BURNING UP
Sarah Mayberry

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

First up, a big thanks to Melbourne chef

George Calombaris, the creator of the crazy,

inspired meal that Sophie cooks in this book.

I will never forget the first time I ate his food.

Also thanks to Chris, for holding my hand through

rewrite hell, and to Sammas for first-chapter

therapy via the Net. And, as always, thanks to

Wanda, for letting me have the freedom to fix

things. What would I do without you?

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

1

“COME ON IN, Lucas, the water’s fine.”

Lucas Grant took another slug of whiskey and squinted at the blonde bobbing in the hot tub at the end of his balcony. Until she’d spoken up, he hadn’t realized anyone had stayed behind when the last guests had stumbled out the door of his Sydney harborside mansion a few minutes earlier.

He’d forgotten this one’s name. Candy? Cindy? Something with a C, he was pretty sure. She was lying back in the water, arms spread wide on the rim behind her, her hair tousled, her eyes heavy-lidded.

A slow grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he registered the trail of clothing she’d left on the way to the tub—a slinky little dress and the few scraps of Lycra and lace she’d obviously been wearing underneath.

Lucas moved toward her, tumbler held loosely in one hand.

“This is a surprise,” he said, even though it wasn’t.

Ever since he’d scored a role in a break-out movie back in his early twenties, his life had been full of moments like these. Blondes in hot tubs, brunettes waiting in his hotel room, redheads lingering outside the sound stage. Fame was the most powerful aphrodisiac known to mankind.

Or should that be womankind?

Whatever. The important thing was that despite the impressive quantity of alcohol he’d managed to guzzle this evening, his body was more than willing to take advantage of what was being so freely and generously offered.

As he stepped up onto the wood deck surrounding the tub, Candy-Cindy rose up out of the water, revealing her toned, tanned, cosmetically enhanced body to him in all its glory. He squelched the minor disappointment he felt at the realization that her generous twin endowments were man-made—did it really matter, at the end of the day?—and admired the way the water slicked down her slim, long-legged body.

“I hope you don’t mind…?” she asked, eyes wide. Tough to pull off the whole innocent Bambi routine when she was standing there naked and perky, but she gave it a shot anyway and he awarded her full points for trying.

His grin widened. “Baby, you are just what the doctor ordered,” he said.

Setting his glass on the tub surround, he pulled her close, one hand sliding down to cup a perfectly sculpted ass cheek, the other honing in on one of her twin assets. She closed her eyes as he moved in for a kiss, her lips opening beneath his with practiced ease. She tasted of wine, and her body was hot and firm against his. Moaning a little in the back of her throat, she slid a hand between their bodies and grabbed his hard-on through the denim of his jeans.

“You are not going to freakin’ believe this,” a male voice said behind them.

Candy-Cindy gave a little gasp of surprise and broke away from Lucas, covering herself with her hands. Lucas closed his eyes in frustration and swore loudly. Not for the first time, he regretted the necessity for his agent-cum-manager, Derek Lambert, to have a key to his house.

“Derek, mate, I’m a little busy, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he said brusquely, turning to frown at Derek.

True to character, Derek was completely unfazed. It didn’t matter to him that it was late on a Saturday night. Deal making was a twenty-four-hour job where he was concerned.

“Check it out. Completely unauthorized. We’re lucky we’ve had any forewarning at all before it hit the shelves.”

For the first time Lucas registered the paperback book his manager was brandishing—and, more importantly, his own image staring at him from the front cover. Big red letters scrawled across the bottom of the photograph—The Man Behind the Golden Eyes: An Unauthorized Biography of Lucas Grant.

Lucas swore again and reached for the book.

“What the hell…? How did we not know about this?” he asked.

“Small publishing house and a sneaky little rat of a muckraking journalist. The only reason we know about it now is because someone owed me a favor.”

Derek’s gaze shifted to Candy-Cindy, who had sunk back into the water, her ears almost visibly flapping as she took in their conversation.

“Hey. I’m Derek. Pleased to meet you,” Derek said, smoothing a hand down the front of his custom-made navy pinstriped suit as he sat on the tub surround. “I’m Lucas’s manager.”

“I’m Camilla. Pleased to meet you.” Lucas didn’t need to look at her to know she was pouting and throwing her shoulders back. Derek might be short, tubby and barely hanging on to the last of his dark hair, but he oozed power and connections. No doubt Camilla wanted to be an actress or a model or maybe just plain old famous, and Derek was never averse to playing the you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours game.

Returning his attention to the book, Lucas noted the crappy paper, the close-set print, the shoddy binding.

“This is a piece of shit,” he said dismissively, ready to toss it to one side. “No one’s going to read it.”

“I don’t care. We’re both going over the damn thing with a fine-tooth comb. If there’s a single factual inaccuracy in there, we can get a court order and kill this thing right off the bat. If there’s anything that burns me up, it’s people squeezing a buck out of you without going through me. We’re going to make these assholes pay.”

“Fine. I’ll take a look at it in the morning,” Lucas said, his thoughts reverting to Camilla as she stretched a long leg out of the water.

“We need to move quickly if we’re going to stop this thing. I’ll hang around while you take a look at it tonight,” Derek said, his own gaze also glued to Camilla’s limbs.

“I have other plans,” Lucas pointed out.

“She’ll wait. Won’t you, sweetheart?” Derek asked.

Camilla nodded eagerly. “Sure. I’ll just amuse myself out here.”

Derek grinned at the suggestive note in her voice. “I’m sure you will. I’m sure you’re a very resourceful woman.”

Lucas shot his manager a look. “Easy, tiger.” Sometimes Derek got off on the whole showbiz lifestyle thing a little too much for Lucas’s personal comfort.

“I don’t mind,” Camilla said, arching her back so that her breasts broke the surface of the water.

Predictably, Derek’s eyes honed in on them like heat-seeking missiles.

Suddenly, Lucas felt an overwhelming need to be done with this situation. Camilla’s avid eagerness, Derek’s willingness to exploit her, even Lucas’s own recent urge to take what was offered and damn the consequences—suddenly it all seemed a little seedy and a lot desperate. The whiskey taste in his mouth soured and he felt bone-weary and more than ready to be alone.

“You know what? Maybe I should take care of this tonight and we can catch up another time,” he said, turning to Camilla.

She started to pout, but the night was over for him. He wanted—needed—some space.

“I can take Camilla home, if you like,” Derek said before Lucas could speak again.

There was a moment where the blatant calculation behind Camilla’s gaze was there for all to see as she weighed up her options. Then she smiled.

“Okay. That sounds fun,” she said.

Five minutes later Camilla and Derek were gone and Lucas had parked his butt on a balcony lounger and opened the first chapter of the book. Admittedly he was half-cut, but he wasn’t expecting to be mentally challenged by what was sure to be a bunch of cobbled-together press releases and gossip. He’d skim through the usual bullshit about his early training at the National Institute for the Dramatic Arts in Sydney, his seminal roles in iconic Australian movies, and his fast-track to international fame, then he’d leave a reassuring message on Derek’s phone and call it a night.

Instead, he read the opening few paragraphs and went rigid with tension.

Famous throughout the world, Lucas Grant’s million-dollar smile and golden eyes are the trademarks that have made him one of the highest-grossing movie stars in Hollywood today. Despite a high-profile social life that frequently titillates the mass media, Grant refuses to give personal interviews and is fiercely private about his past, leaving legions of fans to guess at what drives the world’s most famous playboy.

With the publication of this book, the guessing games are over. This reporter has uncovered sensational information about Lucas Grant’s background—his childhood abandonment, the many state homes he lived in while the government tried to find a foster placement for this troubled young boy and the hurdles Grant has had to conquer in order to become the man he is today.

Lucas tore through the pages, scanning one after the other after the other. It was all there, everything he’d never spoken about, everything that belonged firmly in the past.

Throwing the book to one side, he shot to his feet on a surge of adrenaline. He wanted to hit someone, but there was no one handy. Certainly not the sneaky little bastard who’d unearthed all of his darkest secrets.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

He reached for the phone to call Derek and demand he do everything in his power to stop publication. No way was Lucas going to be the object of pity at the hands of some bottom-feeding parasite attempting to cash in.

But common sense stilled Lucas’s hand on the touch pad. The only way they could stop this thing from going public was to prove it was slanderous and inaccurate. And so far, it had proved to be highly, painfully accurate. Which meant there was no way they could stop it.

Pacing, he ran a hand through his dark hair, trying to think past the alcohol haze.

The rules of public relations were pretty clear in situations like this. He either tried to beat them to the punch by outing himself and owning his history by telling it his way. Or he ignored the book’s existence and hoped it died a quiet, unread death.

Just the thought of following through with option one made every muscle in his body rigid.

It was never going to happen. Ever.

Which left him with option two: sit by and hope that the book sank without a trace into the sea of ink released worldwide every month.

He swore again, hating the sense of powerlessness rocketing through him. A long time ago he’d made a deal with the public in exchange for their adoration and movie-viewing dollars—he’d drop slightly naughty sound bites, he’d frequent the party scene, he’d exchange gorgeous women weekly, he’d live large and wild while allowing it all to be photographed for the masses’ consumption, But that agreement did not include an all-areas access pass into his life. Not by a long shot. Some things nobody needed to know.

Needing to vent his rage, he kicked the lounger, sending it sliding along the tiles until it slammed into a potted palm. Still unsatisfied, he searched for something else to knock around and his gaze fell on the book.

Teeth bared in a snarl, he strode toward it, intent on booting it with all his might. Pulling his left leg back, he pushed off on his right, swinging forward in a hard, powerful kick full of fury and frustration. Then his right foot slipped and he realized too late that Camilla’s thong was underneath.

Arms wheeling, he skidded, his left leg propelling him forward with unstoppable momentum. His foot missed the book and instead he collided—hard—into the tempered-glass railing.

It gave with a resounding smash—as did what felt like every muscle and bone in his lower leg.

Lying on his back, a world of pain shooting up his leg, Lucas threw back his head and howled into the night sky.

SOPHIE GALLAGHER juggled shopping bags from one hand to the other as she searched for her house keys, finally finding them in the side pocket of her purse.

“Here, let me take those,” her best friend, Becky Kincaid, offered, holding out a hand for the bags.

“Thanks, but I’m all right,” Sophie assured her as they entered the apartment she shared with her fiancé, Brandon.

“Brandon is going to lose it when he sees you in that bustier and stockings,” Becky said as they dumped their parcels on the couch.

“Here’s hoping,” Sophie said, crossing both her fingers.

That had been the whole purpose of their shopping expedition, after all—finding something to help remind Brandon that, once upon a time, they used to have sex, rather than roll into bed each night and fall asleep after a perfunctory hug and kiss.

She blamed their inactivity on the fact that, as well as living together, they both worked in his family’s restaurant, Sorrentino’s—her has head chef, him as host. Sexual mystery and surprise went out the window when two people spent most of every day in each other’s company. Plus there was the fact that they’d been together for nearly fourteen years now. No wonder they needed a jump-start.

“He’d have to be blind not to react to that sexy little number,” Becky said loyally. “Although I still think you should have tried on that hot-pink one with the embroidery and the little transparent bits.”

Sophie shrugged. “I would have felt like such an impostor. As it is all this black satin is going to be hard enough to pull off.” Although she had been seriously tempted by the more daring lingerie. The bright color and the peek-a-boo panels had practically screamed wild, wanton woman.

Which was exactly why she hadn’t done more than admire it from a distance. She wasn’t remotely wild or wanton. She was reliable, calm, practical, dependable—pretty much the polar opposite of wild and wanton.

Upending one of the bags and shaking the contents out, Sophie blinked as an image from the past rushed her. Her older sister tipping another bag out onto the bed in their shared bedroom and a sea of color tumbling out—pink and aqua and purple and green. Thongs and push-up bras, a pair of tap pants and a sexy see-through bra all in silk and satin and lace. And all of it shoplifted, of course, courtesy of crazy, impetuous Carrie’s quick fingers. She had always been attracted to danger and fun.

Sophie ran a hand over the smooth, cool satin of the simple bustier she’d chosen today. Without a doubt, Carrie would have chosen the hot-pink one, and she would have worn it with sass and verve….

“You okay?” Becky asked, nudging Sophie with an elbow.

Sophie snapped out of her reverie, shaking off the old sadness.

“Sure.”

Glancing up, Sophie caught sight of the wall clock and nearly had a heart attack.

“Damn. He’s going to be home in twenty minutes,” she said.

“Into the shower. Quick. I’ll put this stuff on your bed and get the champagne ready,” Becky ordered.

Sophie hugged her friend impulsively. “Has anyone ever told you you’d make a great pimp?” she said.

“All the time. Why do you think I became a lawyer?” Becky said, poker-faced. “Now go make yourself irresistible.”

Sophie hustled into the bathroom, shucking her clothes in record time and stepping under the water before it even had a chance to warm up.

As she reached for the soap, she made a mental note to take Becky out for dinner or to buy her a thank-you gift for all her support. Sophie had never been big on talking about sex—perhaps because she and Brandon had been together since high school. They’d been each other’s first lovers, and there had never been anyone else for either of them. So it had taken a while for her to confide in her friend about such an intensely personal and private matter. Fortunately, Becky had proved to be a veritable treasure trove of information, with advice on everything from the best place to buy saucy lingerie to which books to read for bedroom advice.

“Soph, I’m going to skedaddle. You okay to take it from here on your own?” Becky called around the door. Sophie didn’t need to see her friend’s face to know she was smiling.

“Ah, yeah. I think I know what to do next,” Sophie said, tongue-in-cheek.

“Good lu-uck!” Becky singsonged on her way out the door.

Her mind on the time, Sophie turned the water off and scrambled out. Whisking a towel over herself, she walked naked and still damp into the bedroom and began to cinch herself into the bustier. It was an absolute bitch putting the stupid thing on backward and twisting it the right way around, but she figured the end result was more than worth it.

Making short work of rolling on black silk stockings, Sophie slid her feet into a pair of stilletto heels. She was short, her figure more Rubenesque than anorexic, but the high cut of her new panties and the dark stockings and high heels worked wonders. Satisfied with what she saw in the full-length mirror inside her closet door, she reached for her makeup bag. She’d finished lining her big brown eyes with smoky-kohl and was just dabbing on mascara when the phone rang. Groaning with frustration, she grabbed it and tried to do her other eye with the phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear.

“Hello?”

“Sophie, it’s Julie Jenkins calling,” a cultured voice said, and Sophie recognized one of the restaurant’s wealthiest patrons.

While she’d catered private functions for Julie a few times in the past, the other woman had never called her at home before. Switching gears, Sophie endeavored to sound professional even though she was acutely aware that she was dressed like a refugee from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

“Julie. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. Sophie, I’m calling to ask a favor. I need someone to act as private chef on my Blue Mountains estate for the next four weeks. An old friend of mine is recuperating from an injury. Would you be interested?”

Sophie frowned and put down the mascara wand. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I could take time off from Sorrentino’s at such short notice,” she explained.

“What if I told you your client would be Lucas Grant?” Julie asked hopefully.

Sophie’s eyebrows shot up. Lucas Grant was Brandon’s absolute favorite actor. Personally, while she admired his acting, she found his rampant bad-boy persona ridiculous. The man was in his thirties, when was he going to stop partying and grow up?

“Tempted?” Julie asked, clearly hoping Sophie would change her mind.

“Sorry, there really is no way I could get the time off,” Sophie repeated.

“Pity. The money’s good, and you were the first person I thought of,” Julie said. “You know how John and I love your cooking.”

“Thanks, Julie. And thanks for thinking of me. I only wish I could help you out,” Sophie said.

“Not a problem. And just so you know, Sophie, no one who knows anything about food paid a bit of attention to that foolish review last month. Sorrentino’s will always be our first choice when dining out,” Julie said.

They ended the call after another few minutes of small talk. But instead of diving back into her makeup bag, Sophie stared sightlessly at her hands, brooding once again about the restaurant review that had rocked her world last month.

She hadn’t even known they were being reviewed. When the photographer made contact to take shots of the dining room, explaining the reviewer had already been in for his meal, she’d felt slightly cheated. She liked to put her best foot forward when she knew a foodie was expected. Still, she hadn’t been too worried. Sorrentino’s had an excellent reputation and she’d received a strong recommendation from the same magazine five years ago.

Not so this time. She still remembered the words by heart. How could she not? They were etched into her pride.

On our last visit five years ago, Sophie Gallagher of Sorrentino’s in Surry Hills seemed set to become one of the shining lights of the Australian restaurant world. But it seems time has stood still in Sorrentino’s kitchen. On our return, we found the menu little changed, a disappointing discovery when dining in Sydney has taken some huge and exciting leaps forward in recent years. All was done well, but the choices on offer were safe, conservative, unadventurous. One can only guess that Ms. Gallagher has settled into a premature middle age.

Every time she thought of that last line, she wanted to spit. Smug bastard, passing judgment on her through her menu. She’d ranted and raved for days after the magazine came out, but fortunately the restaurant’s bookings had remained solid and Brandon and his parents had been more than ready to slough the whole thing off and forget it.

Probably good advice, but the review continued to niggle at Sophie, especially when people mentioned it to her—even well-intentioned people like Julie. A dozen times over the past five years she’d experimented with new dishes for the menu, testing new ideas and combinations. But always she returned to the understanding that Sorrentino’s was a family restaurant—an elegant, neighborhood place where husbands took their wives for anniversaries and their children for birthday celebrations. The menu she’d created five years ago suited their clientele admirably, as the restaurant’s success attested. Why rock the boat?

The sound of a key in the front door shook Sophie out of her brooding and had her shooting to her feet. She’d only mascaraed one eye, and her short, pixie-cut auburn hair was clinging damply to her skull. Ruffling it with her fingertips, she snatched at a lipstick and smoothed on some color just as the door to the bedroom swung open and Brandon entered.

It was Sunday, and they had exactly three hours before either of them was due at the restaurant for the night. They had champagne, black satin and sexy music—everything they needed for a little horizontal play. Throwing her shoulders back, Sophie struck what she hoped was a sexy pose.

“Surprise!” she said, giving him her best come-hither look.

Brandon froze. His gaze ran up and down her body. Then his shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes for a long, long beat.

When he opened them, the look in his eyes made her stomach dip with fear.

“Sophie, we need to talk,” he said.

2

TWO HOURS LATER, Sophie pulled into the darkened driveway of Julie Jenkins’s Blue Mountains estate west of Sydney. Behind her on the backseat of her rusty Volkswagen Beetle was a box containing a jumble of cookbooks, her recipe folder, her knife roll and, for some absurd reason, a can opener. She’d thrown it all together haphazardly when what Brandon had told her had sunk in.

They were over. Finished. Fourteen years gone, just like that.

Hot tears burned at the backs of Sophie’s eyes as she wound her way up a long driveway, and she knuckled them away and swallowed noisily.

He hadn’t even wanted to talk. That was the thing that hurt the most. He’d presented her with a fait accompli.

“Sophie, I can’t do this anymore,” he’d said. “I’m sick of hoping things will change. I’m sick of lying in bed night after night like an old married couple. I don’t want to get to forty and look back and wonder where my life has gone.”

“I know we’ve been in a rut lately,” she’d said, and he’d laughed—a sharp, hard, angry laugh.

“A rut? Jesus, Sophie, we’re in the Grand freaking Canyon.”

“So we talk. We do something about it. What do you think this afternoon is all about?”

Brandon had sat on the end of the bed and put his head in his hands. “Sophie, a bunch of satin is not going to patch over our problems. It’s time to face the facts—we passed our use-by date years ago.”

That had made her legs go weak and she’d been forced to sit beside him.

“That’s so not true,” she’d said. “We still love each other. We’re best friends. We just need to take time to rediscover each other again.”

“We love each other, but we’re not in love, Sophie. We haven’t been for a long time.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Then he’d sucker-punched her. “I want to sleep with other women.”

She’d gasped. It was a slap in the face the way he’d said it so abruptly.

“I’m sorry, but it’s true. Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like with someone else?” he’d asked, searching her face with his eyes.

“No. No, I don’t.”

He’d nodded then. “I suppose that’s probably true. You like things to stay the same, I know that. You like your routines, and knowing what’s going to happen next. Well, I can’t do it anymore. I feel like I’m suffocating.”

He’d started packing a suitcase then, and she’d been frozen with shock as she tried to comprehend what was happening.

“You’ll thank me, you’ll see. You just need a push to make you get out there and spread your wings. We’ve been hiding with each other for too long, Soph.”

She’d been about to throw herself at his feet and beg him to talk more, to at least give them a chance to try to make things work. But the patronizing, all-knowing, parental tone of his words had made her bristle. And she’d done the first thing that had sprung to mind—picked up the phone and called Julie Jenkins.

And now she was pulling up outside a huge, two-story house—mansion, really—about to embark on four weeks of pandering to one of the world’s most indulged men.

Once again tears threatened, but Sophie refused to cry. She was angry, not sad, she told herself. The things Brandon had said to her, about her…She felt as though he’d been kidnapped by pod people and replaced with an alien. How could he have been thinking and feeling that way and she never had a clue?

For a moment she felt overwhelmed.

She was single. It was almost incomprehensible. She’d been with Brandon since she was sixteen years old, but now, suddenly, at thirty, she was single. Alone. Adrift. All her plans, all her dreams, gone in the time it had taken Brandon to pack his suitcase.

For a moment she gave in to the confusion and leaned forward, resting her forehead against the steering wheel. She had no idea what was going to happen tomorrow, or the day after that. She had no idea where she’d be in a month’s time, a year’s time.

A huge gulf of fear seemed to yawn at her feet.

You like your routines and knowing what’s going to happen next.

Brandon’s words tickled at the edges of her mind and she sat up straight and thumped the steering wheel with her fist.

Why did she feel so defensive about what he’d said? What was wrong with liking routines? With enjoying the known, the secure?

“Nothing,” she said out loud.

Brandon was the one who’d given up on them. He was the one with doubts, urges, unfulfilled desires. This was not about her.

Her jaw set, Sophie swung the door open. Tomorrow morning, Lucas Grant was arriving for a four-week recuperation spell after injuring himself on set, according to Julia Jenkins. Sophie had tonight to look over the strict diet she’d been sent and familiarize herself with the kitchen.

Both tasks that she could handle with one hand tied behind her back, despite what Brandon had said about her.

“Bastard,” she said under her breath. It felt better to be angry. If she wasn’t angry, she had the feeling she was going to be very, very sad. And she wasn’t ready to deal with that yet.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Lucas threw down his bag and looked around. He’d known the Jenkinses for a long time—ever since John had taught him drama at NIDA, in fact—but he’d never realized quite how loaded they were until now. The Blue Mountains “house” that Julie had offered him for his recovery was, in fact, a sprawling estate, complete with heated in-ground pool, caretaker’s lodge and a spectacular seven-bedroom main house with high, arched ceilings, imported stone floors and every modern convenience. If he didn’t already own three houses of his own—L.A., New York, Sydney—he’d almost be envious.

He guessed if he had to be stuck on crutches, there were worse places to be, and not many better.

Frowning, he glanced down at the bulge his newly acquired knee brace made beneath his jeans. He’d torn his ankle ligaments, as well as the medial ligament in his knee. The whole of his foot was bruised and slightly swollen, although it was hard to tell since most of it was hidden by removable neoprene braces, designed to hold his ankle and knee in the correct position while his tendons healed. The doctor had told him it was a miracle that he hadn’t broken anything, considering what had happened.

It had been two days since the accident, and his leg still hurt like hell. Fortunately, they’d given him some serious Tyrannosaurus-Rex-strength painkillers—as well as strict instructions to take it easy for at least four weeks. Which was why Derek had insisted he take Julie up on the offer of her mountain hideaway. Lucas had a film scheduled to begin shooting next week, and the whole production had been delayed to allow him time to recover. The studio had insurance to cover this sort of situation, but Lucas wasn’t exactly the golden-haired boy right now.

He shrugged the thought off as he dropped his crutches beside the bed and flopped backward onto the king-size mattress. Four weeks wasn’t going to kill anyone—him or the studio. Yeah, he’d stuffed up a little. But it wasn’t as though he’d meant to slip and collide with the balcony railing. If it hadn’t been for that biography…

Crossing his arms behind his head, Lucas stared at the ceiling. It was bloody quiet up here in the mountains. No hum of traffic, no people moving around, no chatter of voices in distant rooms. The only sound he could hear was the faint chirrup of birds in the gum trees outside.

Peaceful. Huh.

After about five minutes of peaceful, he started to get a little twitchy. He wasn’t used to having time on his hands. Usually he spent at least two hours a day training—weights, running, yoga for flexibility. If he wasn’t actually shooting a film, he usually had costume fittings, makeup tests, meetings with studios, meetings with Derek or meetings with anyone else who wanted a piece of him, not to mention all the promotional commitments for new releases such as interviews and photo shoots. At night, there were premieres, openings and parties to attend…. His cup runneth over, as it were. Just the way he liked it.

Except for the next four weeks. Frowning, Lucas had a sudden vision of how the next month was going to pan out—lots of birds tweeting and him lying around like this wishing he was elsewhere. In his mind, time slowed to a turtle’s crawl, days stretched into weeks, weeks into months, months into—

Shit. Maybe coming up here alone was a bad idea. In the hospital, doped to the eyeballs and copping flack from the studio and Derek, a little peace and quiet had seemed extremely desirable.

But not this much peace and quiet.

Sliding his cell phone from his pocket, Lucas scrolled through his address book and punched speed dial. The phone rang once before a familiar voice picked up.

“David, mate, how are you?” he asked.

“Lucas. You’re still alive, are you? Heard you got drunk and fell off a balcony or something,” David Gracie said, laughing down the line.

Lucas and David had trained together at NIDA, and after a slow start David was now knocking back offers to appear in multimillion-dollar films, his star firmly on the rise.

“A slight exaggeration. Just got a dodgy knee for a few weeks,” Lucas explained lightly. The joys of being famous—everyone knew his business about two seconds after he did. “I’ve got a few weeks off, anyway, and I was wondering whether you wanted to grab a few warm bodies and come hang in the Blue Mountains?”

“Mate, I’d love to, but I’m about to head out to L.A. Maybe another time, yeah?”

“Sure, man. Absolutely.”

Ending the call, Lucas scanned his address book for another likely suspect.

“Hey, Mikey, how you doin’?” he asked as another acting buddy picked up.

But Mikey was in the middle of a theatrical season at the Opera House playing King Lear. In fact, it seemed all his old friends were tied up with something over the next few weeks. Some of them had day jobs now, having given up acting for something more reliable. Others had families, God forbid. No one was free to come play in the mountains. His thoughts flew to L.A., where there was always someone kicking around, ready to party. But there was no way any of his drinking buddies were about to jump on a plane and travel halfway around the world to stop him expiring from boredom.

“Damn.” Giving up for the moment, Lucas tossed his phone to one side and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The painkillers were starting to wear off, and his ankle and knee were throbbing like bastards.

The real issue, however, was his isolation. How the hell was he going to stay sane for four whole weeks of nothing?

Vaguely it occurred to him that there was something faintly pathetic about being so reliant on other people and stimuli to help him get by. What kind of man couldn’t stand a few hours of his own company, let alone a few weeks? Maybe he ought to tough it out up here to prove to himself that he could. Some early nights, a bit of clean living. Maybe it would even do him good.

Tension crawled up his back and into his shoulders at the very thought.

“Stuff it.”

Grabbing his phone again, he rang Derek, rolling his eyes when it went through to voice mail. Typical, the one time he actually wanted to talk to the guy.

“Listen. This stupid mountain idyll thing was a big mistake,” he told Derek’s voice mail. “Call me back and we’ll make other plans.”

Ending the call, he reached for the side pocket on his suitcase and found the painkillers he’d been prescribed. Tossing back a couple, he gritted his teeth until the world began to blur at the edges a little.

“That’s more like it,” he muttered to himself.

Levering himself up on his elbows, he glanced out the window and spotted his first pleasant surprise of the day—out on the balcony stood a big, kick-ass telescope.

“All right.”

Grabbing his crutches, he lumbered to the French doors that opened onto the balcony and stepped outside. He was greeted with a gust of hot, eucalyptus-tinged air, the warmth actually welcome after the air-conditioned house.

He’d always had a thing for telescopes, and he’d been meaning to buy one of his own for years. Somehow, though, he never seemed to spend enough time in any of his three homes to get around to investing in one.

The lens and eyepiece were protected by rubber caps, and he tugged them loose and lowered his head to the eyepiece. The telescope was trained down and to the right of the pool, and at first he saw nothing but blurry shapes and indistinct light and shadow.

It took him a moment to locate the right dials, but soon Lucas was twisting knobs experimentally—until the image in front of his eyes shifted abruptly into sharp focus.

“Holy hell!” he said, his head jerking back from the telescope in surprise.

He stared blankly at the sky for a short beat, then grinned widely and lowered his head to the telescope again to make sure that his eyes had not been deceiving him.

Framed perfectly between the not-completely-lowered edge of a Venetian blind and the windowsill of the caretaker’s lodge were the prettiest, plumpest, most delicious-looking breasts he’d seen in a long time. Full, creamy-white, with soft pink nipples that seemed to be sitting up and begging for his attention, they looked silky-smooth and very, very edible.

The owner of the breasts was moving around, shifting things. A book. A folded piece of clothing. She was wearing a fluffy towel cinched around her waist, and he eyed the torso beneath the breasts, trying to imagine what the rest of her body might be like. Long legs? Peachy ass? And did she wax? Or was there a thatch of curls between her thighs?

“Damn it,” Lucas said in frustration, then he sucked in a breath as the woman loosened the towel and let it fall to the ground.

“Oh, baby.”

His gaze roamed over her curvy, pert, juicy-looking butt, lingering on the two enticing dimples nestled in the small of her back.

Registering the tightness in his jeans, Lucas glanced down. He was as hard as a rock, his boner straining against his fly. At the sight he suddenly understood what he was doing—spying on some unknown, unaware woman like a pervert. Or, at best, a horny teenager. Neither category he was eager to qualify for. He might be a hard-drinking, womanizing party animal, but he wasn’t desperate.

Taking one last, lingering look at the breasts and an ass that would surely haunt him for days, Lucas forced himself to step back from the telescope.

Who was she? That was the burning question. The caretaker? Some kind of domestic staff? A vague memory floated to the top of his brain—Julie explaining that she’d arranged for a local chef to take care of his meals for the duration of his stay.

So, she was the chef. Interesting.

Lucas grinned to himself. Suddenly he had something to do. Meet the chef. Check out the rest of her hot little body. And maybe he could find a better way to kill time than staring at the ceiling and contemplating his own navel. Maybe he could contemplate her navel…among other things.

His grin got broader. He had a project.

Excellent.

3

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.

4

WHAT THE HELL…?

Lucas shoved a hand through his hair and swore under his breath. One minute they’d been go, the next minute she was gone. Frustrated, he stared down at the erection straining the crotch of his jeans. Clearly, there was no chance of getting any relief in that department in the near future, even though she’d been sending out all the right signals—the heated look in her big brown eyes, the telltale pulse flickering at the base of her throat, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. God, she’d even grabbed him to pull him closer, an aggressive move that had taken him somewhat by surprise. Not that he didn’t like aggressive women—his whole sex life was predicated on the existence of women who came looking for what they wanted from him. He just hadn’t expected the move from someone who struck him as being more cuddly and cozy than vixen.

Then she’d shoved him away, nearly knocking him onto his butt, and bolted as though the house were on fire.

He shook his head. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had said no to him. Definitely he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to work to get one into bed.

Frankly, it was damn frustrating. He’d been all set to see if her luscious mouth tasted as good as it looked, then she’d slid out from under his arm, leaving him holding his dick, so to speak.

Which was not a recourse he’d had to resort to for a long time, thank you very much. Although if his johnson didn’t stand down soon he might have to seriously consider rediscovering the gentle art of self-fulfillment.

Grabbing his crutches, he hopped to the living room and stared blankly at the huge fireplace. Now that Sophie had nixed his chosen form of entertainment for the afternoon, he was back to being at a loose end.

Which reminded him that he’d forgotten to talk to Derek about relocating from this mountain gulag when he’d reamed him out over the diet earlier. Grabbing his phone, he dialed Derek’s cell and, surprise surprise, got his manager’s voice mail again.

“Get me out of here,” he said bluntly before ending the call.

The afternoon stretched endlessly before him. He had some scripts he could read. Derek would be hassling him to commit to his next project soon, anyway. He might as well get on with them sooner rather than later. Except he wasn’t really in the mood for plowing through pages of clichéd dialogue and preposterous plot points.

He could e-mail friends. Read a magazine or a book. Sunbathe. Swim.

None of it appealed.

In the normal course of things, he’d go for a run. A long, punishing run. Then he’d call up some buddies, maybe get his Harley out, go for a cruise somewhere, find some margaritas…

None of which was possible with his leg the way it was.

Man, four weeks of this forced inertia was going to kill him. To add a shiny cherry on top of it all, his armpits were starting to ache from the crutches. Last time he’d had crutches he’d grown to hate the damned things, too, he suddenly remembered. He’d been ten and had slipped running down the stairs at the state home where he’d been assigned, and broken his leg. His cast required wrapping in garbage bags every morning so he could shower. He’d gotten a lot of crap from his house mates about the fall, but everyone had wanted to sign his cast. Between them and the kids at school, he’d had over fifty signatures by the time the cast had come off.

Lucas frowned at the memory. He hadn’t thought about the old days for a long time. Not exactly the favorite part of his personal history. He pushed the memory away, back into the past where it belonged. “Never look back” was his personal motto, and it had served him well his entire life.

Turning, he headed for the gym. He could get an upper body workout in, at the very least, even if he couldn’t do his legs. That ought to keep Derek and the studio happy. And maybe if he exercised hard enough, he could go all-out and eat something that actually tasted like food for dinner.

He made a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. The way his luck was running, he’d probably get a celery stick and another sloppy spoonful of cottage cheese, served to him by Sophie dressed in a suit of armor.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE it’s over so quickly,” Becky said.

Sophie leaned against the pillows on her bed and closed her eyes. Her friend’s sympathetic voice was exactly what she needed to hear after the turmoil of nearly jumping a certain shallow actor’s bones.

What had she been thinking?

What had he been thinking?

On second thought, she didn’t really need to ponder that one too much. Lucas was used to grabbing what he wanted from life, like a kid given free rein in a candy store. And even though she patently wasn’t the kind of woman he was usually photographed with in the gossip mags, she was the only woman he was likely to see for the next few weeks. It didn’t take a genius to do the math.

Thank God she hadn’t succumbed. Thank God common sense had come to her rescue in the nick of time.

“Soph? Are you still there?” Becky asked.

Sophie dragged her thoughts away from Lucas—again—and concentrated on what her friend was saying. Right, they were talking about Brandon. About the break-up.

“Sorry, I’m still trying to come to terms with it all,” Sophie said. Which was exactly why she’d been so vulnerable to Lucas’s predatory charm, she decided, conveniently ignoring the fact that she was the one who had touched him first when she pressed her palms against his chest. His firm, strong chest….

“How are you coping?”

I’m experiencing almost irresistible urges to have sex with a virtual stranger.

“I’m not a blubbering mess, if that’s what you mean,” Sophie said. “But I feel so ripped off that Brandon didn’t try to talk to me sooner about how he was feeling. It’s like he woke up one day and decided he wanted out and that was it.”

There was a telling silence on the other end of the phone before Becky made a noncommittal noise. Frowning, Sophie registered for the first time the full meaning of her friend’s earlier words—I can’t believe it’s over so quickly.

So quickly. As though Becky had been expecting it to be over, just not so rapidly.

“Becks?” Sophie asked, encouraging her friend to spill what was on her mind. They had always been honest with each other. It was one of the foundation stones of their friendship.

“Well, it’s not like you had no warning, Soph,” Beck said apologetically. “I mean, Brandon was always going on about traveling to exotic places, like Africa or South America. And when you didn’t want to go, he started taking up all those extra activities—learning Italian, rock-climbing, scuba-diving. Classic restless-man stuff, really.”

Sophie’s first reaction was to bristle at her friend’s assessment, but then the There’s Something About Mary incident popped into her head again. Along with another incident. Four months ago Brandon had driven into the parking lot behind Sorrentino’s in a brand-new car. All the staff had poured out the door to admire the shiny paintwork and breathe in the new-car smell—and she’d just stood in shock that he’d made such a major purchase without consulting her. She’d been so embarrassed at the time, however, that she’d played along as though she had known. They’d talked about it afterward, but she hadn’t pushed Brandon to find out what was really going on, why he’d made such a challenging, provocative move without discussing it with her first.

Because, again, she hadn’t really wanted to know.

“Look, I should have kept my big mouth shut,” Becky said. “It’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay. I think—I think maybe you’re right,” Sophie said slowly. It was hard to say out loud. “I think maybe I knew for a while that he wasn’t happy, that he was restless. I didn’t do anything about it because I didn’t want anything to change.”

There was a long silence as they both digested her confession.

“I’m such an idiot, Becky. Did I kill my relationship?” Sophie asked in a small voice.

“Soph, he could have spoken up, too. It takes two to tango. Maybe you were both hanging on because you’ve been together so long, neither of you could imagine anything else,” Becky said. “I can understand how that might happen.”

We’ve been hiding with each other for too long.

Maybe Brandon was right. It was a scary admission to make, but, oddly, it made her feel less conflicted about the way she’d reacted to Lucas. Maybe, if she and Brandon had actually been treading water for a long time…maybe she was more ready to move on than she’d thought. Maybe that was why she was more angry than sad about the way Brandon had broken up with her. And why she’d reacted so powerfully to the sexual appeal of another man. Maybe she really had fallen out of love with Brandon a long time ago.

“Talk to me, Soph,” Becky said, concern rich in her voice. “Do you want me to take a few days off work and come stay with you? I’m worried about you being stuck up there in the mountains on your own.”

“I’m not alone. Lucas Grant is here with me,” Sophie said absently.

“Sorry. What?” Becky said, clearly stunned.

“Lucas Grant. I told you I was working for Lucas Grant, didn’t I?”

“Oh my God.” There was a clattering sound, then some fumbling, and finally Becky came back on the line. “I literally dropped the phone. And I think I may need to put my head between my legs. Lucas Grant! I can’t believe it.”

Sophie laughed at her friend’s out-of-character reaction. “He’s just an ordinary guy,” she said.

“No. No way is he ordinary. He is gorgeous. He is hot. He is a walking god. But he is not, nor will he ever be, ordinary,” Becky said fervently.

Sophie shook her head at Becky’s over-the-top avowal.

“He’s a dirty hound dog, is what he is,” she heard herself say before she could self-edit. Did she really want to get into a blow-by-blow description of what had nearly happened in the kitchen? “I’d barely known him an hour before he tried to get me into bed,” Sophie said.

Apparently she did.

The phone clattered to the floor again. “Let me get this straight. Lucas Grant wants to sleep with you?” Becky asked incredulously when she came back on the line. “And you said no?”

“Correct.”

“Sophie, you do realize that he is supposed to be one of the best lovers in Hollywood, right?”

“Sure. Like there’s a poll or something. Maybe he has a survey outside his bedroom for women to fill out,” Sophie said disparagingly.

Privately, however, a part of herself she didn’t even know existed pricked up its ears. One of the best lovers in Hollywood. What would a title like that encompass exactly? she wondered. Technique? Enthusiasm? Or was it more about equipment?

“Apparently he’s also got the biggest cock,” Becky added in reverent tones.

“Pfffttt. It’s probably a rumor his PR agent circulates,” Sophie said, struggling to hang on to her cool.

The biggest cock? She wasn’t exactly experienced in this area, Brandon being her one yardstick, so to speak, but she figured there’d be some pretty hefty contenders in the running. Tommy Lee, for one. And Lucas was bigger than him?

She squirmed, and was instantly glad that her friend couldn’t see her. It was bad enough having this conversation in the first place.

“I can’t believe we’re even discussing this. I just broke up with Brandon yesterday,” Sophie said.

There was a short, appalled silence.

“God, Soph, I’m so sorry. I forgot for a second. Lucas Grant does it for me, you know. He’s so…Anyway, you don’t want to talk about him anymore. Although—crazy thought here—what a way to get back in the saddle, so to speak.”

“Sorry?”

“You know, move on. With Lucas. And his great big—”

“Thanks, I got it. And it’s not going to happen,” Sophie said drily.

“If you’re sure.” There was a world of disappointment in her friend’s voice.

“I’m sure.”

The sound of her friend’s other line ringing in the background signaled the end of their call.

“That’s a client call I’m expecting,” Becky said apologetically. “But I’ll call again soon.”

Sophie sat for a long time afterward, trying to pretend she wasn’t thinking about what her friend had just divulged.

Lucas Grant was a great lover.

A generously endowed great lover.

It had been hard enough dealing with her unruly body’s reaction to him in the first place, but now every time she looked at him, she’d be thinking about what Becky had told her.

A part of her wished that Becky hadn’t said anything all.

But a bigger part of her didn’t.

5

LUCAS WOKE WITH HIS HEART pounding and a film of sweat slicking his body. The sheets were wrapped around his bad leg, causing not a small bit of pain as he struggled to free himself.

Sitting upright, he slid to the edge of the bed and braced his elbows on his thighs, letting his head hang. He hadn’t had the nightmare for decades. It had haunted him as a kid for three long years until finally he’d trained himself to wake up whenever the nightmare started to take over his dreams. After all these years it still had the power to rev his engine—he felt as though every muscle in his body was braced for fight or flight, pumped full of adrenaline thanks to his subconscious mind’s parlor tricks.

Standing, Lucas hopped into the bathroom and leaned against the marble vanity while he sluiced water over his face and shoulders. When he lifted his head from the basin, his reflection showed a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

He didn’t do uncertainty. Not by a long shot. For years he’d known exactly what he wanted, and gotten it.

At thirty-five, he was a man operating at the peak of his powers. He’d achieved all his career goals and had more money than he could spend in ten lifetimes. Life was good. Strike that. Life was great. There was absolutely no reason for him to be feeling tense and restless. And certainly no reason for a moldy old nightmare to resurrect itself.

Briefly his thoughts flashed to the biography. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a stretch to connect the recurrence of his nightmare with the appearance of that damned tell-all book.

His expression was grim in the mirror as he allowed himself to think about what was going to happen when the book came out. If it landed on the right desks, he was going to be hounded by every talk-show host to ever draw breath. Kids he’d shared bunks with in state homes over the years would be dug up, his old house mothers and teachers and foster parents would be interviewed. Everything that had previously been only his would be everyone’s to know.

The dark years.

The lonely years.

All the stuff he’d never wanted to see the light of day. The stuff he’d gone to great efforts to bury.

Derek, of course, was convinced the book could only do him good.

“People are going to love you for this,” he’d said once he finished reading the advance copy he’d brought around that fateful night. “Self-made man, dragging himself up by his bootstraps. The kid who had nothing becomes the man who has everything. Hell, it’s a movie in itself.”

Derek had gotten a far-off look in his eye at that point, as if he were about to start tapping away on an typewriter that very second, crafting a smarmy biopic to cement Lucas’s status as an object of pity.

Lucas had killed that little fantasy before it could take flight, that was for sure, along with all of Derek’s other ideas for capitalizing on the biography’s release. Lucas’s game plan hadn’t changed one iota from his initial gut reaction—ignore it, and hope it went away.

His damp skin was chilled now thanks to the air-conditioning, and he reached for the T-shirt he’d taken off when he’d gone to bed. At ten o’clock, no less. Who went to bed at ten, anyway? Five-year-olds? Nuns? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in bed so early.

Still, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do, since he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Sophie Gallagher since their almost-close encounter in the kitchen. He’d gone down at dinnertime to find the table set and his meal—a goddamned salad with steamed salmon and a midget-size portion of fruit salad—laid out in state for him. After eating alone, he’d exhausted the possibilities of television for a few hours, then finally retreated to bed to read some of his scripts.

Now it was three in the morning, and he was awake. And unlikely to be going back to sleep, the way he was feeling right now.

Grabbing his crutches, he tucked them into his armpits and headed for the door. Just for laughs, he took the broad steps down to the ground floor two at a time, then hopped into the living room. The room was dark and filled with shadows, but he’d identified the liquor cabinet earlier and now honed in on it unerringly. After swigging a mouthful each from three bottles, he identified a nice single-malt scotch and poured himself a generous tumblerful. He could have turned on the light and read the labels, but where was the fun in that?

Grabbing the bottle in one hand and the tumbler in the other, he made his way to the long couch in front of the fireplace. Stretching out along its length, he settled into the cushions and savored the burn of good alcohol sliding down his throat.

Technically, he wasn’t supposed to drink in combination with the painkillers he was on. He laughed as he poured himself another generous drink. He’d never been good at coloring within the lines.

As he stared out into the dark night, his thoughts gravitated to the absent Sophie again.

What was her story, anyway? It was possible she was married, of course. He’d checked for a wedding ring—none, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t. He didn’t do married. He didn’t do anything that smacked of hassle, trouble or strife. Or, more importantly, commitment. So perhaps it was just as well that Sophie had slipped away from him this afternoon, remembering the way her big brown eyes had stared at him as he’d zeroed in for the kill. She wasn’t like Candy-Cindy, ready to barter her body in exchange for a brush with fame. He recalled the feeling he’d gotten from Sophie—that sense of warmth and earthiness.

No, it probably was just as well that nothing had actually happened between them.

He laughed soundlessly as he swallowed another mouthful of scotch.

Who was he kidding? If the opportunity presented itself, he’d take advantage. Hell, he might even go so far as to make an opportunity present itself.

Grinning in the dark, he reached for the bottle to top up his drink again.

HE WAS DRUNK. Or at least he had been at some stage during the night. Even standing a few feet away from him at eight o’clock the next morning, Sophie could smell the alcohol coming off his body—his almost-naked body—stretched out along the couch in a boneless sprawl.

Or maybe naked was a subjective assessment. Some people might consider the skin-hugging, black boxer-briefs and chest-moulding T-shirt he was wearing more than ample clothing. Nudists, for example.

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