Burning Up Read online

  “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.

  From where Sophie was standing, they barely constituted the description clothing. She could see almost the whole length of his strong, muscular legs—his well-shaped calves, his strong thighs, the bruising around his left ankle and knee. She could see a patch of hard belly where his T-shirt had ridden up. She could see the substantial bulge in his boxer-briefs—a feature she eyed with reluctant speculation after Becky’s revelations the previous day. She’d never, ever wondered what a man’s penis looked like in her entire life before. Yet here she was, measuring him with her eyes, wondering….

  He shifted in his sleep, his forehead furrowing briefly, and she took a step back, terrified he was about to wake up and find her panting over him like a desperado.

  God, was she really panting?

  Yes, she was. To her everlasting confusion.

  How could she want to have sex with someone she had absolutely zero respect for? She was no prude, but she definitely believed that sex had to be accompanied by some kind of mutual liking and respect at the very least.

  Didn’t it?

  She studied his face, noting the way his long dark lashes swept his cheeks, the way his mouth was soft and slightly open in sleep. He looked…vulnerable. Surprisingly so. Without the power of his golden eyes to hold the world at bay, he seemed defenseless, an ordinary mortal like the rest of mankind.

  Quickly she corrected herself—he was as unlike an ordinary person as it was possible to get. He lived a life of privilege and indulgence, a life so far removed from her own that it might as well exist on another planet. Just because he looked like a lost little boy when he was asleep was neither here nor there.

  He shifted again, and Sophie decided it was well past time for her to back away and pretend she’d never seen him passed out here on the couch. Scanning his beautiful body one last time, she lifted one foot, ready to walk away—

  “Seen enough?”

  She almost dropped the plate of fruit salad and cottage cheese she was carrying as he opened his eyes and smiled slowly up at her. A shiver of awareness raced up her spine.

  “Um. I was just wondering if you were cold,” she improvised. “I was going to go get you a blanket.”

  “A blanket? It’s November. The middle of summer.”

  “But this place is air-conditioned,” she said feebly.

  “Do I look cold?”

  She didn’t dare scan his body again. She could feel her face burning with embarrassed heat, and she closed her eyes in mortification. There was no excuse for what she’d been doing—ogling. Sizing him up like a choice grade of meat in the butcher shop. Or like a particularly delicious pair of shoes she’d like to try on and walk around in for a while, see how they made her feel….

  “Would you like breakfast out here?” she asked without opening her eyes again.

  He surprised her by laughing. “Relax, Sophie. I don’t bite. Not unless you want me to.”

  Her eyes popped open of their own accord and he laughed again.

  “I wasn’t…I mean, I didn’t mean to…You were just lying here, and I—I…” She could feel her blush growing hotter by the second, if that were even possible. She was practically incandescent with embarrassment.

  His smile had faded and he regarded her closely. “You have the most amazingly clear skin,” he murmured, eyes narrowing.

  Now she should walk away. Definitely. Except she seemed to be stuck here, glued to the floor by the expression on his face and the tension sizzling between them.

  “Anyway, this probably makes us even,” Lucas said, the intent look vanishing as he settled back and put his arms behind his head, supremely at ease.

  “Excuse me?” she asked, trying not to notice the way his T-shirt had pulled up, exposing even more of his hard belly.

  “I have a little confession to make,” he said. His eyes were dancing, she saw. She’d known him less than twenty-four hours, but somehow she instinctively knew that that look meant trouble.

  “A confession. Right,” she said cautiously.

  “Yesterday morning when I got here, I noticed there was a telescope out on the balcony of my room. So I had a look through it.”

  “Yes?”

  “You really should make sure the blinds are down before you start walking around after a shower. Just a tip from someone who’s had his fair share of candid paparazzi shots over the years.”

  Sophie stared at him. What was he saying? Walking around after a shower? Make sure the blinds are down?

  And then she remembered—she’d wandered around the bedroom naked yesterday for a few minutes, finishing the last of her unpacking.

  He’d seen her naked?

  Lucas Grant?

  Through a telescope, no less?

  She was so appalled and at the same time suddenly, freakishly hyperaware of him that she didn’t know what to say or do.

  He’d seen her naked?

  “So, you see, this morning kind of makes us even Steven,” he said, grinning up at her in a way that told her he was perfectly delighted with himself and the world in general.

  “You creep,” she said before she could remember that he was a movie star and she the hired help. “Do you know how…creepy it is to spy on someone? To invade their privacy like that?”

  “Hey—it was an accident. The telescope was pointed at the window already. I just looked through the damned thing. Maybe the guy who was here before me was a creep, but I’m a victim here as much as you,” he said.

  He was still grinning, clearly not taking any of this seriously. Sophie felt an almost irresistible urge to upend his breakfast on him. Instead she turned on her heel and marched toward the kitchen.

  All the while, her brain was working overtime. How much had he seen? Her boobs? Her butt? Everything?

  “I swear, whoever put that diet menu together has stock in cottage cheese.”

  Again she jumped. He was right behind her. How had he caught up with her so quickly and silently? On crutches?

  “I mean, look at this stuff,” he said, propping his crutches against the island bench, much as he had yesterday. “It’s not really cheese. Cheese is tasty. Delicious, even. This is more like yogurt gone wrong.”

  He smiled at her, another one of his look-how-charming-I-am smiles. She put her hands on her hips.

  “Being cute is not going to change the fact that you invaded my privacy,” she said.

  “Was I being cute? Sometimes I don’t notice,” he said, his grin broadening.

  “Sure you don’t,” she said repressively.

  That made him laugh out loud.

  “You know, Sophie, despite first impressions, I think you and I are going to get on just fine,” he said, grabbing a piece of pineapple with his fingers and popping it into his mouth.

  She tried to ignore the way her breasts tingled when he paused to suck the juice from his fingers.

  “We’ll hardly see each other,” she said distractedly, watching as he selected a strawberry.

  “Come on now—that’s not very friendly. Not when we’re the only two people stuck up here.” He took a bite out of the end of the strawberry, his teeth very white against its red flesh.

  The tingling feeling spread to her thighs. More specifically, to between her thighs.

  “I’m not here to amuse and entertain you,” she said. She didn’t dare look down, but she had a strong suspicion that her nipples were trying to poke twin holes through the front of her T-shirt. Trying to be casual about it, she crossed her arms over her chest.

  What was with her damn body, anyway? This man had just admitted to blatantly spying on her, and her body wanted to get busy with him? Did it have no taste? No morals? No standards at all?

  “You’re not married, are you?” he asked.

  She blin
ked in surprise. “No,” she said before she could stop herself, then she could have kicked herself when he nodded with satisfaction.

  “No boyfriend?”

  “You are unbelievable,” she said.

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “Ouch,” he said, grin still firmly in place as he devoured a slice of melon.

  “Does it usually work on women, all this stuff? All the teeth and the naughty looks and the walking around half-naked?” she asked, determined to win back some ground.

  In reality, she was way out of her league and they both knew it. She’d sat in cinemas where his face had been projected on the screen twenty feet tall. She’d watched him save the planet, get the girl and punish the bad guys so many times that it was impossible for him not to be brushed with magic, no matter how many times she told herself he was essentially an insubstantial cardboard cutout of a man. He was also a very physically attractive man. Fame and good looks—pretty much a lethal combination in the sex appeal stakes.

  “You know, Sophie, I don’t really know. Usually I don’t have to go out of my way, if you get what I mean,” he said, looking vaguely thoughtful. “This is kind of a novelty for me.”

  She knew it was true that women probably threw themselves at him night and day. He probably had to climb over eager bodies every time he left his house. But still, it made her feel a little disappointed in the rest of womankind. He’d been blessed, sure, but did that mean that everything in life had to come easily to him?

  Well, one thing was for sure—she wasn’t going to come easily for him. It was patently obvious that he saw her as a bit of amusing fluff for him to while away the time with. He’d spotted her through the telescope, apparently not been repelled by what was on display, and now he’d decided to cock his little finger at her and allow her the privilege of enjoying The Lucas Grant Experience.

  She might be a babe in the woods after fourteen years with one man—and him her first and only lover at that—but she had her pride. Even if Lucas was the best lover in Hollywood with the biggest schlong, he also had the biggest ego and the biggest sense of entitlement. And he was in for a big disappointment where she was concerned. Starting right now.