Burning Up. Sarah Mayberry
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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