How To Pleasure A Playboy(27)

"No," she said again. But thanks to her sobs, her throat was blocked.  She couldn't make herself understood, and she couldn't stop the men who  were taking away her home.

He must have hailed a taxi, because a minute later, he was opening a car door. "Get in, Lace. I'll take you home."

She did what he said, only because she was freezing and there were too  many men milling around to argue with. He got in the back of the car  with her and held her against him while another man drove. It was a  little warmer in the car, but her head was spinning. How had it all gone  so terribly wrong?

The car stopped outside a fancy apartment building, and a man in uniform  opened her door and helped her out. He greeted Bronson, escorted them  through a marble-and-glass lobby to the elevator, and swiped a card  before pushing the top button. The penthouse. When the door slid closed,  she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her clothes were clinging  to her and her hair was slicked over her face. She didn't have her  purse or her phone. Everything she had was in the Baxter. A home she'd  lost.

The elevator stopped and the door opened. She blinked. It wasn't a  hallway in front of her, but an enormous sitting room. The floor was  polished and the furniture looked brand new. At the far end of the room,  open doors led to a large dining room and a palatial bedroom. More  doors were shut, but the size of the place was jaw-dropping. At least  four bedrooms, she guessed. Maybe more. Outside the tall windows, the  view stretched across the sparkling blue water of Sydney harbor.

"This is where you live?" she asked in a whisper. How rich was he? All  the time she'd teased him about gold toilets and silk sheets, it hadn't  seemed real. People didn't actually live in places like this.

"Come in. I'll get you a towel." He let her go and walked into the  mansion as though it were nothing. Of course, to him it was. What a  horror show the Baxter must have been for him. A total slum. If this was  what he was used to, he must have found it beyond disgusting. He'd hid  it well.

She walked forward, staring at all the shiny, cold surfaces. At the  abstract paintings, the glittering chandelier, and the obviously  expensive leather and mahogany furniture. At the large-screen  television, and the stereo in its custom-made cabinet.         

     



 

He came out from one of the adjoining rooms carrying two towels and  handed one to her. "I'll have Carla get you some new clothes."

She scrubbed her face with the towel. "New clothes?" she repeated, her  brain still trying to process everything that had happened.

He frowned. "You can hardly stay in your wet things. I'll get you a  bathrobe to put on in the meantime. And you should have a hot shower."

"My clothes are in the Baxter. Once they've inspected it, I'll be able to go back in-"

"Lace, you know the building has to come down. In fact, this is the best  possible outcome." He grinned, toweling his hair. "We're both off the  hook."

"What?"

"Don't you get it? The bet's over, and I don't have to be the bad guy. It's out of our hands now."

She stared at him. Did he really sound happy? Like the loss of her home was a gift they'd been handed?

"I get that it'll take you a while to adjust," he said. "Once the  shock's worn off, you'll realize this solves everything. You can stay  here, with me, and I'll call the council in the morning and see about  collecting your things."

"You're happy about this?" It came out as a whisper. A hole had opened  in her stomach, and she felt like she might be sick. Her father would  never get to go back to the Baxter. He'd die in the hospice, inside a  room he hated. And she'd have to tell him his home would be pulled down.

Bronson dropped the towel and put his hands on her upper arms. "You know  the Baxter is too far gone to be saved. You haven't wanted to accept  that, but now you have to. And officially, you haven't lost our bet."

"That's what this is about to you? Winning or losing?" Her voice sounded  like it wasn't coming from her mouth. As though she wasn't really in  her body, but watching from somewhere distant.

"Lace, if you don't want to stay here, I can get you a new apartment.  One that doesn't leak, or have mold on the ceiling. And where there's no  danger of falling through the floor."

"I don't want your money." She pulled out of his grasp, dropping her own  towel. All she wanted was to go home, but now she was trapped in his  golden cage. How could she have thought a man like Bronson could ever  understand her? "For the last time, you can't buy me."

"That's not what I was-"

"Yes, it was. And you can't even see it, because this is normal to you."  She swept her arm around the room. "Look at this place. You literally  live in an ivory tower. Do you even know any of your neighbors?"

"I don't have neighbors. My place takes up the whole floor."

"Do you know anyone in your building?"

"I know the names of the doormen. What does that have to do with anything?"

She snorted. "No wonder you think buying me an apartment will make  everything okay. My father's dying and the people who lived around me  are gone. Those people were my family, but you can't possibly understand  that. And you think's everything fine now, because I haven't officially  lost." She took a step back, her heart raw. "I'll stay in your tower  because I'm soaking wet and I've lost everything. But don't try to tell  me this is the best thing that could have happened."

"Lacey, I know this is hard for you. But you're not thinking straight."

A flush of white hot anger seared through her. "Don't tell me how to  think or what to feel. Don't you dare. You can't feel anything in this  place. You've shut yourself away from the world, and the only thing you  care about is your money." She had to be away from him, and running back  out onto the street in her wet clothes wasn't an option. Instead, she  bolted for the bathroom.

"Lacey-"

"Go to hell, Bronson." She slammed the door and locked it, then leaned  her back against it, heart thumping so hard she felt like it might  explode. The bathroom was bigger than her bedroom at the Baxter. She  took in the free-standing bath, designer faucets, and granite surfaces,  all of it expensive and cold. Then she closed her eyes and let her tears  fall.





Nineteen





Three days later, Bronson leaned back in his office chair and dialed  Lacey's number. It switched to voicemail again, and he listened to her  now-familiar message telling him to leave a message.

"Lacey, it's me again. I need to know you're safe. The building manager  says you haven't turned up at the apartment on Darling Street I arranged  for you. He's holding the key, and it'll stay empty for when you need  it. You can go there anytime." He took a breath. "Lacey, are you getting  these messages? Call back and let me know you're okay."         

     



 

He hung up and cursed. After Lacey had locked herself in the bathroom,  he'd decided to give her the space she obviously needed. He'd thought  she'd calm down and see reason. But in the morning, she'd been gone.

Since then, the only message from her had been a single tweet, and it hadn't been addressed to him.

It's over. Thanks 4 all yr support. So sorry I couldn't save #TheBaxter :(

Carla put her head in his office. "Sam's here for your ten o'clock appointment."

He jumped up and grabbed his jacket off its hanger. "Tell him I can't see him now. Reschedule for tomorrow."

"Okay." She hesitated. "Everything okay?"

"Fine." This was Lacey's fault. How could he concentrate on work while  he was so damn worried about her? She'd walked out of his home without  any money, and he had no idea where she was staying. Three days, and no  word? She might be angry, but there was no excuse for that. Since she'd  left, he'd barely been able to eat or sleep. And as he didn't know how  to contact any of her friends, there was only one way he could track her  down.

He drove to her father's hospice, which was a well-kept building with  beautiful gardens and efficient-seeming nurses. They pointed him to a  room at the far end of a long hall. When he knocked, a surly male voice  demanded to know who the hell it was.

"Bronson Reyne," he said, opening the door and stepping inside. "Pleased to meet you, Mr Gibson."

The old man was sitting in a wheelchair, with a blanket over his legs  and a large book balanced in his lap. "What the fuck are you doing  here?" he snapped.

Bronson walked toward him, offering a handshake. "I'm-"

The old man slammed the book with noise as loud as a rifle crack,  cutting Bronson off. "I know who you are. The fucker who wants to tear  down my home. Well you can forget it." He shook his finger at Bronson,  his face going red and saliva spraying with each word. "I'll see you  dead and in the ground. Dogs will piss on your gravestone before I let  you pull the Baxter down."