LITMIR.BIZ

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have any appointments that Monday, so what did it matter? She liked wearing high heels and never donned any lower than three inches. It was partly a rebellious gesture, born from being told always to wear flatties because she was above average height and ‘men don’t like girls to be taller than them’.

      Or so her mother had drummed into her when Lucille had started to date.

      Lucille no longer felt inclined to follow any of her mother’s many maxims on feminine behaviour. With her divorce from ‘dear Roger’, she’d become a failure in her mother’s eyes, and nothing would ever change that. Her father hadn’t been too impressed, either. ‘What in God’s name do you want in a man?’ he’d asked, scowling at her.

      Lucille had learned to live with both her parents’ disappointment and criticism by rarely going home, despite the Jordans living only a few miles away in the leafy Sydney suburb of Thornleigh.

      Lucille struggled up the steep staircase in her extra-high heels, deciding that perhaps such shoes were best kept for trips to the theatre after all.

      ‘You’re to ring Mrs Palmer straight away,’ their receptionist told her as soon she reached the top landing. ‘She said it was an emergency.’

      Lucille hurried to her cubicle, reaching for the phone as she sank gratefully into her chair.

      Erica answered on the second ring.

      ‘Lucille, Erica. Jody said there was an emergency.’

      ‘You can say that again. I have a volcanic Val Seymour in my lounge-room, pacing up and down like he’s Mount Etna on the smoulder, insisting I find him some place to rent for the next four months, starting this very night. Apparently he’s had a massive falling out with his father and refuses to even consider attempting a reconciliation. I did suggest he stay here with me for a few days till things calmed down, but you know Val.’

      ‘Actually, no,’ Lucille commented wryly, ‘I don’t. Know Val, that is. Though I do know who you mean.’ Hard not to when he and his father’s affairs graced the tabloids and women’s magazines with regular monotony.

      Val Seymour was the illegitimate son of Max Seymour, legendary showbiz entrepreneur and the biggest womaniser since Errol Flynn. Max owned the harbourside mansion next to Erica’s and they had a longstanding friendship, which was probably sexual judging from the familiar way they acted together. Although sixtyish, Max was still a good-looking man, with piercing blue eyes, steel-grey hair, solid muscles and bottomless bank accounts. In short, he still had what was pretty irresistible to a lot of women.

      Not irresistible to Lucille, however, who’d met Max a couple of times at Erica’s monthly parties and had found his suave aren’t-I-wonderful? attitude left her even colder than usual.

      Val Seymour was a chip off the old block, from what Lucille had heard. Though she’d never met the man. He spent a lot of time overseas. She’d read the scandalous stories, however, and seen pictures in the papers.

      Thirtyish, and handsome as the devil, he wasn’t in his father’s physical mould, having taken after his Brazilian mother, inheriting her dark hair, dark eyes and lean dancer’s body. His sexual behaviour, however, was pure Max; each man was touted always to have a fling with the leading lady in whatever show he was currently producing. Max Seymour was reputed to have bedded most of the world’s top female singers, dancers, skaters and stage actresses. According to the gossip rags, Val Seymour wasn’t far behind.

      Of course, when the show stopped, so did the affair.

      But there was always another show, and another dazzlingly beautiful and talented bedmate.

      Only yesterday there’d been an article in a Sunday news supplement about the Latin American dance spectacular that Seymour Productions was bringing to Sydney’s Casino for the coming summer holiday season. There had been pictures of the show’s beautiful and flamboyant lead dancer standing between her two backers, her flashing black eyes turned flirtatiously up towards the son while the father’s arm had been wrapped possessively around the girl’s slender waist.

      Her name was Flame. No surname. Just Flame.

      No doubt not her real name. Still, as a stage name, it said it all. The advertisements for the show—which was called Takes Two to Tango—claimed that Flame’s dancing was hot enough to scorch the stage.

      Lucille wondered if the falling out of father and son might have had something to do with competing for the fiery Flame’s favours. If Lucille was any judge of the behaviour of a bruised male ego, then it looked as if the father had won.

      ‘What kind of place is Mr Seymour Junior looking for?’ she asked Erica.

      ‘Something close to the Casino, he said. No more than five minutes away. A serviced apartment, not a house.’

      ‘The Casino has serviced apartments. Why doesn’t he lease one of them for the duration?’

      ‘Too small. He wants something with enough room to entertain. And have guests to stay overnight.’

      Lucille refrained from saying that he only needed one bed for that. Or was he into orgies?

      ‘How many bedrooms?’ she asked.

      ‘Three at least, I’d say, to be on the safe side.’

      ‘And what budget are we looking at?’

      ‘Money is no object.’

      Naturally not, Lucille thought caustically. Men like Val Seymour thought they could buy anything they wanted.

      And mostly they could.

      ‘In that case, I don’t see any problem. There’s a beautifully appointed and serviced apartment ready for leasing in a new building just a short walk from the Casino. One of the reasons it hasn’t been snapped up so far is that the owner has an exorbitantly high rental on it. But, if money is no object, Mr Seymour should be settled on the superb slate terrace, sipping a cocktail with his current lady-love, before the sun sets on Sydney Harbour.’

      Erica chuckled. ‘You do know Val.’

      ‘His reputation does precede him,’ Lucille said drily.

      ‘Mmm. He is gorgeous, though. If I were only ten years younger…’

      She’d probably be sleeping with both Seymour men, Lucille conceded. Her boss was a woman of the world, all right. But Lucille did admire her for the way she’d survived—and succeeded—after her divorce. The only thing that surprised Lucille was that Erica still liked men so much. Or was it just the sex she liked?

      ‘I gather darling Val’s actually ladyless at the moment,’ Erica went on, rather confirming Lucille’s suspicion that Flame had chosen the father over the son. ‘So I’d watch him this afternoon, if were you. Max’s son is not the sort of man to sleep alone for long, and you’re a very good-looking woman, Lucille.’

      A cold little laugh bubbled up from her throat. ‘Thank you, but I don’t think you have to worry about me falling for Val Seymour’s rather over-used charms.’

      ‘Don’t be so sure. You haven’t actually met him, have you?’

      ‘No. But I’ve seen photos. I already know he’s very handsome.’

      ‘Not the same as seeing the real thing in the flesh, darling. Believe me. Now, how soon can you be here to pick up Don Juan for an inspection?’

      ‘I thought he was going to take it, sight unseen.’

      ‘Just a sec. I’ll go into the lounge-room and ask…’

      Lucille hung on for a good thirty seconds before Erica came back on the line.

      ‘No, he says he always likes to see something first-hand, before he puts his money down.’

      Lucille didn’t doubt it. She wondered if he had potential girlfriends strip naked before he took them out. After all, the man was used to the very best. No point in wasting good money

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