Read the book: «Burning Up»

BURNING UP
Sarah Mayberry

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

First up, a big thanks to Melbourne chef

George Calombaris, the creator of the crazy,

inspired meal that Sophie cooks in this book.

I will never forget the first time I ate his food.

Also thanks to Chris, for holding my hand through

rewrite hell, and to Sammas for first-chapter

therapy via the Net. And, as always, thanks to

Wanda, for letting me have the freedom to fix

things. What would I do without you?

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

1

“COME ON IN, Lucas, the water’s fine.”

Lucas Grant took another slug of whiskey and squinted at the blonde bobbing in the hot tub at the end of his balcony. Until she’d spoken up, he hadn’t realized anyone had stayed behind when the last guests had stumbled out the door of his Sydney harborside mansion a few minutes earlier.

He’d forgotten this one’s name. Candy? Cindy? Something with a C, he was pretty sure. She was lying back in the water, arms spread wide on the rim behind her, her hair tousled, her eyes heavy-lidded.

A slow grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he registered the trail of clothing she’d left on the way to the tub—a slinky little dress and the few scraps of Lycra and lace she’d obviously been wearing underneath.

Lucas moved toward her, tumbler held loosely in one hand.

“This is a surprise,” he said, even though it wasn’t.

Ever since he’d scored a role in a break-out movie back in his early twenties, his life had been full of moments like these. Blondes in hot tubs, brunettes waiting in his hotel room, redheads lingering outside the sound stage. Fame was the most powerful aphrodisiac known to mankind.

Or should that be womankind?

Whatever. The important thing was that despite the impressive quantity of alcohol he’d managed to guzzle this evening, his body was more than willing to take advantage of what was being so freely and generously offered.

As he stepped up onto the wood deck surrounding the tub, Candy-Cindy rose up out of the water, revealing her toned, tanned, cosmetically enhanced body to him in all its glory. He squelched the minor disappointment he felt at the realization that her generous twin endowments were man-made—did it really matter, at the end of the day?—and admired the way the water slicked down her slim, long-legged body.

“I hope you don’t mind…?” she asked, eyes wide. Tough to pull off the whole innocent Bambi routine when she was standing there naked and perky, but she gave it a shot anyway and he awarded her full points for trying.

His grin widened. “Baby, you are just what the doctor ordered,” he said.

Setting his glass on the tub surround, he pulled her close, one hand sliding down to cup a perfectly sculpted ass cheek, the other honing in on one of her twin assets. She closed her eyes as he moved in for a kiss, her lips opening beneath his with practiced ease. She tasted of wine, and her body was hot and firm against his. Moaning a little in the back of her throat, she slid a hand between their bodies and grabbed his hard-on through the denim of his jeans.

“You are not going to freakin’ believe this,” a male voice said behind them.

Candy-Cindy gave a little gasp of surprise and broke away from Lucas, covering herself with her hands. Lucas closed his eyes in frustration and swore loudly. Not for the first time, he regretted the necessity for his agent-cum-manager, Derek Lambert, to have a key to his house.

“Derek, mate, I’m a little busy, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he said brusquely, turning to frown at Derek.

True to character, Derek was completely unfazed. It didn’t matter to him that it was late on a Saturday night. Deal making was a twenty-four-hour job where he was concerned.

“Check it out. Completely unauthorized. We’re lucky we’ve had any forewarning at all before it hit the shelves.”

For the first time Lucas registered the paperback book his manager was brandishing—and, more importantly, his own image staring at him from the front cover. Big red letters scrawled across the bottom of the photograph—The Man Behind the Golden Eyes: An Unauthorized Biography of Lucas Grant.

Lucas swore again and reached for the book.

“What the hell…? How did we not know about this?” he asked.

“Small publishing house and a sneaky little rat of a muckraking journalist. The only reason we know about it now is because someone owed me a favor.”

Derek’s gaze shifted to Candy-Cindy, who had sunk back into the water, her ears almost visibly flapping as she took in their conversation.

“Hey. I’m Derek. Pleased to meet you,” Derek said, smoothing a hand down the front of his custom-made navy pinstriped suit as he sat on the tub surround. “I’m Lucas’s manager.”

“I’m Camilla. Pleased to meet you.” Lucas didn’t need to look at her to know she was pouting and throwing her shoulders back. Derek might be short, tubby and barely hanging on to the last of his dark hair, but he oozed power and connections. No doubt Camilla wanted to be an actress or a model or maybe just plain old famous, and Derek was never averse to playing the you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours game.

Returning his attention to the book, Lucas noted the crappy paper, the close-set print, the shoddy binding.

“This is a piece of shit,” he said dismissively, ready to toss it to one side. “No one’s going to read it.”

“I don’t care. We’re both going over the damn thing with a fine-tooth comb. If there’s a single factual inaccuracy in there, we can get a court order and kill this thing right off the bat. If there’s anything that burns me up, it’s people squeezing a buck out of you without going through me. We’re going to make these assholes pay.”

“Fine. I’ll take a look at it in the morning,” Lucas said, his thoughts reverting to Camilla as she stretched a long leg out of the water.

“We need to move quickly if we’re going to stop this thing. I’ll hang around while you take a look at it tonight,” Derek said, his own gaze also glued to Camilla’s limbs.

“I have other plans,” Lucas pointed out.

“She’ll wait. Won’t you, sweetheart?” Derek asked.

Camilla nodded eagerly. “Sure. I’ll just amuse myself out here.”

Derek grinned at the suggestive note in her voice. “I’m sure you will. I’m sure you’re a very resourceful woman.”

Lucas shot his manager a look. “Easy, tiger.” Sometimes Derek got off on the whole showbiz lifestyle 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 Carrie’s quick fingers. She had always been attracted to danger and fun.

Sophie ran a hand over the smooth, cool satin of the simple bustier she’d chosen today. Without a doubt, Carrie would have chosen the hot-pink one, and she would have worn it with sass and verve….

“You okay?” Becky asked, nudging Sophie with an elbow.

Sophie snapped out of her reverie, shaking off the old sadness.

“Sure.”

Glancing up, Sophie caught sight of the wall clock and nearly had a heart attack.

“Damn. He’s going to be home in twenty minutes,” she said.

“Into the shower. Quick. I’ll put this stuff on your bed and get the champagne ready,” Becky ordered.

Sophie hugged her friend impulsively. “Has anyone ever told you you’d make a great pimp?” she said.

“All the time. Why do you think I became a lawyer?” Becky said, poker-faced. “Now go make yourself irresistible.”

Sophie hustled into the bathroom, shucking her clothes in record time and stepping under the water before it even had a chance to warm up.

As she reached for the soap, she made a mental note to take Becky out for dinner or to buy her a thank-you gift for all her support. Sophie had never been big on talking about sex—perhaps because she and Brandon had been together since high school. They’d been each other’s first lovers, and there had never been anyone else for either of them. So it had taken a while for her to confide in her friend about such an intensely personal and private matter. Fortunately, Becky had proved to be a veritable treasure trove of information, with advice on everything from the best place to buy saucy lingerie to which books to read for bedroom advice.

“Soph, I’m going to skedaddle. You okay to take it from here on your own?” Becky called around the door. Sophie didn’t need to see her friend’s face to know she was smiling.

“Ah, yeah. I think I know what to do next,” Sophie said, tongue-in-cheek.

“Good lu-uck!” Becky singsonged on her way out the door.

Her mind on the time, Sophie turned the water off and scrambled out. Whisking a towel over herself, she walked naked and still damp into the bedroom and began to cinch herself into the bustier. It was an absolute bitch putting the stupid thing on backward and twisting it the right way around, but she figured the end result was more than worth it.

Making short work of rolling on black silk stockings, Sophie slid her feet into a pair of stilletto heels. She was short, her figure more Rubenesque than anorexic, but the high cut of her new panties and the dark stockings and high heels worked wonders. Satisfied with what she saw in the full-length mirror inside her closet door, she reached for her makeup bag. She’d finished lining her big brown eyes with smoky-kohl and was just dabbing on mascara when the phone rang. Groaning with frustration, she grabbed it and tried to do her other eye with the phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear.

“Hello?”

“Sophie, it’s Julie Jenkins calling,” a cultured voice said, and Sophie recognized one of the restaurant’s wealthiest patrons.

While she’d catered private functions for Julie a few times in the past, the other woman had never called her at home before. Switching gears, Sophie endeavored to sound professional even though she was acutely aware that she was dressed like a refugee from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

“Julie. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. Sophie, I’m calling to ask a favor. I need someone to act as private chef on my Blue Mountains estate for the next four weeks. An old friend of mine is recuperating from an injury. Would you be interested?”

Sophie frowned and put down the mascara wand. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I could take time off from Sorrentino’s at such short notice,” she explained.

“What if I told you your client would be Lucas Grant?” Julie asked hopefully.

Sophie’s eyebrows shot up. Lucas Grant was Brandon’s absolute favorite actor. Personally, while she admired his acting, she found his rampant bad-boy persona ridiculous. The man was in his thirties, when was he going to stop partying and grow up?

“Tempted?” Julie asked, clearly hoping Sophie would change her mind.

“Sorry, there really is no way I could get the time off,” Sophie repeated.

“Pity. The money’s good, and you were the first person I thought of,” Julie said. “You know how John and I love your cooking.”

“Thanks, Julie. And thanks for thinking of me. I only wish I could help you out,” Sophie said.

“Not a problem. And just so you know, Sophie, no one who knows anything about food paid a bit of attention to that foolish review last month. Sorrentino’s will always be our first choice when dining out,” Julie said.

They ended the call after another few minutes of small talk. But instead of diving back into her makeup bag, Sophie stared sightlessly at her hands, brooding once again about the restaurant review that had rocked her world last month.

She hadn’t even known they were being reviewed. When the photographer made contact to take shots of the dining room, explaining the reviewer had already been in for his meal, she’d felt slightly cheated. She liked to put her best foot forward when she knew a foodie was expected. Still, she hadn’t been too worried. Sorrentino’s had an excellent reputation and she’d received a strong recommendation from the same magazine five years ago.

Not so this time. She still remembered the words by heart. How could she not? They were etched into her pride.

On our last visit five years ago, Sophie Gallagher of Sorrentino’s in Surry Hills seemed set to become one of the shining lights of the Australian restaurant world. But it seems time has stood still in Sorrentino’s kitchen. On our return, we found the menu little changed, a disappointing discovery when dining in Sydney has taken some huge and exciting leaps forward in recent years. All was done well, but the choices on offer were safe, conservative, unadventurous. One can only guess that Ms. Gallagher has settled into a premature middle age.

Every time she thought of that last line, she wanted to spit. Smug bastard, passing judgment on her through her menu. She’d ranted and raved for days after the magazine came out, but fortunately the restaurant’s bookings had remained solid and Brandon and his parents had been more than ready to slough the whole thing off and forget it.

Probably good advice, but the review continued to niggle at Sophie, especially when people mentioned it to her—even well-intentioned people like Julie. A dozen times over the past five years she’d experimented with new dishes for the menu, testing new ideas and combinations. But always she returned to the understanding that Sorrentino’s was a family restaurant—an elegant, neighborhood place where husbands took their wives for anniversaries and their children for birthday celebrations. The menu she’d created five years ago suited their clientele admirably, as the restaurant’s success attested. Why rock the boat?

The sound of a key in the front door shook Sophie out of her brooding and had her shooting to her feet. She’d only mascaraed one eye, and her short, pixie-cut auburn hair was clinging damply to her skull. Ruffling it with her fingertips, she snatched at a lipstick and smoothed on some color just as the door to the bedroom swung open and Brandon entered.

It was Sunday, and they had exactly three hours before either of them was due at the restaurant for the night. They had champagne, black satin and sexy music—everything they needed for a little horizontal play. Throwing her shoulders back, Sophie struck what she hoped was a sexy pose.

“Surprise!” she said, giving him her best come-hither look.

Brandon froze. His gaze ran up and down her body. Then his shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes for a long, long beat.

When he opened them, the look in his eyes made her stomach dip with fear.

“Sophie, we need to talk,” he said.