Burning Up Page 13

  She was blinking away tears when she pulled back, and he caught her chin with his thumb and forefinger and forced her to look him in the eye.

  “What’s going on?”

  She shook her head. “You don’t want to hear all my baggage,” she said.

  He locked his arms tighter around her. “Yeah, I do. You just stuffed me full of food. I won’t be ready for dessert for at least an hour. Hit me with it.”

  A small part of him did a double take at what he’d just heard himself say. Lucas Grant actually encouraging a woman to talk to him about her feelings? Any second now, a litter of pigs was going to fly past the window.

  But then Sophie started talking. She told him about her sister, Carrie, and the stunts they used to pull when they were younger, the trouble they’d gotten into. And she told him about the night her sister took the family car for an illicit joyride with her boyfriend, about the accident and the funeral. How hard it had been to sleep alone in the bedroom she’d once shared with her sister.

  “I didn’t realize it until recently, but Carrie dying really scared me,” Sophie said. “It changed me. I’m not sure how it started. I think maybe I wanted to be good for Mom and Dad, because they were so sad afterward. But also…I think I’d seen what had happened to Carrie with all her wildness. It terrified me that I might end up the same way. So, I started playing it safe.

  “I chose Brandon because he was safe, and I chose to cook in his family’s restaurant because it was safe. And for the past fifteen years I’ve been toeing the line like a good little girl. Until Brandon pulled the pin. He knew, you see. He knew we were together for the wrong reasons.”

  She played absently with the neckline of his T-shirt while she spoke, her eyes distant as she tried to articulate her feelings.

  “I guess that’s why I wanted to cook for you tonight. I wanted to say thank you for helping remind me that life is about risk.”

  “Me?” he asked, surprised. “What did I do?”

  “You walked in the door,” she said with a laugh. But he had the feeling she might have said something else if he’d pushed.

  He didn’t.

  She kissed him briefly on the mouth. “Now, dessert.”

  That night, he tested his bad knee again by reversing their roles for a change. For more than two weeks she’d been on top, and he wanted to be the one giving to her for a change. She clung to him as he slid into her, her legs wrapping around his hips. She was soft and warm and tight and hot and wet and everything good and generous, and he did his utmost to give her the ride of a lifetime.

  Afterward, she fell asleep with her arm stretched across his chest and her face pressed into his shoulder. Brushing a lock of bright hair from her forehead, he closed his eyes and thought about what she’d told him. His last thought before he drifted to sleep was that there were advantages to having no one, belonging nowhere.

  THE NIGHT AIR WAS COOL on his skin, and he wove his bike back and forth in a long, wiggly line as he rode through the darkened streets. Houses raced by on either side and he pedaled hard, keen to get to where he was going: home. Home to his place, to where his mom and dad were waiting. No sooner had he thought it than he saw his place up ahead, the familiar solid square of the house looming on his left.

  He pressed the brake on his bike, panic surging through him as he got a good look at the house. The front door and all the windows were open and the curtains were streaming out as though someone had turned on a giant fan inside.

  Abandoning his bike on the lawn, he took the steps to the porch two at a time. Then he was inside, racing down the hall and into the living room.

  He stopped in his tracks, a whimper of fear and confusion rising in his throat as he registered the empty space. Nothing. No carpet, no furniture. Even the light fittings were empty of bulbs. He ran into the kitchen, but it was empty, too. The table and chairs were gone, and the cracked linoleum had been peeled back, leaving only the scarred floorboards. Into the hallway now, flinging doors open as he ran: bathroom, empty. No mirror, no bath. Bedroom, a blank space. Another bedroom. Then a last closed door. Surely they were in there. Surely.

  He ran forward, his fingers flattening against the cool wood as he pushed.

  The door swung open.

  He stared at the empty bed, the only sign that anyone had ever lived in this house, that he’d ever had parents, that he belonged to anyone.

  “No!” he cried. “No!”

  “Lucas. Lucas!”

  The sound of Sophie’s concerned voice snapped Lucas back to consciousness, and he became abruptly aware that his body was as taut as a bow. Sophie was leaning over him, her face a pale blur in the dark night.

  “Goddamn,” he said.

  Again. He’d had the nightmare again. He thought he’d beaten it. It had been two weeks. What the hell was going on with his head?

  He heard the sheets rustle, and then Sophie’s bedside lamp flicked on. Without a word she slid from the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the tap running and she returned with a tall glass of water for him. She handed it over wordlessly, then sat cross-legged on the bed, facing him.

  “It was the same dream, wasn’t it?” she asked when he’d gulped half the glass of water.

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “I disagree. This is the third time you’ve had it in as many weeks. That I know of, anyway. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’d had it more often. There’s obviously something on your mind, Lucas.”

  “Sophie, seriously. It’s sweet of you to be concerned about me, but there really is nothing to worry about.”

  It came out more firmly than he’d intended, and she was silent for a long time, studying him thoughtfully. Then she took a deep breath.

  “I know about your parents, Lucas. About the state homes and the foster placements.”

  She was careful to keep her voice neutral, but he could see the sympathy in her eyes anyway.

  That goddamned book.

  It was out—and people had noticed. And now everyone was going to look at him the way Sophie was. Every time he did publicity for a movie, every interview he ever gave from now on, they’d always be referencing his goddamned childhood. Asking about his parents, about what had happened. Pushing, wanting to know all the things he’d buried deep down inside.

  “How?” he asked, needing confirmation. “When?”

  “My friend called me from Sydney this afternoon. She knows I’m working for you, and there was an excerpt from a new biography in the newspaper.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  The daily paper, for Pete’s sake.

  Why hadn’t Derek warned him? He paid the guy hundreds of thousands of dollars every year to take care of this crap, and he’d had no warning…. Suddenly he remembered that Derek had left a message on his cell phone, but he’d yet to return the call. Shit.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you must have known about the book,” she said, her face creased with concern.

  “I did. I was hoping it would crash and burn,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair.

  She spoke slowly, obviously trying to pick her words with care. “I know it’s an appalling invasion of privacy, but you don’t have anything to be ashamed of, Lucas. Your childhood isn’t something you need to hide.”

  “I’m not ashamed of my childhood,” he said. It wasn’t shame that made him not want to talk about any of it—he simply didn’t want it to exist. He’d spent his entire adult life proving to himself that he didn’t give a shit that his parents had dumped him like yesterday’s garbage.

  And now some spineless turd of a journalist had dug up his secrets and the rest of the world wanted to poke him with a stick to see what made him tick.

  “Listen, I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Okay, I understand that,” Sophie said. “But what about the nightmares?”

  “Sophie…”

  “Lucas, there is obviously something you need to deal with here. Something to do with your family,
your parents—”

  “I don’t remember my parents. They dumped me when I was four years old. I know nothing about them, so the dream is not about them,” he said tersely.

  Sophie simply continued to hold his eye. “Have you ever thought about talking to someone?” she suggested quietly.

  Lucas heaved a great, angry, frustrated sigh. “Here we go.”

  “It might help.”

  “No, it won’t. I get on just fine, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him.

  “The nightmares will go away. They always do.”

  “You’ve had them before?” She sounded appalled.

  “Look. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does. These things do matter. Like me and Carrie. You need to look it in the eye and deal with it, Lucas.”

  Suddenly it all clicked into place—the special meal, the cozy chat about her sister. All of it coming on the heels of her little discovery.

  “I get it. That’s what tonight was all about, right? You offering up your sad little story of family suffering so poor old Lucas would spill his guts about his. You know what? I don’t need your pity and I certainly don’t need your amateur attempts at psychology. You think you know me, just because we screwed a few times…”

  He shook his head and spread his hands in the air to indicate how little it all meant, how far off the mark she was.

  Her jaw worked, and she blinked a few times. Then she rolled to the edge of the bed.

  She waited until she’d hauled on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts before speaking.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  Then she walked.

  He’d wanted to hurt her. To make her back off, to stop pushing.

  He’d succeeded.

  SOPHIE FOUGHT TEARS as she made her way to the cottage.

  Angry tears, she assured herself, because I want to punch him, but I can’t. He probably has his face insured for a bazillion dollars and I’d wind up getting sued.

  The cottage had an abandoned air when she let herself in the front door and turned on a light. Somehow, she ended up in Lucas’s bed every night, and gradually almost all of her clothes had migrated to his suite in the main house. Now, the only things left to show she’d ever moved into the cottage were some stray personal items scattered about.

  She paced the living room, trying to work off some of her anger. She was not his whipping boy. And she wasn’t going to feel wrong or guilty for caring about him, for trying to help him heal. She’d tried to help. Big freakin’ crime.

  The worst thing was, she knew he didn’t mean it. She knew that he liked her, that he cared for her. They’d become friends, at the very least. Intimate friends. But she’d gotten too close and she’d pushed him and he’d punished her. Because he was so screwed up about his childhood. About his parents—she was absolutely positive on that front now. His problems had something to do with them. Even though he said he couldn’t remember anything, his dream and his reaction tonight told her everything she needed to know.

  She looked up as the front door banged open. Lucas waited until he was standing in front of her before he spoke.

  “That was a shitty thing to say. I shouldn’t have taken my temper out on you,” he said quietly.

  “Yep,” she said.

  “And you’re right, I am an asshole.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you’re more than just a screw to me.”

  She shrugged a shoulder, even though she was inordinately pleased to hear him say it out loud.

  “If I do the dishes for a week and give you a foot massage every day, will you forgive me?” he asked. He flashed her his movie-star smile.

  “We have a dishwasher,” she said, refusing to be charmed. Oh, but she’d forgotten how compelling he could be when he put his mind to it.

  “I’ll let you be on top,” he said next, moving closer.

  She held her ground, and his chest brushed the tips of her breasts.

  “I’ll let you win at Scrabble.”

  She scoffed. “Let me win. You’ve beaten me once, pal. Once.”

  He smiled at her then, sliding a hand around the back of her neck and capturing her nape in the palm of his hand. He kissed her, a long, slow, thorough kiss that only ended when he rested his cheek against hers and spoke quietly into her ear.

  “I’m sorry, Sophie. You deserve better. Forgive me?” he asked.

  His voice was low and husky and infinitely sincere. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

  “Of course.” Of course she forgave him. She probably always would, damn his eyes.

  12

  PERHAPS IT WAS HER imagination, but Sophie felt as though the dynamic shifted between them after that night. There was something more in Lucas’s eyes when he looked at her, and certainly she felt a definite lurch in the general region of her heart when she looked at him. Their friendship had deepened. They’d acknowledged their mutual unwillingness to hurt each other.

  They valued each other.

  She woke on the last morning of their third week together with the thought fully formed in her mind. As usual, Lucas was still sleeping beside her, and she rolled onto her side to watch him. He had ridiculously long eyelashes for a man, and when he slept they brushed his cheeks. With his guard down, she could imagine him as the boy he once was, and she felt a tug of sadness and regret for the difficult path he’d had in life. He’d made so much of himself, and he’d come from such a hard place. He had a lot to be proud of, but she knew he didn’t see it that way.

  Not that they’d talked about the book again, or his dreams. And he hadn’t had another nightmare, although she suspected the two stiff whiskeys he’d taken to drinking before bedtime had something to do with that.

  Unfortunately, the rest of the world could not be blocked out so readily. She knew from conversations—arguments—she’d overheard him having with Derek that he’d had interview requests resulting from the biography. The moment he returned to Sydney, he would be inundated with media. And she had no idea how he was going to deal with any of it.

  But, of course, as he’d made quite clear, that wasn’t any of her business.

  Unable to resist touching him, Sophie traced the curve of his ear. They had one week left together. The thought made her stomach muscles tense with anticipated loss. It was going to be hard to walk away from him, from their time together. But she was under no illusions—their time together would end. She hadn’t become that foolish, at least. Hadn’t taken that last, perilous step toward inevitable pain.

  In the meantime, they had seven whole days to spend with each other, and she planned to relish every minute of every hour.

  Accordingly, she woke Lucas in the nicest possible way and they had drowsy morning sex, slow and sultry. Then she cooked them both breakfast, and afterward they lay on the couch doing a crossword puzzle with the morning sun streaming across their bodies.

  She lay lengthwise with her bare feet in his lap, and he rubbed her arches absently with his free hand as he contemplated the folded newspaper.

  “Twenty-five down. We’re looking for an African animal in five letters,” he said. “You’d think they could be more specific. That’s a big continent we’re talking about there.”

  “Try hyena,” she suggested. “Or tiger.”

  “Tigers are from India,” he said.

  “Really? Oh, yeah. Of course,” she said.

  He flashed her a smile and rubbed her arch again. “Hyena fits, though.”

  “See? There is method in my madness,” she said.

  He was about to read out the next clue when his cell rang. He scowled.

  “If that’s Derek calling me to hassle about those scripts again…” he muttered as he reached to grab his phone off the coffee table.

  Sophie watched his face as he took the call, trying to sort out his relationship with the much-maligned Derek. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Lucas seemed to disagree with his manager on a whole host o
f subjects—how much press he should be doing, what kind of movies Lucas should be making and all the St. Barnaby’s stuff being at the top of the list. Perhaps, she mused, they had one of those jostling male relationships, like Tom Cruise and Cuba Gooding Jr. in Jerry McGuire.

  “Adele. How the hell are you?” Lucas asked, the scowl on his face turning into a smile.

  Not wanting to eavesdrop, Sophie started to stand so as to give him privacy to take his call, but Lucas’s grip tightened on her feet and he shook his head at her, indicating the call would only take a minute. She settled back onto the cushions and reached for the crossword puzzle.

  Deliberately tuning out his conversation, she’d filled in the top right-hand corner of the puzzle before she heard something that made her stiffen.

  “Tomorrow night? God, I’d forgotten. Of course I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” he said. “What time do you want me?”

  Sophie felt an absurd lurch of dismay. Lucas was going to leave.

  God. It was over. She’d thought they had another week, but he was about to pull out now and, somehow, she had to find the strength to shrug it off and act as though it didn’t matter.

  Carefully she schooled her face into what she hoped was a carefree expression as he wound up the call. It took all her strength of will to glance at him casually when he finally put the phone down.

  “We’re looking for a vegetable with six letters,” she said.

  But he was looking apologetic, and she knew the time for cozy crossword puzzles was over. A tight feeling banded her chest and she let the paper drop into her lap.

  Here it is, the big goodbye, she thought.

  “Soph, that was an old friend of mine from drama-school days,” he said. “She’s an artist now, and her latest exhibition opens tomorrow night in Sydney. Unfortunately, I promised her months ago that I’d be there.”

  “Sure,” Sophie said with a shrug. “I understand. You have to head back a little early.”

  She started moving her feet off his lap again, but Lucas frowned and wouldn’t let go of her ankles.

  “No. I’ll go back for just the one night—it’s only an hour or so by car. And I want you to come with me,” he said.