Читать книгу Burning Up - Sarah Mayberry - Страница 8

SOPHIE PULLED ON underwear and dressed in a pair of black yoga pants and a stretchy, striped tank top. She’d had a crappy night’s sleep, tossing and turning, thinking belatedly of clever, pithy things she should have said to Brandon rather than stand mutely by while he told her how it was going to be.

Not that she would have wanted things to turn out any differently, not now that he’d made his true feelings so abundantly clear. A whole night’s reflection had brought her that much clarity, at least.

He wanted to have sex with other women.

He wanted to be free.

He thought she was staid and boring and bound by routine.

He really was a bastard. It was the perfect word to describe a man who could throw away fourteen years without even pausing to take a breath and discuss it properly. It wasn’t as though he’d even given her a chance to change, or fired off any warning shots to indicate their relationship was about to implode. He’d just made a decision and acted on it, without thinking of her at all.

Suddenly she recalled a night about six months ago when Brandon had shot to his feet and headed for the door when she’d suggested they watch There’s Something About Mary again. It was one of her favorite movies, and he’d always enjoyed it. But that night he’d launched himself out the door without a word, returning twenty minutes later with a selection of new-release DVDs from the video store.

Had that been her early warning signal?

Sophie frowned as she remembered that she’d never asked him why he’d done that.

Maybe because she hadn’t wanted to know the answer?

Sophie shook her head, rejecting the thought and the memory. She had work to do. Besides, did any of it matter when Brandon had pulled the pin on their relationship for good? Going over and over every little detail wasn’t going to change anything.

Padding barefoot across the polished floor of the small but luxuriously appointed cottage, Sophie made her way to the kitchen to prepare her first meal for her star client, determined to resolutely keep her thoughts on the here and now.

She’d heard a voice—presumably talking on a cell phone—by the pool earlier and guessed that Mr. Grant had arrived. She’d been given a schedule to follow for his meals, as well as his very strict diet plan. It wouldn’t take her long to whip up the steamed chicken, green vegetable and cottage cheese salad that was allocated for his first meal. Frankly, a grade-school kid could probably throw the meal together, it was so basic. Not that she was complaining, given that this job had provided her the perfect escape hatch from her suddenly disastrous life.

Still, her chef’s soul ached to add a dash of something to spice up the very bland salad—some toasted walnuts, a raspberry vinaigrette, maybe some wafer-thin slices of pear…none of which was included on the eating plan.

By the time that she’d prepared and presented the meal to her satisfaction—not that there was much she could do with such limited raw materials—it was ten minutes to the appointed lunchtime. Grabbing the plate, Sophie made her way past the pool, across the expansive terrace and through the wide sliding doors to the living room of the main house.

As she stepped over the threshold, a flutter of something that felt very much like nervousness danced around her belly. She stopped in her tracks, frowning.

Surely she wasn’t nervous about meeting Lucas Grant for the first time? The man was an overgrown fourteen-year-old who drank too much, partied too hard and went through women the way most people went through socks. Apart from the fact that he made a lot of money from performing what was essentially a very silly, pointless job, there was nothing special about him at all. In fact, compared to more worthy members of the human race—Mother Teresa, Nelson Mandela, to name a few—he was beneath contempt.

But still there was a little tickle of awareness about the fact that she would soon meet the man who had been voted World’s Sexiest by People magazine three years in a row. The man who made women all over the world cross their legs and squirm in their seats. The man who reputedly had his perfect, rounded, muscular butt insured for over a million dollars.

Ridiculous. Pathetic. Sad.

But no matter how much she berated herself for being so shallow, it didn’t make the feeling go away. As she crossed the vast living room and entered the kitchen, Sophie tried to shake her nerves off, assuring herself that no matter how Lucas Grant looked on the big screen, in reality he was probably short, obnoxious and hugely egotistical.

Rummaging in a drawer for cutlery, she dropped a fork as she told herself that he probably had big, fake, white teeth, a horrible orange tan from a bottle and a towering sense of self-entitlement. Crouching to pick the fork up, she smiled as she realized that she’d successfully killed the small buzz of anticipation humming through her body. He was just a man. Probably an idiot, to boot. And definitely nobody she’d care to meet under normal circumstances.

Too bad her sense of triumph was short-lived.

Bracing her legs to stand again, she registered the single, tanned, very masculine bare foot that had appeared in front of her, seemingly out of nowhere. Next to it was a second foot, this one encased in a bright blue neoprene and Velcro ankle brace. Bracketing the feet were the rubber tips and metal uprights of a pair of crutches.

Later she would think about how he’d snuck up on her so silently. The man was on crutches—what was he, a ninja or something?

For now, however she was too busy being swamped by a hot rush of pure, unadulterated, unexpected lust as her gaze traveled up the length of his jeans-clad legs, lingering first on the bulge around his left knee, then—for a much longer time—on the substantial and promising bulge in his crotch. Forcing herself to tear her fascinated gaze away, she completed the journey, her eyes trailing over his waistband and up, up, up over what seemed like a mile of tight-T-shirt-covered stomach and chest and shoulders to finally reach his tanned, chiseled, utterly gorgeous face. Finding herself staring into the most amazing pair of amber eyes she’d ever seen in her life, Sophie swallowed noisily and almost fell over backward. Those eyes were like hot caramel, she decided as she stared stupidly into them. Or really rich coffee cake. Or a rare, rare precious stone.

“Hi. I’m Lucas,” he said, and she realized she was still crouched at his feet, her eyes practically bugging out of her head as she ogled him.

“Sophie. Gallagher. Sophie Gallagher is my name,” she said, shooting upright abruptly.

He was…gorgeous. It was the only possible word that could be used to describe him. From the top of his artistically rumpled black hair to the tips of his big, bare, tanned toes, he was All Man. Hard, firm, golden-skinned man. Even being on crutches didn’t dim his appeal one iota. If anything, it only increased it. He looked wounded. A hero back from the wars. A man in need of soothing.

“Great to meet you, Sophie,” Lucas said, extending his hand.

She slid her hand into his automatically and her whole body shivered at the glide of his flesh on hers. She couldn’t help wondering what his entire body would feel like beneath her hands—smooth and firm and warm, probably. He was so much bigger than her, too. She would definitely know she was with a man with him in her bed. The weight of him. His height, his breadth, his length.

Abruptly, Sophie realized that she was staring at Lucas Grant’s crotch again. And that illicit heat was pooling between her thighs.

What the hell was wrong with her?

But she knew the answer: she was turned on. Her body had zoomed from zero to come-and-get-me in no seconds flat—merely because Lucas Grant had walked into the room, smiled at her and shaken her hand.

It was such a shocking bit of knowledge, Sophie didn’t know what to do with it. She was twenty-four hours out of the only relationship she’d ever known. Brandon had just snapped her heart in two. She had no business being attracted to another man, especially one she’d just spent the last ten minutes denigrating for being shallow, feckless and immature.

She took a step backward, away from temptation and confusion. Feeling utterly overwhelmed, she glanced over her shoulder, looking for an escape route. The only door she could see led into the walk-in pantry. Good enough. Especially in an emergency. And this was definitely an emergency.

“If you’re after your lunch, I’ll bring it to you in a few minutes,” she said, backing toward the pantry.

“There’s no rush,” he said easily.

She felt the heat of his gaze flicking up and down her body, and her breasts tingled with awareness.

Good God.

Her fingers found the cool wood of the pantry door with relief.

“I have to, um, take care of something,” she said, then she turned and stepped into the pantry.

Standing in the relative dark surrounded by shelves of dry goods, she pressed a hand to her belly, aware of the steady pulse of her elevated heartbeat thrumming beneath her palm. Her breath sounded loud and fast in the confined space and she blinked several times, trying to work out what the hell was going on with her.

This had to be some kind of delayed reaction to what had happened with Brandon. She seized the explanation as if it were a lifeline. Of course that was what it was—some kind of weird expression of grief and loss. Her whole life had been turned upside down. She was bound to feel unsettled and…horny?

Closing her eyes, she made a helpless whimpering sound. Never in her life had she felt so out of control. So separated from her normal self. And she didn’t like it—not one little bit.

SHE WAS NOTHING like he’d expected.

Lucas stared after the chef, a frown pleating his forehead. Those breasts, that ass—he’d automatically assumed they’d belong to a striking Amazonian beauty. A really flexible, nimble, nymphomaniac Amazonian beauty. The kind of woman who littered his world.

But Sophie Gallagher was short. A munchkin, in fact. Her head barely came to his shoulder. Her face was more round and friendly than angled and sexy. If he were casting a movie, she’d be a dead cert for the wacky best friend, but never the romantic lead. Big velvety-brown eyes, a snub nose, a full-lipped mouth and dark red hair in a whimsical pixie cut completed the picture.

Nope. Definitely not what he’d expected.

Not that she was unappealing. Far from. She was just…different from the kind of woman he normally dallied with.

Swiveling on his good foot, he hopped to the living room, since she didn’t appear to be coming back from wherever she’d gone anytime soon. Pulling out a chair at the dining table, he sat and propped his crutches against the table.

Sophie. Her name was Sophie. He guessed she was in her late twenties, although it was hard to tell because she had very clear, youthful-looking skin. And though she might not be the kind of tall, leggy beauty he preferred, there was something earthy and warm about her. The more he thought about her, the more convinced he became that she was definitely worth exploring.

What the hell—it wasn’t like he had any better options on his hands.

The slap of bare feet on the stone floor had him glancing up, and he followed her with his eyes as she walked toward him. She had a rather delicious little swing in her hips, he noted, that made her butt wiggle with each step. And she had that great rack.

Who knew? She might even start a whole new thing for short women with him.

He was about to flash her his most roguish, charming smile when he clocked the meal she was setting before him.

Thin, unappetizing slices of chicken. Steamed chicken, if he didn’t miss his guess. A selection of green vegetables that looked even less appetizing than the chicken, if that were possible. And a white, amorphous blob of what he suspected was cottage cheese.

“What’s this?” he asked, frowning. He was starving, and this crap was so not going to do the trick.

“Lunch. From your diet chart,” she said, her eyes widening at his tone.

“My diet chart…?” he asked, before comprehension dawned.

Derek and the freaking studio.

He had his cell phone in his hands in no seconds flat.

SOPHIE TOOK A STEP BACK from the table as Lucas punched a button on his phone and waited impatiently for the call to connect. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was just so very, very good-looking. Not perfect—that would have made him plastic and artificial and repellent. Instead, he had laugh lines around his mouth and a thin white scar bisecting the end of one eyebrow. Certainly flawed and human. And even more devastatingly attractive because of it.

This is what people must mean when they talk about star quality, she decided helplessly. Charisma, magnetism, charm—whatever it was called, he had it by the bucketful.

And she was trapped in the tractor beam of that charisma like an ant in honey. She couldn’t seem to look away, despite having given herself a very firm talking to in the darkness of the pantry. Despite the fact, also, that he’d reacted as though she’d handed him a plateful of radioactive matter instead of a carefully prepared meal.

Help!

Any second now drool would spill out the side of her mouth and she’d start panting in earnest. Completely against her will. Completely against all her better instincts. All because he was tall.

And muscular.

And golden-skinned.

And he had those amazing eyes….

“You want to explain why the hell I’m on a diet?” he barked into the phone, his tone so sharp it made her jump.

Sophie blinked. Apparently when a person was famous, he didn’t need to bother with social niceties like hellos and goodbyes. If that didn’t quite break the spell his physical appeal had woven around her, his next words did.

“It’s not like I’ve ever had a weight problem before, Derek,” he said. “I don’t need to have someone telling me what to eat day and night. Especially when it’s tasteless crap I wouldn’t feed a dog.”

Tasteless crap? That he wouldn’t feed a dog? That quickly, Sophie snapped out of her lust-induced fog.

All her former disdain rushed back, and she felt her lip curl a little as she at last saw past his good looks to the person underneath. Just as she’d expected, Lucas Grant was spoiled. And arrogant. And rude.

She ignored the fact that she’d hated having his meal leave her kitchen so unadorned and flavorless—that was beside the point. She was standing right in front of him, and he’d insulted her without a thought.

“Why on earth would you agree to such a moronic contract clause?” Lucas growled, all his attention focused on his call.

She’d heard enough. Back stiff, she grabbed the plate from the table and turned toward the kitchen. If he didn’t like his lunch, she would make him something else, because that was what she was being paid to do. But it was going to be a long four weeks catering to the needs of such a jackass, that was for sure.

“Jesus, Derek, it’s not like I meant to kick the freakin’ thing. I was drunk. And if Candy or whatever her name was hadn’t left her bloody thong lying around for people to fall over, none of this would have happened.”

He was yelling now, his words echoing off the stone floors and high ceiling as Sophie entered the kitchen.

Shaking her head, she dumped the plate on the counter. On-set accident, her ass. He’d obviously injured himself in some stupid episode that involved women’s underwear and too much drink. Why was she even remotely surprised? It was exactly the kind of antic that kept his photograph in the gossip magazines on a regular basis. The man was an overgrown frat boy. End of story.

As for her initial reaction to his undeniable physical appeal—Well, she was only human. And now that she’d been reminded of the true man behind the facade, there would be no return of that unexpected, overwhelming rush of lust she’d felt. Uh-uh, no way, no how. It had been a one-off freak occurrence, never to happen again now that she was in full possession of the facts.

She turned from extracting a deli pack of ham from the fridge to find him standing in front of her—towering over her, really, since she was so short and he was so tall—and once again she was awash with the insane urge to press her body against his, to taste his lips, to run her fingers through his hair and wrap them around his—

“Listen, sorry about that,” he said, offering her a small, sheepish smile. “What can I say? My leg hurts like hell, I’m hungry enough to eat a small horse and I wasn’t expecting a plateful of grass and white sludge.”

His apology should have been insulting. He was still running down her cooking, after all. But the truth was that she wouldn’t have been too happy about being presented with such a tasteless plateful of bland, either. Plus, he was smiling at her, and it was amazing to discover how many different colors of amber and gold and topaz there were in the irises of his beautiful eyes….

It was happening again! Sophie gave herself a mental slap. She was not going to be mesmerized by him. Without a doubt, his appeal allowed him to get away with murder in life, and she was not going to pander to him when he already had most of the western world at his feet.

“I can make you something else,” she offered coolly. “An omelet? A club sandwich, or something more substantial, if that’s what you want?”

He shrugged in what she figured he thought was a boyishly rueful way. She narrowed her eyes and staunchly resisted the urge to be charmed.

“Apparently my contract states I have to maintain my current weight, and the studio is concerned I’ll pork up if I’m forced to sit around on my butt for too long,” he said. He eyed the chicken and cottage cheese, then slowly pulled the plate toward himself. “So, I guess this is me for the next four weeks.”

Resting his crutches against the island and cocking one hip against it, he grabbed a fork and began to eat. She watched, fascinated despite herself, until she caught sight of his tongue and something warm lurched in the pit of her stomach. Startled, she forced her gaze away.

She wasn’t interested in Lucas Grant’s tongue—or anyone else’s, for that matter.

Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like with someone else?

Brandon’s words haunted her yet again. Until Lucas had first appeared in her kitchen, she could have honestly answered no to that question. Which was disturbing for a whole bunch of reasons, really.

Determined to resist the lure of his charisma, Sophie returned the ham to the fridge and grabbed the sponge from the kitchen sink. Even though the counters were pristine, she wiped them down, anyway. Anything to distract herself from the disturbing tendency she felt to reach out and touch him, to find out if he really was as hard and hot as he looked.

“There. Done,” Lucas said.

She risked a glance in his direction and saw that his plate was bare. And that he’d switched his attention from food to her. There was a certain glint in his eye that hadn’t been there before, she noticed. And a certain quirk to one corner of his mouth, as though he was on the verge of smiling but wasn’t quite ready to share the joke. Then his gaze dropped below her face and she realized with a hot flush of awareness that he was checking her breasts out. And then—good Lord!—her thighs and ass.

By the time his gaze had returned to lock with hers, he was smiling fully. A big, enchanting, underwear-dissolving smile that had parts of her sitting up and begging for attention in complete violation of her vow to not buy into his whole roguish playboy routine.

“So. There’s a long afternoon ahead, Sophie,” he said.

Was it just her, or had his voice dropped an octave? She swore she could feel it rumbling along her nerve endings, smoky and seductive and meaningful.

Like a bunny in car headlights, she froze as he moved closer, using the counter to support himself instead of his crutches. By the time she clued in that she’d allowed him to effectively box her in, she was trapped and it was too late.

“So, are you a local? Can you think of anything fun we could do around here to while away the time?” Lucas asked.

Since when had the word fun sounded so…dirty? And enticing?

“I—I’m from S-Sydney,” she stuttered.

“Well, there’s probably plenty we can come up with if we really put our minds to it,” he said.

He was standing so close now that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. Her knees were weak, and her breasts felt heavy with need. Between her thighs, a traitorous heat was building.

Man, but he was sexy.

She inhaled deeply, sucking in his woody aftershave and something else that she suspected was simply hot man. For the first time in her life, she was overcome by the carnal desire to touch and be touched by another human being. It didn’t matter that he was most likely a jerk of the first order, that he probably didn’t have a sensitive or generous bone in his body. She wanted to have sex with him. She wanted to have him inside her, pounding into her, pushing her harder and faster. She wanted to get down and dirty and hot and sweaty with him.

There was so much need swelling inside her, so much crazy desire to be impulsive, to take the risk, to reach out and take what she wanted instead of being cautious and careful and considerate…. She felt dizzy. Out of control.

Scared.

He took another step forward, one hand finding the counter on either side of her so that she was bracketed within his arms. His eyelids had dropped to half mast as he focused on her mouth with intent.

“I’ve got a couple of really solid ideas if you’d like to try them on for size,” he murmured.

He was going to kiss her. He was going to lean down and press his hard body against hers and his tongue was going to be in her mouth and his hands on her skin.

Without even willing it, her palms flattened against his chest. To push him away. She was almost sure that was what she’d planned on doing. But the second she felt the hard curves of his pecs beneath her hands, instead of pushing him away, her hands fisted into the fabric of his T-shirt, and her arms flexed as she prepared to haul him close so she could act on every one of the wild, illicit fantasies dancing across her mind.

He smiled—a complacent, confident, assured smile—and started to lower his head. Inside her, fear warred with animal, instinctive need.

What am I doing?

The thought was like a flare exploding against a dark night sky.

This wasn’t the sort of thing she did, the rational part of her mind screamed at her. She was a calm, ordered, careful kind of person. A thinker, a planner. She liked routine—Brandon had said it just last night, in fact. When he broke up with her after fourteen years of monogamy.

She was Sophie Gallagher, chef and, until recently, engaged to be married. She didn’t have sex with strange men, even if they were handsome, famous movie stars. Especially if they were handsome, famous movie stars.

Acting on survival instinct, Sophie used every muscle in her body to shove against Lucas’s chest as he closed the final inches between them. Despite his size, he rocked back on his heel, his hands slapping onto the counter to regain his balance.

“Whoa!” he said, an annoyed expression replacing his complacent one.

Ducking, she slipped beneath his arm and escaped the corral he’d created with his body.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, bemused, as she made tracks for the door. “Where are you going?”

“Dinner is at six.” She threw the words over her shoulder, relief flooding her. What a close call.

She’d been seconds away from danger. From doing something irrevocable. Something foolish and crazy.

Thank God she’d come to her senses before it was too late.