curves as she moved made Bronson regret being so quick to request a slower beat.

  Then the record changed. He recognized the song. ‘The Lady In Red’, by Chris De Burgh.

  Bronson chuckled, giving the grinning DJ an appreciative wave. And although he didn’t want to talk about the Baxter, he pulled Lacey against him, slipping his arms around her waist and inhaling the sweet, floral scent of her hair. Beneath the silky dress, her body was lean and efficient in places, and nicely rounded in others. She felt every bit as good as she looked.

  But instead of dancing with him, she pushed against his chest and angled her head back. “You think it’s okay to throw people out of their homes?”

  “The Baxter’s falling down. It needs too much work to repair.”

  “Better to fix a beautiful building than replace it with an ugly modern eyesore.”

  Bronson let her go. “Eyesore? My brother put a lot of time and effort into designing the new building.”

  “Build it somewhere else.”

  “He designed it for that site, and it’ll be perfect there. You’ll see.”

  “I have a legal tenancy agreement, and I won’t let you push me out.”

  Colored lights played over Lacey’s face. Both her hair and eyes were the exact shade of the whisky he’d been drinking, and her lipstick was dark red to match her dress. It accentuated the determined set of her lips. He had to admit, even arguing about the Baxter wasn’t so bad when his adversary looked like her.

  “Take the money.” His tone was as gentle as it could be over the music. “I don’t want this to turn into a legal battle, but I won’t give up either.” Not when building the Baxter might be the only thing to heal the rift and bring his brother back.

  “I happen to have a high-profile blog, and we’re about to feature you. How’s this for a headline?” She drew her hand across the space in front of them as though conjuring it. “Pampered Playboy Throws Eighty-Year-Old Grandmother Onto The Street.”

  “I’ve offered all the tenants a generous amount—”

  “You could offer the moon. It wouldn’t make up for losing our homes. And if you keep going, the whole world will read about it.”

  Bronson clenched his jaw, anger surging. “You’re threatening me?”

  “I am.” The whisky in her eyes smoldered with fire.

  Sucking in a deep breath, he resisted the urge to rip the DJ’s record right off the player. There’d be no more dancing with this lady in red.

  “Bring on your worst,” he told her. “And expect me to do the same.”

  “Oh, I will.” Before stalking away, she shot him a glare intense enough to melt the skin from his bones. “You’ve just signed up for the fight of your life.”

  Three

  Bronson leaned back in his office chair and read Lacey’s latest tweet.

  #PamperedPlayboy @BronsonReyne should fix #TheBaxter before opening a club nobody wants to go to.

  The damn thing had 104 retweets, 130 likes, and 12 replies. And if she was trying to irk him with the Pampered Playboy tag, it was working. Calling him pampered was a joke. He’d worked hard to get where he was.

  “See what I mean?” Sam, the head of his public relations team, was sitting on the other side of Bronson’s desk. “I’ve checked Lacey Gibson out. She writes for Liaison. They get decent traffic, so if she’s got some kind of grudge against you, this could blow up on us.”

  “I met her at my club’s opening last night,” said Bronson. “She’s one of my tenants in the Baxter.”

  “You want to pull that place down, right? How come you haven’t evicted her?”

  “The idiot who used to own the Baxter gave the tenants ridiculous terms. I can’t legally terminate their rental agreements, and their rent was fixed years ago. It’s no wonder they don’t want to budge. They’re paying peanuts.”

  Sam tapped the folder on his lap with his pen. “And you’ve offered them money to leave?”

  “My brother made an offer when he first bought the place, but only two out of the eighteen tenants took him up on it. Since I raised the offer, another nine are going. Lifting it again should get the rest out.”

  “Is it worth doing some promo that features the building you’re planning to build on the site? Get public opinion on your side?”

  “Let’s leave the focus on the new nightclub for now.” Bronson stared out at the gray winter sky for a moment, thinking. “The best way to deal with this is to lighten it up.” He typed a reply to Lacey’s tweet that made him smile. And by including her hashtag #TheBaxter in the message, she and all her followers would be sure to see it.

  Full house for Play nightclub opening night. Highlight was @LaceyReporter’s sexy red dress. New favorite color. #LadyInRed #TheBaxter

  His tweet had its first Like only moments after he sent it. If only he could see Lacey’s face when she read it. Those eyes of hers would ignite.

  “What did you do?” asked Sam.

  Bronson waved his hand dismissively, ready to move on with his day. He had meetings scheduled all afternoon, and his stomach was rumbling. “Anything else?”

  Sam pulled some newspapers from the folder in his lap. “The photos from last night. An entire spread, and they’re juicy. At this rate, you could open four more clubs.”

  “Leave them behind and I’ll take a look when I get time.”

  As soon as the man left, his assistant poked her head in the door. A deceptively frumpy woman in her fifties, Carla combined relentless efficiency with a wicked sense of humor. She’d worked for Bronson for eight years, and he couldn’t imagine doing without her.

  “Ready for lunch?” she asked. “Or are you still too busy being Sydney’s most sought-after playboy?”

  “Starving.”

  She disappeared, and a few minutes later came back with a trolley loaded with food.

  “That’s too much,” he protested.

  “Not when you work all day and spend the whole night at your club.” She clicked her tongue. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “The grand opening. Had to make like I was enjoying myself.”

  “And again tonight?” She laid the food out on the big table that took up half his office.

  “Every night for the next couple of weeks.”

  “That long?” Her tone was sympathetic. She was the only one who suspected that Bronson was a little tired of his nightclubs. But non-stop partying was part of his reputation. If he let that slip, it might affect business.

  “Before opening the next one, I might take a holiday.”

  “That’s what you’ve said for the last eight years.” She took hold of the trolley to push it back out. “Well, if I can’t make you sleep, at least I can feed you. But you’ll have to eat fast. You’ve got half an hour before your next meeting.”

  Before eating, Bronson checked his phone. Sure enough, Lacey had replied to his tweet.

  You know what’s sexy? Doing the right thing. Save #TheBaxter

  He snorted. Then typed.

  Here’s a list of sexy things. 1. You. 2. My new building. #GoodbyeBaxter

  The reply came back a moment later.

  Ready for a protest outside your nightclub? Bad 4 business. #TheBaxter

  Bronson let out a long breath, then called out to Carla. “Find this Lacey woman’s number and get her on the phone.”

  “Will do.” A few minutes later, the phone on his desk rang. “I have her,” said Carla’s voice when he picked it up. Then he heard the click that told him the call had connected.

  “Lacey, it’s Bronson.”

  “Your assistant already said that. Can’t believe you’re so pampered you can’t make your own phone calls. When you go to the toilet, does she wipe for you?”

  He gritted his teeth. “What would it take for you to move out?”

  Lacey snorted. “Forget it. I can’t be bought.”

  “I’m doubling my offer to all the remaining tenants. Twenty thousand dollars if they’re out by the end of the week.”

  There was a long silence. Then, “You’re offering twenty thousand dollars?” She sounded stunned. “Why can’t you spend the money repairing the building instead?”

  “There’s no point fixing it when I’m pulling it down.”

  “It has beautiful bones. Have you even been inside? Believe me, it’s worth saving.”

  “Have you seen the plans for the new building? There’s no comparison.”

  “At least take a look inside, see the high ceilings and the plasterwork. If you fix it up, it’ll be amazing.” The passion he’d seen in her face last night came through in her voice. She’d lived in the Baxter a long time, so Bronson could sympathize. But his brother had put a lot of effort into the design for the new building and Bronson was counting on him wanting to come back to Sydney to see it built.

  “I’m leveling the Baxter,” he said. “One way or another.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, take the money.”

  She drew in a sharp, angry-sounding breath. “Go to hell.” The phone disconnected, leaving him with nothing but dead air.

  He replaced it, then got up and paced to the windows and back again. How long had it been since anyone had hung up on him? And how many people would turn down that much money to move out of a building that had to be falling to ruin?

  An alert flashed up on his phone. A new tweet, and of course, it was from Lacey.

  Public protest at Play nightclub next week. Hit @BronsonReyne where it hurts! #TheBaxter

/>   He cursed. A group of protestors waving placards could put people off going into the club. If she wanted to play dirty, he’d have to fire some shots of his own. First he’d notify the other tenants about his increased offer. Maybe once she was living in an empty building, she’d see sense.

  Carla stuck her head into his office. “I’ve had a message from the boss of your construction team. He’s asking if you’ll be ready to set a start date for the demolition soon.”

  “Getting those tenants out and pulling the building down is my top priority,” said Bronson. “Tell him to have the team ready to go by the end of the month. He can count on it.”

  Four

  Lacey’s father harrumphed, peering at the book Lacey put in his lap. “Is this Carter? His chapter comparing socialism to religion is garbage. Calls himself an intellectual. What a joke.”

  “I thought it was the book you wanted. But I can bring you a different one if you like.” Lacey’s heart sped up like it always did when he asked for one of his books. Thirteen of the most valuable ones were gone. Sold. And if her father found out, he’d never forgive her.

  Her father propped the heavy hardback against the arm of his wheelchair. “Bring Winston, maybe. Or Peake. They’re a little more intelligent than some of the others, though that’s not saying much. But if you stopped messing around and let me come home, I could choose for myself.”

  “It’s too damp for you there, you know that. The leaks are so bad, I had to move out of my room and into yours.”

  “That’s why you don’t want me home.” Her father narrowed bloodshot eyes at her. “You’re too comfortable without me. Got my bedroom, and all my things. Now you’re hoping I die quickly.”

  “That’s not true, Dad.” Lacey’s voice shook. She hated when he went on the attack. He’d had an anger problem for almost as long as she could remember, but his vitriol had gotten worse in the last year or so. Then one of his headaches had been so bad he’d passed out from the pain, and his doctor had discovered the brain tumors. A small, dormant mass in his frontal lobe was what they suspected had caused his personality changes. A larger tumor, buried too deep to operate on, had so far resisted all their efforts to treat it.

  “If the roof’s leaking you need to bring all my books here. My columns, too, before the old newsprint gets ruined.”

  Lacey glanced around his tiny room at the hospice. As great as the doctors were here, she got why her father wanted to spend his last months at home instead. Compared to the soaring ceilings of the Baxter, this room felt claustrophobic. There wasn’t enough space to store more than three or four of his books at a time.

  “I covered up your books, remember? And I’m almost half way done typing your newspaper columns into the computer, so they’ll be saved, no matter what.” She took a breath, hoping her idea would please him. “I was thinking about publishing a book with all the columns you’ve written. Would you like that?”

  “Why can’t you talk to the fucking building owner about fixing the roof?” her father snapped. “I want to die in my own bed, not this shit-hole. You want to keep me here so I’m out of your way.”

  Lacey squeezed her fists tight. “I went to see him, Dad. And I’ve started a campaign on my blog—”

  “Organize a protest.” He wagged his finger at her. “That’s the way to change things. Sitting at home, typing into your computer won’t do any good. Get out there with a sign and make some noise.”

  “I’m planning a protest for next week, at Bronson Reyne’s new night club.” She let out her breath, glad to give him one bit of news he might approve of. “Believe me, I’ll stop him. No matter what, I won’t let him pull down your home.”

  Her father sighed, his muscles visibly relaxing, and the sight made her own body sag. It was tough when he got so angry, but occasionally she caught glimpses of the man she remembered from when she was a girl. A man who’d all but disappeared after her mother died. The doctor didn’t know how long the mass in his brain had been affecting his personality. She’d always assumed it was her mother’s death that had triggered his terrible moods. To find out it could have been the tumor had been a shock.

  “I’ll handle it, Dad. As soon as the place is fixed up, you can come home, okay?”

  His nurse shot her a sympathetic smile as she left her father’s room. To them, he was probably just a grumpy, caustic old man, but the anger wasn’t his fault. It was part of his illness, and it killed her that he suffered that way. Before she’d known about the tumors, she’d resented his bad temper. Now she knew how unfair that had been. When her mother died, her father had done his best to look after her while he worked long hours at the low-paying job he’d despised. And she’d repaid him by telling him how much she hated him.

  Her phone dinged when she was walking through the Baxter’s sadly decaying lobby. Probably another tweet from Bronson, but she managed to wait until she’d labored up three flights of stairs, wrestled her door open, and dumped her handbag on the coffee table, before she checked it.

  Lots of tenants collecting $20k each. @LaceyReporter want to join them? #MoneyTalks #TheBaxter.

  Rat bastard. Throwing his money around to get whatever he wanted. Well, some things weren’t for sale. If he thought he could buy her, he’d better think again.

  She was considering what reply she should make when her phone rang and Ally’s name flashed on the screen.

  “Did you see the number of hits you got on that last blog post?” asked Ally. “Audience numbers are up, and our ad revenue is too.” Her business partner sounded pleased. Ally had married a famous movie star, and Lacey had been afraid she’d lose interest in their blog. But Ally seemed just as determined to make sure Liaison was successful now as when they were both in debt and desperate for money.

  Lacey went over to Myrtle’s tank and peered in, making sure her pet was okay. “Bronson’s raised his offer for the tenants to move out. Pretty soon, I might be the only one left.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Besides the protest? No idea. And in this freezing weather I’m not even sure anyone will turn up.” She flopped onto the couch, pulling her coat tighter around herself. It was so cold her hands were going numb. As soon as she got off the phone, she’d light a fire.

  “At least your tweets are getting lots of support.” Ally chuckled. “Lady in red. You looked hot in that dress.”

  “It’s good to have public opinion on our side. Not that Bronson cares what anyone thinks.”

  “He must do, or he wouldn’t be tweeting back so much.”

  Lacey pressed her lips together, remembering the handsome playboy with his teasing smile. “All he cares about are his nightclubs and going to parties. I bet he’s never done a day’s work in his life. He has so much money, it’s nothing but a game.”

  She looked over at her father’s bookcase, and as always, her eyes went straight to the empty shelf. It had been rotten luck that her father had gone into hospital just after she’d quit work and started the blog with Ally. Even though the Baxter’s rent was dirt cheap, she’d had to sell some of her father’s precious books to pay it. But thanks to Ally, they’d got through that dark time, and Lacey had sworn she’d get the books back somehow. Especially if she managed to bring her father home for his last few months. If he came back, he’d find out what she’d done.

  “Well, if it’s a game to him, why not take advantage?” said Ally. “Challenge him to let the tenants stay. You could turn it into a competition.” She sucked in an audible breath. “I know. What about running the Hunger Games in your apartment building? Whoever can survive the mold, leaks, and everything else you put up with, wins the game.”

  Lacey sat bolt upright. “Oh my god, that’s brilliant. Ally, you’re a genius.”

  “I hate to break it to you, Lace, but it was a joke.”

  “You didn’t see him in his nightclub, waited on hand and foot, his harem letting him do whatever he wanted. He’s so spoiled, he’s lost touch with what’s real.” She couldn’t help but smile. Oh, this was too good. “If we make a bet and he has to stay here, I can make sure it’s utterly miserable. Then I’ll get what I want and teach him a lesson. Show him how the people he’s trying to control actually live.”