Burning Up. Sarah Mayberry
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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