Burning Up

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 into the room, smiled at her and shaken her hand.

It was such a shocking bit of knowledge, Sophie didn’t know what to do with it. She was twenty-four hours out of the only relationship she’d ever known. Brandon had just snapped her heart in two. She had no business being attracted to another man, especially one she’d just spent the last ten minutes denigrating for being shallow, feckless and immature.

She took a step backward, away from temptation and confusion. Feeling utterly overwhelmed, she glanced over her shoulder, looking for an escape route. The only door she could see led into the walk-in pantry. Good enough. Especially in an emergency. And this was definitely an emergency.

“If you’re after your lunch, I’ll bring it to you in a few minutes,” she said, backing toward the pantry.

“There’s no rush,” he said easily.

She felt the heat of his gaze flicking up and down her body, and her breasts tingled with awareness.

Good God.

Her fingers found the cool wood of the pantry door with relief.

“I have to, um, take care of something,” she said, then she turned and stepped into the pantry.

Standing in the relative dark surrounded by shelves of dry goods, she pressed a hand to her belly, aware of the steady pulse of her elevated heartbeat thrumming beneath her palm. Her breath sounded loud and fast in the confined space and she blinked several times, trying to work out what the hell was going on with her.

This had to be some kind of delayed reaction to what had happened with Brandon. She seized the explanation as if it were a lifeline. Of course that was what it was—some kind of weird expression of grief and loss. Her whole life had been turned upside down. She was bound to feel unsettled and…horny?

Closing her eyes, she made a helpless whimpering sound. Never in her life had she felt so out of control. So separated from her normal self. And she didn’t like it—not one little bit.

SHE WAS NOTHING like he’d expected.

Lucas stared after the chef, a frown pleating his forehead. Those breasts, that ass—he’d automatically assumed they’d belong to a striking Amazonian beauty. A really flexible, nimble, nymphomaniac Amazonian beauty. The kind of woman who littered his world.

But Sophie Gallagher was short. A munchkin, in fact. Her head barely came to his shoulder. Her face was more round and friendly than angled and sexy. If he were casting a movie, she’d be a dead cert for the wacky best friend, but never the romantic lead. Big velvety-brown eyes, a snub nose, a full-lipped mouth and dark red hair in a whimsical pixie cut completed the picture.

Nope. Definitely not what he’d expected.

Not that she was unappealing. Far from. She was just…different from the kind of woman he normally dallied with.

Swiveling on his good foot, he hopped to the living room, since she didn’t appear to be coming back from wherever she’d gone anytime soon. Pulling out a chair at the dining table, he sat and propped his crutches against the table.

Sophie. Her name was Sophie. He guessed she was in her late twenties, although it was hard to tell because she had very clear, youthful-looking skin. And though she might not be the kind of tall, leggy beauty he preferred, there was something earthy and warm about her. The more he thought about her, the more convinced he became that she was definitely worth exploring.

What the hell—it wasn’t like he had any better options on his hands.

The slap of bare feet on the stone floor had him glancing up, and he followed her with his eyes as she walked toward him. She had a rather delicious little swing in her hips, he noted, that made her butt wiggle with each step. And she had that great rack.

Who knew? She might even start a whole new thing for short women with him.

He was about to flash her his most roguish, charming smile when he clocked the meal she was setting before him.

Thin, unappetizing slices of chicken. Steamed chicken, if he didn’t miss his guess. A selection of green vegetables that looked even less appetizing than the chicken, if that were possible. And a white, amorphous blob of what he suspected was cottage cheese.

“What’s this?” he asked, frowning. He was starving, and this crap was so not going to do the trick.

“Lunch. From your diet chart,” she said, her eyes widening at his tone.

“My diet chart…?” he asked, before comprehension dawned.