Burning Up. Sarah Mayberry

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,