How To Pleasure A Playboy: A Rich List Romance Read online

  “But how would you get him to take the bet?”

  “If I taunt him enough, he won’t be able to resist. And our readers will love it.” She jumped to her feet, too excited to stay on the couch. “There’s no way he’d survive this run-down place more than a day or two, and when he loses, he’ll have to drop his plans to pull down the Baxter. Plus, I’ll give live updates on how miserable he is, and our ad revenue will go ballistic. Win-win.”

  Ally was silent for a moment. “Maybe I am a genius. But what if you lose?”

  “I won’t. Believe me, I can make his life a pure living hell.” She’d never thought having a freezing, moldy apartment could be a good thing, but suddenly Lacey wanted to throw her coat off and embrace the cold. “I’ll play as dirty as I need to. There’s no way I’ll let him win The Baxter Games.”

  “First step is getting him to agree. That won’t be easy.”

  “Don’t worry, I got this. I’ll call you back, okay?” Lacey hung up, then pulled up Twitter and composed a tweet.

  Does @BronsonReyne #PamperedPlayboy have a golden toilet and sleep in silk sheets? Spoiled! He wouldn’t last a week in #TheBaxter.

  Once she’d sent the tweet, she put her phone down to build a fire. Surely he’d respond? The flames had crackled into life and the room was warming up when an alert went off.

  Want to try my silk sheets? Only if you wear your red dress. #LadyInRed #TheBaxter

  Lacey wasn’t sure whether to jump for joy or grind her teeth. At least he’d replied, even if he kept bringing up that damn red dress. Well, two could play his game. If he was trying to annoy her by turning this into an online flirtation, she’d turn it right back at him.

  Silk sheets are for #PamperedPlayboys. A bed in #TheBaxter would be more than you could handle.

  She sent it with a grim smile. Surely he wouldn’t be able to resist that? Barely a minute later her phone dinged again.

  #TheBaxter is history. I want you out.

  If you want me out, come get me. #TheBaxter

  Is that an invitation? Ask nicely and I’ll think about it.

  Seriously, the man had no shame. She typed another tweet.

  Think you could spend a night in #TheBaxter? No way. Too pampered.

  Try me.

  Yes! Gotcha. Grinning, she pumped her fist.

  Spend a week in #TheBaxter and I’ll cancel the protest.

  His response came back even quicker.

  If I spend a week in #TheBaxter you cancel the protest and move out.

  She had him now. And the stakes would be winner takes all.

  Agreed. And if u step one foot outside during that week, I win. You repair #TheBaxter & tenants stay.

  An ego like his, he’d assume it would be easy. But he had no idea how run down this place had become, or how determined she was. Staring at her phone, she willed him to respond. The way it was now, he could still laugh it off and back out. But if he accepted her terms, he’d be committed.

  A moment later, her phone rang. This time it was a cell phone number, not a land line, and when she answered, it wasn’t his secretary asking her to hold for Bronson Reyne. The pampered playboy had deigned to press the buttons and make the call himself.

  “Lacey?” His deep voice made her shiver, remembering the way his eyes had lingered over her body when she’d danced. “I’m going to assume you’re serious about this. So what’s the catch?”

  “No catch, just a simple wager. For seven days, you can’t leave the Baxter or you lose.”

  He was silent for a moment. “You can’t lock me out, or have me physically removed. To lose, I have to leave willingly.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “When I win, you’ll go quietly?”

  “Like a mouse.” She gritted her teeth, hating to put so much on the line, but needing him to agree.

  “Then we have a deal. But I’ll need a little time to reschedule everything I had arranged.”

  “Cancel all your dates?” She surprised herself with how much acid was in her tone. But at his nightclub, he’d practically ignored the two women he’d arrived with. He’d left them sitting at their table like excess baggage while he danced with her. What kind of man treated people like that?

  “I’ll have to change my plans to be at my club for that week. But if we keep the bet high-profile, the publicity will make up for it.”

  “And with it so public, you’ll have to hold up your end of the bargain when you lose.”

  “I never lose. Expect me on Wednesday. I’ll be at the Baxter in time for dinner.”

  His arrogance took her breath away. He expected her to cook for him, like she were one of his servants?

  “Then the bet will run from this Wednesday to the next. Make sure you tweet your agreement,” she said before he could hang up. “Let’s get it all on record.”

  “With pleasure.” He disconnected the call.

  And sure enough, a minute later, a tweet came through from him.

  Deal made. #TheBaxter here I come. After 7 days, Lacey will be gone for good. #GoodbyeBaxter

  Lacey tweeted back.

  #PamperedPlayboy has no idea what he’s signed up for. Sucker! Let #TheBaxterGames begin.

  “May the odds be ever in my favor,” she muttered, putting her phone down. Now that was settled, she needed to decide which apartment he’d stay in. The worst was probably 204, the one underneath her. Its tenants had moved out ages ago and when it rained, water ran down from her old bedroom into—

  An alert went off on her phone. Another tweet.

  I’m bringing my silk sheets, so you’re in for a treat. But I’ll only let you share them if you don’t snore. #TheBaxter

  Wait, what? He wasn’t staying at her place. And trust him to make the whole thing sound sleazy.

  Her phone rang and Ally’s name flashed up. Her business partner had obviously been glued to Twitter.

  “He’s staying in your room?” asked Ally, when Lacey answered. “Was that part of your plan?”

  “Hell, no. I was going to put him in the apartment downstairs.” Lacey shook her head. “I should have made that clear before making the bet.” If only she hadn’t let her enthusiasm get the better of her. What else hadn’t she thought about?

  “If he thinks he’s staying in your place, why don’t you make him sleep in your old bedroom? No offense, but it’s horrible in there. And that way you could keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t cheat.”

  Lacey considered it. “That room leaks so badly, I had to move all the furniture out. Every time it rains, it practically floods.”

  “Smells bad, too. The other night I stuck my head in for a look and almost gagged.”

  Lacey snapped her fingers. “I saw an old mattress on the side of the road. Someone must have dumped it, and it was soaked. What if I put it on the floor in there for him?”

  “Oh, that’s evil. I love it.” Ally laughed. “Can you mess up the whole house so his days are as bad as his nights?”

  Lacey looked around her cozy living room. “Sure. I’ll just reverse all the things I had to do to make this place liveable. And the toilet’s stopped flushing, so that’ll help.”

  “Pity you’ll have to suffer with him.”

  “It’ll be worth it. Besides, I can keep my bedroom nice. He won’t be allowed in there, and it’s the only room that doesn’t leak.”

  “And you can leave, right? So you won’t have to spend your days with him.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  Once she’d hung up, Lacey collected every heater she had in the house. She’d take them across the hall to Crystal’s place for safe keeping. And once she got rid of her firewood and swept all traces of ash out of her hearth, she could say her fireplace was blocked and unusable. The only thing decorative thing she’d leave in here was Myrtle’s tank. It was too heavy to move, and she didn’t want to disturb her pet. Lacey had gotten Myrtle for her tenth birthday, and now the old girl was nineteen. She deserved respect.

  When Lacey opened the door to her old, empty bedroom, the rusty door hinges creaked mournfully, making her shiver. Every time she came into this room, it looked worse. Black mold was spreading over the ceiling and creeping down the walls. Like Ally had said, it stank. And it was cold in here, too. But not cold enough.

  She prised the old window open with an effort. After a squirt of super glue on the hinges, it’d be impossible to close. No matter how hard Bronson tried, there’d be no shutting the freezing wind out of this room.

  With the water stains, the rotten-wood smell, and the way the floor sagged and groaned under her feet, the room was guaranteed to make a pampered playboy run away screaming. And she hadn’t even started getting the rest of the apartment ready for him yet. She’d make his life miserable.

  Lacey smiled, feeling decidedly wicked. Bronson Reyne had picked the wrong woman to mess with. And she couldn’t wait to see his face when he saw what he’d signed up for.

  Five

  The Baxter was in worse condition than Bronson had expected. Good thing it only had three floors, because the elevator was dead. He carried his suitcase up the dark stairwell to the top floor, while the flickering lights buzzed and cast weird shadows, and water dripped somewhere inside the walls. The entire place smelled of decay.

  The rent the tenants paid was ridiculously cheap, but now it didn’t seem like a bargain. He’d assumed Lacey would try to make his stay unpleasant, but if her apartment was as bad as the rest of the building, she wouldn’t need to try too hard.

  Lacey lived in Apartment 304, but she wasn’t the one who answered the door. Instead, it was a brunette with a mass of tangled curls. Lacey’s friend wore faded jeans, a worn old hoodie, and a pair of thick-rimmed eyeglasses.

  “I’m looking for Lacey,” said Bronson.
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  Instead of calling for her, Lacey’s friend just folded her arms across her chest and tilted her head down to glare at him over the top of her glasses.

  Bronson almost called out for Lacey himself, then he recognized her brown eyes. This was the woman who’d come to his nightclub in that sexy red dress?

  “It’s you.” He kept his voice level so his surprise didn’t show. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Wish I could say the same.”

  “Is this how the next seven days is going to be?”

  “Wishful thinking. You won’t last seven days.”

  Bronson suppressed a smile. Lacey’s tongue was as deadly as a sniper’s rifle. “Nice place.” He stepped forward so she had to move aside and let him in. As he walked through the short hall, the old floorboards creaked and groaned. “Remind me why you’re not taking my money and getting out as fast as you can?”

  She followed him into her living room. “Check out those high ceilings and big windows. And if you exposed the brick behind the walls, can’t you imagine how beautiful it would be?”

  He had to admit, she had a nice view looking down Glebe Point Road. Her fireplace was striking too. Unusual to have one in an apartment block, even a low-rise. But she was on the top floor and the Baxter had been built in the nineteen thirties, so maybe they were more common in those days.

  “Does the fireplace work?” It was almost as cold inside her apartment as it had been outside in the wind. He put his suitcase down, looking at her threadbare couch and the ugly stains on the walls. An enormous plastic-covered bookcase took up the longest wall in the room. On a low table below the window was a fish tank half filled with water, dirt, and rocks, but no fish.

  “Nothing works, because you haven’t spent any money on the place in years.”

  Bronson had only started managing the Baxter a few months ago, after finally getting a court injunction so he could take care of his brother’s estate until he showed up again. But he didn’t bother arguing that his brother was the one who’d left the building in limbo when he’d taken off to who-knew-where.

  “So we’re back to my original question,” he said. “Why not take my money and move out?”

  “My father’s in a hospice. I want to bring him home for his last few months, but the roof leaks have gotten too bad to have him here.” She gestured toward the worst of the wall stains. “It wasn’t as bad as this when he left, but it’s going downhill fast.”

  Bronson walked over to the bookcase. It went all the way up to the ceiling, tall enough to need a ladder to get anything down from the top shelves. Behind the clear plastic sheet which covered it, he could see it was made from a dark wood, probably teak. It stored dozens, possibly hundreds, of old-looking books. Hardbacks, mostly, with spines in dark colors. In contrast to the neglected look of the other furniture, the edges of the plastic sheet had been carefully taped shut. Underneath the sheet, a dehumidifier was plugged in and humming quietly.

  “My father made the bookcase to fit this space,” she said. “It’s been here for thirty years, but it’s getting too wet now, and his books are going to get damaged no matter what I do.”

  “Simple solution.” He turned to face her. “Move into a new place. Your father can spent his last months somewhere dry, and so can his books.”

  She snorted. “You haven’t met my father.”

  “Surely he can understand this place is beyond repair.”

  “He won’t accept that. And neither will I. It’ll cost much less to repair the Baxter than to build that twenty-floor monstrosity you want to—”

  “It’s not a monstrosity.” He kept his tone even with an effort.

  “Besides, for a two room apartment somewhere else, I’d have to pay another three hundred dollars a week. The twenty thousand you’ve offered would cover the difference for a while, but there’s no way I could fit that bookcase in a new place, and those books are the most important thing in my dad’s life.”

  “So it’s a question of money? You want me to raise my offer.”

  She shook her head, her curls swinging. Her lips were set, her hands planted on her hips. In her dark-rimmed glasses, she looked like the love child of Clark Kent and Lois Lane. Bookish, but kind of sexy at the same time. All she needed was a cape.

  “You shouldn’t be able to throw my father out of his home,” she said.

  “I own the place,” he pointed out.

  “I was born here.”

  “That doesn’t give you any legal right to it.”

  She gave him a small, tight smile. “I have a tenancy agreement that says differently.”

  “How much money do you want?” Bronson leveled his gaze at her, suddenly wondering whether he actually wanted to call off the bet before it got started. He hadn’t taken a day off work in eight years, and this would be a whole week of no meetings, no posing for cameras, and no late nights. And the best part? With so much free publicity, he didn’t feel bad about skipping out on his new club.

  Carla had grumbled about postponing all his meetings. But before he’d left, she’d told him not to come back unless the dark circles under his eyes had gone.

  “I want you to fix the Baxter. And you’ll have to, when I win the bet.” She waved her hand, motioning to a closed door. “Your bedroom’s through there.”

  Picking up his suitcase, he opened the creaking, rusty door and went in. A stained mattress was the only furniture, lying in the middle of the floor. The old floor boards were bare and clearly rotting. The walls were mottled brown with water stains. If the window wasn’t open to let a freezing breeze whistle in, the stench would have been worse. And that was saying something.

  When he turned, Lacey was looking smug. “Want to give up? I’m sure your limo driver can turn around and pick you back up.”

  “Not even close.” He dropped his suitcase by the mattress. “This is fine.”

  She snatched her phone out of her pocket, and before he could stop her, snapped a picture of him in the room. She typed something, and a moment later, his own phone beeped. A Twitter notification.

  He tugged it out to take a look. The photo she’d shared didn’t quite capture the horror of the room, but it came close. And he didn’t look impressed.

  Showing the #PamperedPlayboy his bedroom. Whoops, did I forget the silk sheets? #SaveTheBaxter

  “My feed’s been going crazy since I started posting photos of my apartment,” she said with a smug smile. “Nobody thinks you’re going to win.”

  Sure enough, the number of retweets, likes, and comments on Lacey’s tweet were already skyrocketing.

  Bronson typed a tweet of his own.

  Need to knock this wreck down before it collapses. #GoodbyeBaxter

  Her mouth tightened as she read it, then she stuck her phone in her pocket. “So, you’re ready for dinner now? I’ve got some food waiting for you.”

  She turned on her heel, and he followed her back through the living room to the kitchen. The cupboards were ancient, chipped and worn. But at least the surfaces looked clean. Taking a plate of spaghetti from the oven, she put it on the small, scratched dining table pushed into one corner of the room. “Your dinner,” she announced. “Just like you wanted.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  She gave him a wide-eyed innocent look. “Wrong with it?”

  “It’s poisoned. It’ll either kill me or make me sick. Am I on the right track?”

  She flushed, pushing her glasses up her nose in a defensive gesture. “I’d never do anything that bad.”

  “But there’s something wrong with it. You may as well tell me, because I’m not going to eat it.”

  “Well.” She dropped her gaze. “Maybe it’s not as nice as you’re used to. Perhaps a little heavy on the pepper and chili.” When she brought her eyes back up, it was to give him a defiant look. “About time you found out what it’s like to go to bed hungry.”

  “You think I’ve never been hungry?”

  She snorted. “I’m not talking about the half hour before you get served your main course.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I couldn’t find out much about your childhood,” she admitted. “But you opened your first nightclub at twenty-two, and you’ve had an easy ride ever since.”

  He stared at her, so taken aback he couldn’t even laugh. An easy ride? Not even close.