How To Pleasure A Playboy

By: Talia Hunter

“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.”


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?”


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?”

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