Burning Up

by Sarah Mayberry

  Do it, he ordered himself. Look in her big cinnamon eyes and be the cold bastard you know you are.

  He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. Man, this was harder than he thought it would be.

  “Sophie,” he finally said. Then he ran out of words.

  She waited a beat, and when he didn’t say anything else, she cocked an eyebrow at him in inquiry.

  “Lucas,” she said, mimicking him.

  He couldn’t help himself—he smiled. Catching himself, he firmed his mouth and tried again.

  “Sophie, like you said, last night was great. Really great.”

  Especially the shower. The way she’d—

  “Anyway. I just thought we should clarify where we both stand,” he said, cutting his own thoughts off ruthlessly. “I didn’t want either of us to misconstrue anything that was said or done, or to give any of it more meaning than it necessarily had.”

  She was frowning in concentration, as though she was trying to work out what he was saying.

  He cleared his throat again. “For some women, I know, sex is more than just sex. But my work commitments mean that taking anything beyond the casual is not practical.”

  She was staring at him, an incredulous expression on her face. Then she threw back her head and laughed, a loud, raucous crack that echoed around the living room.

  “Lucas,” she finally said, “are you warning me off?”

  Suddenly he was feeling a little foolish, and he wasn’t quite sure why.

  “I don’t want either of us to be under any illusions about what last night was about. I am not a one-woman kind of guy. Never have been, never will be.”

  She was shaking her head in disbelief. “Are you telling me that there are women out there who actually think that you’re a white-picket-fence and two-point-five-kids kind of guy? Seriously?” she asked.

  “I’ve had my fair share of tearful scenes, if that’s what you mean,” he said. For some reason he was feeling a little defensive.

  “Unbelievable. Have they never read a magazine in their lives? You’re like the poster boy for partying. You and Colin Farrell and Tommy Lee. I can’t believe that any woman could delude herself into thinking that you would ever settle down. Talk about willful self-deception.”

  Still shaking her head, she grabbed another piece of apple. “You not hungry?” she asked, indicating his plate.

  “No. I mean, yes,” he said, absently shoveling a spoonful of cottage cheese into his mouth before he’d realized what he’d done. While he swallowed it like a kid taking cod liver oil, Sophie bit into her fruit bread. He had the sudden urge to snatch the slice from her hand and throw it across the room. And not just because she could eat carbs and he couldn’t.

  He was, he admitted, disgruntled. Which was madness in the extreme. Last night, he’d had eye-popping sex with a woman who had surprised and aroused him at every turn. And this morning, she’d let him know in no uncertain terms that, contrary to his concerns, the whole experience had been as mindless, shallow and meaningless as every other casual sexual encounter he’d ever had in his life.

  He should be sitting back and blessing his lucky escape from what could have been an uncomfortable, messy scene.

  But somehow, he wasn’t.

  SOPHIE COULDN’T HELP thinking about Lucas’s little post-coital clarification chat as she cleaned up after breakfast. The image of him squirming in his chair as he tried to work around to his point was priceless, and something she would get a kick out of for some time to come. But she was still bemused by the fact that there were women in the world who looked at a man like him and truly believed he could be domesticated.

  She made a disbelieving sound as she wiped down the counter. Were there any limits to the romantic fantasies women could convince themselves to believe in? Although, thinking about it objectively, she supposed she could almost understand how a woman could allow herself to be seduced into believing Lucas’s intense love-making and easy charm meant more than it did. The same qualities that made him so watchable on the big screen ensured that spending time with him was exciting, exhilarating, addictive. But the man was a playboy, all about fun and instant gratification. Not exactly great happy-ever-after material. Hell, he probably wasn’t even a good bet for happy-this-time-next-week. And the woman who allowed herself to believe any differently was setting herself up for a fall indeed.

  He was, however, perfect material for a once-in-a-lifetime sensual experience. In fact, she couldn’t think of a better candidate for what had happened between them last night. Hot body, great lover, endless stamina—he’d been exactly what she’d needed to shuck off the past in spectacular, splashy style. Oh, yeah.

  Closing her eyes for a second, she relived that first slide of his body inside hers. He’d been so hard, so big, and she’d been so ready for him. She smiled as she remembered the way his amazing amber eyes had run appreciatively over her body, the satisfied grunt he’d made when he cupped her butt in his hands and pulled her more tightly against him.

  He’d provided her with enough erotic material to fuel a thousand future fantasies. It was a pity that she wasn’t going to have a chance to collect a few more. He was so good, it had been so hot between them. Even just one more night…

  Sophie straightened abruptly as she clued in to what she was doing—yearning for more of Lucas Grant.

  That way, she knew absolutely, lay stupidity. Hadn’t she just been shaking her head over women who allowed themselves to believe that a man like him could be tamed? Wanting another night with him was simply the first step down a slippery slope that led inevitably to that kind of self-delusion. She was too smart and too self-aware to let herself fall in that trap.

  Feeling more than a little smug at her ability to walk away from one of the world’s most notorious womanizers with a satisfied smile on her face and no regrets, Sophie headed back to the cottage.

  She was at loose ends until it was time to prepare Lucas’s lunch. She could swim. Or borrow a book from the library in the main house…. Wandering through her living room, her gaze fell on the jumbled pile of recipe books she’d brought with her, packed during those crazy few hours after Brandon’s announcement.

  Perfect. Nothing better than a little food porn to kill an hour or two.

  Selecting a couple of books, she made her way outside and planted herself on a lounger at the shady end of the pool closest to the house.

  Vaguely she wondered where Lucas had gone as she opened the first book. She acknowledged that she’d enjoyed having him flirt and pursue her over the past few days. What woman wouldn’t, after all?

  Stop thinking about him, idiot, she warned herself. He is not the center of the universe, even if certain unruly body parts beg to differ.

  Forcing herself to focus, she leafed through the book, admiring the pictures, stopping to read an occasional recipe in detail. After twenty minutes, she was feeling pleasantly dozy. She’d only had a few hours’ sleep last night, so she adjusted the back on her lounger to the prone position and closed her eyes.

  Images from the recipe book drifted across her mind as her body relaxed. The bright red of tomatoes, the rich purple of eggplants, the crisp green of fresh peas. Golden pie crusts, sugar-sprinkled pastries, floury handmade pastas. Almost without her controlling it, her mind began to make connections. For years she’d served a ravioli appetizer at Sorrentino’s, filled with a mild ricotta and spinach blend, served with a fresh tomato coulis.

  This morning, she imagined something different. What if, instead of making a handful of smaller raviolis, she made a single, more substantial one—elegant and simple? And what if she complemented that elegance and simplicity with the most simple filling of all—an egg yolk, cooked until it was warm and runny? She could serve it with buttered Italian bread—No! Toasted brioche—and a swirl of truffle oil. She laughed out loud at how quirky the combination would be.

  Even though she had no idea what menu she was planning, or if she would ever turn these ideas into
real creations, Sophie allowed herself to imagine an entrée to follow her appetizer.

  Tender lamb, perhaps. Served in small, cylindrical portions—tornadoes—and rolled in goat cheese. She could serve it with mushrooms. Creamy, frothy mushrooms…like a parfait, but savory. Well, why not a parfait? A mushroom parfait. She was making this up as she went along, after all. Thinking outside the recipe.

  Next, something rich to support the creaminess of the parfait and the bite of the goat cheese and the flavor of the lamb. Olives? A tapenade, maybe? She screwed up her nose, unhappy with such a conventional accompaniment when the rest of her fantasy menu was so outlandish. So…what if it was some kind of olive pâté? Or…Sophie laughed out loud again and clapped her hands together with delight at her own outrageous thought.

  What if it was an olive sorbet? She’d imagined a savory parfait, why not a savory sorbet? Yes. Definitely. The combination of hot and cold, the textures, the flavors…Her fingers itched to pick up a knife and get started.

  Now dessert—

  “What the hell is this?”

  Lucas’s voice was so explosively angry and so close that Sophie started. Opening her eyes, she fully expected to find him standing over her, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “I expressly told you that my patronage was to remain confidential and anonymous. Which part of that didn’t you get?” Lucas said.

  Peering around the edge of her chair, Sophie saw she was lying near the open French doors to the library. She’d taken herself on a quick tour of the ground floor the first night she’d arrived, and she knew the room boasted a formidable collection of books, two desks and a state-of-the-art computer and communications system. She could see Lucas behind one of the desks, his crutches leaning against the wall behind him. Even at a distance she could recognize the tension in his body.

  “No. That’s not what we discussed. That’s not part of the deal,” Lucas said.

  He swore angrily, clearly not hearing what he wanted from his caller.

  “It’s not negotiable, Derek. Talk to St. Barnaby’s and explain the situation. It’s your mess, you fix it,” he snapped.

  She was eavesdropping. She had the distinct impression that Lucas wouldn’t appreciate her overhearing his conversation, not when he was throwing words like confidentiality and anonymity around. Easing out of the lounger, she aimed for a quick getaway.

  Unfortunately, she’d barely got both feet on the ground and started to stand when Lucas came barreling out of the French doors.

  LUCAS STOPPED in his tracks when he saw her.

  He was distinctly pissy, mostly because he wanted to kick Derek’s ass in person and he’d had to make do with a phone call. Which she’d probably heard most of.

  “Everything okay?” she asked, confirming his suspicion.

  Not that he particularly cared what she thought of him, but he could imagine how bad his rant must have sounded from her end.

  “My manager and I are having a difference of opinion.”

  “Right.”

  He didn’t owe her an explanation. Far from it. He should move on and forget about it.

  Tossing his crutches to one side, he dropped onto the lounger next to where she stood. “It’s not like I don’t give him everything he needs to do his job. I go to opening nights, I do press interviews. Bloody hell, I did that stupid centerfold for Cosmopolitan last year. My arrangement with St. Barnaby’s was not up for grabs, and he knew it. But he still had to try to squeeze something out of it, anyway.”

  Sophie was frowning, trying to decipher his stream-of-consciousness venting.

  “St. Barnaby’s is…?” she asked.

  He glared at the brace on his knee. “A charity. They make sure that kids without parents don’t have to miss out on everything in life.”

  “Do they want more money or something?” she asked.

  He flicked her a look. Money he had plenty of.

  “No. They want to nominate me for a humanitarian award.” Just saying it out loud made him grind his teeth.

  “You don’t want them to?” She sounded surprised.

  “They’re not supposed to even know who I am. I made that clear to Derek when I signed on with him three years ago. That’s the way it’s always been. But Derek couldn’t leave it—one sniff of a publicity opportunity, and he’s like a dog in heat. So he tells St. Barnaby’s who I am, and the next thing I know they’ve put me up for this award.”

  Reciting the situation pissed him off all over again. He really was going to kick Derek’s ass when he got back to Sydney. Some things in his life were nonnegotiable, and his involvement with St. Barnaby’s was one of them.

  “Most people would be pretty happy to get an award telling the world they’re nice to disadvantaged kids,” Sophie said.

  Lucas frowned at her. “Then they’re egotistical jerk-offs. I don’t donate for recognition or pats on the back. It needs to be done, that’s all. People shouldn’t be rewarded for doing the decent thing.”

  “Okay.” She said it neutrally, but he knew he’d spoken too harshly.

  “Sorry. Derek’s the one I should be yelling at.”

  “I might be missing something really fundamental here, but doesn’t he work for you? Shouldn’t he do what you want him to do? Respect your wishes?”

  “Derek’s always been a total slut for publicity. He’d have me on the cover of something every week if he could,” Lucas said, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily.

  In all honesty, now that he’d thought about it, he was surprised Derek hadn’t done this earlier. In fact, it was practically a miracle he’d let the arrangement continue for three years.

  Damn it. No matter how Lucas looked at it, the cat was out of the bag. Even if Derek could have him withdrawn from the award nomination, the staff at St. Barnaby’s now knew who their mystery benefactor was. It would only be a matter of time before the press got wind of it.

  Bloody Derek.

  Pushing himself to his feet again, he grabbed his crutches. He needed to clear his head, get out of this place for a few hours.

  “Listen, I’m going to go for a drive,” he said to Sophie. “I might not be back for lunch.”

  “Okay.”

  He hesitated a beat.

  “You want to come?”

  There was a surprised silence as his question hung between them. He hadn’t known he was going to say that. What was with his impulse control lately? And why was he so keen to spend time with her, now that he’d had her?

  Sure, the sex had been incredible. Really, really good. But their conversation this morning had pretty much drawn a line under anything further happening. After all, he was the one who’d made the big song and dance about it being a one-off.

  He wasn’t quite sure why, now. Especially when he let his gaze drop to her breasts and he remembered how heavy and sweet they’d felt in his hands.

  “Why not?” she said.

  Despite his irritation with Derek, he couldn’t help but smile. There were about a million women on three continents who would leap across a flame-filled canyon to come for a drive with him—but not Ms. Sophie Gallagher, apparently.

  “Give me a second to grab my purse,” she said.

  She was back in two minutes sporting a pair of enormous Jackie O-style sunglasses and carrying a neat black purse.

  “I hope you’ve got a big expensive penis car,” she said conversationally. “I’ll be really disappointed if you haven’t.”

  “A penis car?”

  “Yeah, you know—a phallic symbol on wheels that has been expressly designed to reassure a man of his virility and, ahem, stature. Not that you need any help in that department.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, Ms. Gallagher,” he said, leading her across the terrace toward the garage.

  “Says the man with the biggest dick in Hollywood,” she said.

  He stopped so abruptly that she almost walked into him. “Excuse me?”

  When he turned to face her, frowning, she r
aised her eyebrows in amused incredulity. “Don’t tell me you don’t know?”

  He just stared at her.

  “How can you hold a title like that and not know?” she asked.

  “It’s not a topic that comes up a lot with my neighbors and colleagues,” he said. To be honest, he wasn’t sure if he was pleased or disturbed. To his utter surprise, he also realized he was blushing.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed. If he’d ever blushed, in fact.

  Sophie’s amusement turned to admiration when they entered the Jenkinses’ four-car garage and she spotted his gunmetal-gray Porsche Boxster convertible.

  “Wow. Nice,” she said. “My dad always dreamed of having one of these.”

  She ran a hand over the paintwork, leaning forward to admire the sleek black dash and leather interior. It had been a while since he’d seen his toys through someone else’s eyes. It was a beautiful car—he simply hadn’t seen it that way for a while.

  “Here,” he said, tossing her the keys. “You drive.”

  Her response was immediate and unequivocal. “Oh, no. I couldn’t,” she said firmly, handing the keys straight back to him.

  “Why not?”

  “No. Something might happen,” she said, looking very prim all of a sudden.

  He shrugged. It was no skin off his nose, after all. But he was aware of feeling vaguely disappointed. She’d seemed to get off on the car, and he’d thought driving it would be a buzz for her.

  Tucking his crutches in the small cargo space behind the seats, he climbed in and waited till she’d fastened her seat belt before reversing out of the garage. She frowned intensely behind her big sunglasses and chewed on her full bottom lip all the while. Just as he was about to swing around and start down the driveway, she turned to face him.

  “Um. If it’s not too late, I think I would like to drive,” she said in a rush.

  He raised his eyebrows but didn’t question her change of heart. “Sure.”

  She broke into a nervous smile. “Cool.”

  It took them a few minutes to exit the car and change sides. He couldn’t help laughing when he saw how much distance there was between her and the pedals with the seat still set for his height.