Burning Up. Sarah Mayberry

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Burning Up - Sarah  Mayberry

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he glanced out the window and spotted his first pleasant surprise of the day—out on the balcony stood a big, kick-ass telescope.

      “All right.”

      Grabbing his crutches, he lumbered to the French doors that opened onto the balcony and stepped outside. He was greeted with a gust of hot, eucalyptus-tinged air, the warmth actually welcome after the air-conditioned house.

      He’d always had a thing for telescopes, and he’d been meaning to buy one of his own for years. Somehow, though, he never seemed to spend enough time in any of his three homes to get around to investing in one.

      The lens and eyepiece were protected by rubber caps, and he tugged them loose and lowered his head to the eyepiece. The telescope was trained down and to the right of the pool, and at first he saw nothing but blurry shapes and indistinct light and shadow.

      It took him a moment to locate the right dials, but soon Lucas was twisting knobs experimentally—until the image in front of his eyes shifted abruptly into sharp focus.

      “Holy hell!” he said, his head jerking back from the telescope in surprise.

      He stared blankly at the sky for a short beat, then grinned widely and lowered his head to the telescope again to make sure that his eyes had not been deceiving him.

      Framed perfectly between the not-completely-lowered edge of a Venetian blind and the windowsill of the caretaker’s lodge were the prettiest, plumpest, most delicious-looking breasts he’d seen in a long time. Full, creamy-white, with soft pink nipples that seemed to be sitting up and begging for his attention, they looked silky-smooth and very, very edible.

      The owner of the breasts was moving around, shifting things. A book. A folded piece of clothing. She was wearing a fluffy towel cinched around her waist, and he eyed the torso beneath the breasts, trying to imagine what the rest of her body might be like. Long legs? Peachy ass? And did she wax? Or was there a thatch of curls between her thighs?

      “Damn it,” Lucas said in frustration, then he sucked in a breath as the woman loosened the towel and let it fall to the ground.

      “Oh, baby.”

      His gaze roamed over her curvy, pert, juicy-looking butt, lingering on the two enticing dimples nestled in the small of her back.

      Registering the tightness in his jeans, Lucas glanced down. He was as hard as a rock, his boner straining against his fly. At the sight he suddenly understood what he was doing—spying on some unknown, unaware woman like a pervert. Or, at best, a horny teenager. Neither category he was eager to qualify for. He might be a hard-drinking, womanizing party animal, but he wasn’t desperate.

      Taking one last, lingering look at the breasts and an ass that would surely haunt him for days, Lucas forced himself to step back from the telescope.

      Who was she? That was the burning question. The caretaker? Some kind of domestic staff? A vague memory floated to the top of his brain—Julie explaining that she’d arranged for a local chef to take care of his meals for the duration of his stay.

      So, she was the chef. Interesting.

      Lucas grinned to himself. Suddenly he had something 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

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