“Adjustment’s to the right,” he said, watching as she scooted about as close to the steering wheel as she could get without wearing the damn thing.
“How tall are you, exactly?” he asked.
“Five foot two and a quarter inches,” she said.
“And a quarter?”
“Believe me, every bit counts when your ass is this close to the ground,” she said.
Right on cue, he had a quick flash of that very same ass wiggling its way into his bathroom last night.
“So, how does this thing work?” she asked, gesturing toward the tiptronic gear controls on the Porsche’s steering wheel.
Dragging his mind out of her underwear, Lucas explained that, like a race car, it allowed the driver to either shift conventionally using clutch and gear stick, or using the steering wheel controls alone to work the gears.
“Okay, I think I get it,” she said. “Here goes.”
She accelerated slowly away from the house. She was concentrating fiercely, he was amused to see, even though they were only doing about five miles an hour.
“Careful, I think we overtook a turtle back there,” he said.
She shot him a challenging look. “You want me to go faster?” she asked.
“Sure. Why the hell not?”
Her hands gripped the steering wheel, and he could feel the tension in her body, but she shifted a gear and put her foot down.
“This all you got?” he taunted as she turned left out of the driveway, enjoying watching her test herself.
She didn’t even look at him this time as she changed another gear and the car surged forward with a burst of speed. Suddenly there was wind in his hair and the world was flashing past in a blur of color.
“I feel like James Bond,” she said as she took a corner at speed, her cheeks flushed. Then she laughed. “A really, really nervous James Bond.”
“Little Jimmy Bond,” he suggested, and for some reason they both found that incredibly funny.
“You’re a good driver,” he observed after a while. “Confident, but not too cocky.”
“Yeah?” She flashed a pleased smile at him.
After twenty minutes of winding roads they drove into a picturesque mountain village lined with well-maintained heritage shopfronts. She stopped to check out the local bookshop, and after an initial hesitation he followed her inside. He was wearing his sunglasses, but it didn’t take long for the first person to approach and ask for his autograph. Once he’d signed one, the sluice gates were open and soon he was surrounded by people offering T-shirts, diaries, even business cards for him to sign.
Sophie stood to one side, her expression growing darker as the minutes ticked by. Finally she stepped forward and insisted that Mr. Grant needed to get back to his hospital bed.
Hard for anyone to object to that, given his crutches and elaborate ankle and knee braces.
“Is it always like that?” she asked as they drove back to the house.
“Worse, usually. At my Sydney place, one paparazzi set up a taping device outside my house so he could record my cell phone conversations. And another bozo tried to scale the wall.”
He said it matter-of-factly because being sought after by fans and photographers was part of the pact he’d entered into when he became an actor. He might only seek the public’s adoration and approval when he was on stage or in the movie theater, but it was unrealistic to expect it not to spill over into the real world.
“That’s outrageous,” Sophie said hotly. “You deserve a private life like anyone else. It’s not like you sold the rights to everything when you agreed to appear in a movie.”
He shrugged. “The reality is the studios cultivate it. Big headlines and lots of press means good box office. Star watching is an industry, just like anything else. Maps to stars’ homes, paparazzi packs, manufactured headlines—if people weren’t interested, it would all die overnight. It only exists to feed the public’s desire to know more.”
“Then people need to learn to mind their own business,” Sophie said staunchly.
“Good luck with that one,” he said drily. “Remember the Inquisition? The Salem Witch Trials? People have been minding other people’s business for as long as there have been communities.”
“It doesn’t make it right,” she said stubbornly.
He glanced across at her, amused by the pugnacious tilt to her chin. It was kind of nice having someone in his corner who wasn’t being paid to be there. There hadn’t been a whole lot of people who’d put themselves out for him in his lifetime—until he’d become rich and famous, that is. Then people fell all over themselves to be of service.
But Sophie was different. She hadn’t fallen into his arms when he cocked his little finger in her direction. And when she had come to his bed, it had been because she wanted him, and only him—not his fame, not his reputation, not his connections or some other nebulous thing.
Craving something he didn’t even have a name for, Lucas glanced across at her. She was flicking her gaze between the road ahead and the stereo system, and as he watched she reached out and punched the power button.
An old Tears for Fears track blared out of the speakers, and she cranked the volume up.
“I love this song,” she yelled over the music.
Then she started to sing—the worst, most out-of-tune caterwauling he’d ever heard in his life. She should have looked ridiculous. But she didn’t. She looked…real. And warm. And infinitely sexy.
He wanted her again. Who was he kidding? He’d wanted her again this morning, even while he was giving her the brush-off. He’d wanted her when he asked her to come for a drive.
More and more, she called to him. He wanted to lose himself in her intensity and her honesty and her naturalness. He glanced across at her. She was wearing a tight black tank top and orange flip skirt that sat just above her knees. If he reached out right now, he could slide a hand beneath that skirt and up her thigh and be touching the heat of her in seconds. He could tease her through the silk of her underwear, feel her become wet with wanting….
His cock hardened in his jeans as he imagined her spreading her legs for him, inviting him in. He’d stroke her and stroke her until he pushed her over the edge and she cried out the way she had last night when she’d given in to her desire.
If only he hadn’t drawn that stupid freakin’ line in the sand this morning.
Screw it.
She’d enjoyed herself last night, that had been abundantly clear. Why wouldn’t she want more, just as he did? He could eat a little humble pie on the whole “this is a one-off thing” if it meant tasting her again. Absolutely he could, given how much he wanted to be inside her again.
The car bounced as Sophie turned into the driveway of the estate, and Lucas prepared to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.
“I was just thinking,” she said before he could open his mouth.
“Yes?”
Her hands were tight on the steering wheel again, he noticed.
“Last night was good, right?”
He gave her his absolute, full attention. “Yes.” He had a feeling she was about to surprise him again.
“So, um, if we both were agreed that there were no strings attached, there’d be no reason why we couldn’t do it again. Don’t you think? Have sex, I mean.”
His hard-on throbbed in earnest agreement as the rest of him responded to the nervous charm of her approach. “Definitely.”
She shot him a questioning look. “Definitely we could?” she clarified.
“Yes,” he said.
She smiled, a slow, mysterious, thoughtful little smile, and he knew she was remembering something from last night. Something good and hot and wild. Maybe his hands on her, or his tongue on her, or him hard inside her. It didn’t matter—the important thing was that they’d just given themselves permission to enjoy each other again and they were about to make a whole new set of steamy memories.
She pulled in to the garage and turned the c
ar off. For a moment they both sat in the car. Her breathing was a little fast.
She was excited. He was hard. Sounded like a perfect match to him.
“Before we do this,” he said, his conscience riding his ass, “let’s be very clear about what this is. I don’t believe in love and marriage and happy-ever-after.” His eyes held hers, making sure she got his message loud and clear. “We’re here together for four weeks, give or take a few days. You’re single, I’m single. We have amazing chemistry. That’s all that this is about. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” she said. She even held out her hand so they could shake on it.
He took her hand, shook it, then lifted it and pressed a kiss into her palm.
“Now get out of the car and take your panties off,” he said.
He half expected her to say something, but she didn’t. She simply slid her hand from his grasp, got out of the car, tossed her sunglasses onto the seat and held his eye while she lifted up her skirt and hooked her thumbs into her panties. Then she pulled them off and dropped them on top of her sunglasses. He spared them a glance, taking in the black silk and lace. Nice, but not as nice as Sophie’s bare skin.
She started to walk around to his side of the car, but he shook his head.
“I want you on the hood,” he said. Then he grinned, leaving her in no doubt as to what he intended.
By the time he’d exited the car and joined her, she was perched on the edge of the hood, knees together, cheeks flushed.
“Comfortable?” he asked her.
She cocked her head to one side, considering.
“The metal’s nice and warm from the engine.” Her eyes were smoky with anticipation, her nipples already aroused.
“Hmm,” he said, placing his hands on her knees.
Leaning forward to kiss her, he slid his hands slowly up her legs, sliding them apart as he went, his thumbs gliding up the smooth skin of her inner thighs until he stopped just short of the heart of her.
Breaking the kiss, he nuzzled her neck, his thumbs tracing small circles against her tender flesh.
“Lie back,” he said.
He could feel her trembling. He was hard as rock. But he wanted to taste her.
Slowly she lowered herself. He took a moment to appreciate the picture she made before he moved in: thighs spread, eyes languid, her palms spread flat on the hood of his expensive sports car.
“What is it about hot women and fast cars?” he murmured as he braced his good knee against the fender, took the rest of his weight on one forearm braced flat against the hood and took a good, long look at her sex.
She was pretty and pink, delicate and mysterious, and he ducked his head to press a first kiss against her mound. Her hips jerked, and he smiled against her.
“Buckle up, baby, it’s going to be a bumpy ride,” he said.
And then he went to work.
I AM GOING TO DIE. This is too good. Too intense. I can’t possibly survive this.
No one had ever gone downtown like it. He was so focused, so gentle yet firm. His tongue was incredibly hot and deliciously textured and when he sucked her into his mouth and flicked her again and again, she almost flew right off the car. Then he slid a finger inside her and the need coiled tighter and tighter.
“Oh. Yes!” Someone moaned really loudly, and she realized it was her. But she was so far beyond caring. All she wanted, needed, had to have was satisfaction.
He deepened his intimate kisses, sliding another finger inside her. She sobbed and lifted her hips and thrashed her head from side to side. He began to work his fingers inside her, his tongue all the time teasing her, pleasing her.
She felt her climax approaching like a tsunami, welling up, building from her toes until her whole body was tight with tension and her hands were fisted and her head thrown back as she cried out.
Then she came, her muscles tightening around his clever fingers, her thighs trembling with the force of it.
Afterward he kissed her thighs, her belly, her breasts before he took her mouth her again. He smelled of her sex, and even though she was boneless with satisfaction, she felt her hunger build again when she felt how hard he was through his jeans.
There was no question of him taking her on the hood, however, not with his injured knee. He pulled back from her with a reluctant groan.
“We need to go inside, now,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
They made it to one of the loungers. He pulled her onto his lap, and she had him out of his jeans, protected and inside her within seconds. She’d expected him to want to go fast, but when she began to ride him hard, he pulled her close and pressed long, slow kisses against her neck, guiding their rhythm with his hands on her hips. Slow and languid, leisurely, savoring ever slide, every thrust, every withdrawal. She closed her eyes and clenched herself tight around him, feeling every inch of him, relishing the sweet friction.
By slow stages, the muscles of his back and shoulders hardened as he drew closer and closer to his own climax. Hers came suddenly, a swift, unexpected gift that had her shuddering in his arms as he thrust the last time deep into her, his face buried in her neck.
In that brief moment, she had a sudden flash of just how risky it was going to be for her to sleep with this man over the coming weeks. She already knew he had charisma and physical appeal to spare. He’d charmed her from day one, despite her best intentions and her fear of letting go. But it would be a mistake to dismiss her reaction to his appeal as merely physical.
She liked him. He was an unrepentant womanizer, a hard-drinking hell-raiser and a whole bunch of other things that should have been a lot less attractive than they were. Still she liked him. Hearing him talk about the price of fame and learning about his anonymous support of St. Barnaby’s had been like catching a peek behind the curtain of the Great and All Powerful Oz and finding a real person instead of the cardboard-cutout Lucas presented at first glance.
Which made him so very dangerous to her.
But at the end of the day, her realization didn’t make all that much difference, she knew. Because she wasn’t going to say no to him. Not when her body craved his touch. Driving his car today, feeling him watching her, watching him in turn, getting hot for him all over again and knowing that one night had not been nearly enough…
Even though it was dangerous, she owed it to herself to have this experience. And she was damn well going to take it, for as long as it lasted.
9
LUCAS WOKE WITH A START, his body once again covered in sweat, his muscles bunched tight with the need to flee. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. Then he registered Sophie’s cool hands on his shoulders. Right. Sophie. The Jenkinses’ Blue Mountain estate.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her small hands kneading his shoulders.
He’d had the nightmare again.
Shit.
It was bad enough that they’d started recurring in the first place, but that Sophie had to witness one…He might as well have wet the bed.
Pulling away from her, he swung his legs toward the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. His heart was still pounding, and he ran a shaky hand through his hair.
“Would you like a glass of water?” she asked after a long silence.
“I’m fine.”
Levering himself to his feet, he grabbed his crutches and crossed to the bathroom. His reflection was nothing but a dark shadow in the minimal light, but he didn’t flick the light on. He didn’t particularly want to see himself right now.
After washing his face and gulping a glass of water, he returned to the bedroom. Sophie’s side of the bed was still and silent, and he hoped that she’d gone back to sleep.
Hauling on his workout pants and a T-shirt, he made his way downstairs. The whiskey bottle called to him. He collected it and a glass, then made his way to the couch.
Was it just two days ago that he’d wound up taking refuge here? Maybe he should see a doctor, think about getting some sleeping pills or something
. Whatever it took to banish the nightmare back to where it belonged—the past.
He’d just poured himself the first hit when Sophie joined him, her legs and arms pale against the dark fabric of one of his T-shirts. It reached midway down her thighs and looked far sexier than it had any right to, under the circumstances.
“Feel like company?” she asked.
He wanted to say no. Especially because he suspected she was about to get all Dr. Phil on his ass.
“Sure.” He shrugged.
She crossed to the liquor cabinet, grabbed another glass, then walked barefoot across the floor to hand it to him.
“What are we drinking?” she asked as he poured for her.
“Whiskey. Irish, I think.”
“Hmm.” She took a sip and made a face.
“Don’t like it?” he asked.
“To be honest, most grain liquor tastes like rubbing alcohol to me,” she said, taking another sip. She sat in the armchair at right angles to the couch.
Here goes, he thought, bracing himself, the well-intended questions.
“You know, I’m pretty damn sure I saw a Scrabble board in those cabinets beside the fireplace the other day. Feel like playing?”
He stared at her.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” she said, getting up.
She riffled around in the Asian-style cabinets until she gave a victory cry.
“I should warn you, I used to play this all the time with my parents when I was a kid,” she said.
Flicking on the nearest floor lamp, she sat cross-legged on the couch beside him and unfolded the board between them. After eyeing the alluring shadows beneath the hem of his T-shirt and speculating if she’d bothered with underwear, he watched with reluctant amusement as she organized the tiles face-down in the box and allocated them each a tile rack.
“Okay, a few guidelines. We’re playing by Gallagher family rules, which means only words of a smutty, puerile or flat-out rude nature are allowed,” she said briskly. “And I get to go first, because my family always let me or I would throw a tantrum.” So saying, she gave her attention to her letters.
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