How To Pleasure A Playboy(6)

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.

But why waste his breath trying to convince her otherwise? She obviously had him pigeon-holed.

"I'll make dinner," he said instead, opening cupboards to check what was inside.

"You cook?"

He opened the fridge. "I can make a fresh batch of spaghetti. I'll even go light on the chili."

"How'd you learn to cook? Don't you have servants for that?"

"Servants?" He selected a sharp knife. "Just a couple of housekeepers."

"But you don't cook your own meals?"

"I eat out."

She pushed her glasses up her nose. "Every night? Must be nice to be able to afford that."

He gave a noncommittal grunt, concentrating on slicing the onion. If he  was tired of having to be photographed at Sydney's hottest restaurants  every night, there was no need for her to find out and broadcast it to  her legions of fans.

Besides, it wasn't as though he could quit. Opening nightclubs might  have started as a frivolous idea, but now he had hundreds of people  working for him. The industry was notoriously fickle, and last week's  packed bar could easily become tomorrow's wasteland. A big part of the  appeal for his patrons was his own personal brand. Let his image slip,  and all those people could be out of work.

A big responsibility, especially because he made a point of knowing each of his employees by name.

"Have you seen the plans for the new building I'm going to build on this  site?" he asked, throwing the onions into a frying pan with a generous  splash of olive oil.