Burning Up

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.