She opened the drawer and pulled out a condom…

“Oh, my God, Portia, this is like a fantasy come true,” Rourke groaned, “but I’m not sure I’m up to it. Wait. What the hell am I saying? The sexiest woman in the universe is standing next to my bed, unwrapping a condom. Hell, yes, I’m up to it. You’ll have to do most of the work, but still…”

It took Portia’s hormonally oversaturated brain about a nanosecond to imagine herself pulling off her clothes and going for a ride.

She picked up an ice cube. “I’m making you an ice pack. For your back.”

“Oh.” Rourke lay there for a second, his eyes closed. It was suddenly incredibly hot in his room. Portia proceeded to pack ice into the penis-shaped rubber, struggling to hold it still. Damn, why had she grabbed a lubricated one?

“Okay, I’ve just forfeited all my pride today, so I’ll just confess that I can’t watch you do that. Or let’s just say that I shouldn’t,” he admitted.

Portia felt a surge of sexual power. She stood there teasing him with her deliberate stroking movements. The sexual energy between them made her feel almost drunk.

“You’re a wicked woman, Portia Tomlinson.” Rourke choked out the words. “But I wouldn’t have you any other way…”

Really Hot!

Jennifer LaBrecque

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

A look across a crowded room…the flight of butterflies in your tummy…the slow tingle of awareness down your spine…the sizzle of the briefest touch. This is chemistry, the magic elixir of romance, the inexplicable, undeniable blossom of attraction between two people.

That’s what finally happens to Rourke O’Malley. Rourke made his first appearance in “The Last Virgin,” the final story in the anthology Getting Real. What a guy! The proverbial Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, and a nice guy to boot, Rourke had hero written all over him. Unfortunately, the heroine of the story, Andrea Scarpini had other ideas….

But a potential hero is a terrible thing to waste. How could I just let this awesome, sexy guy walk away? There was only one thing to do…find him some chemistry. And what better way than to give this hottie his own reality TV show, complete with a bevy of beauties to choose from? Only, the woman he wants is “don’t go there” associate producer and single mom Portia Tomlinson.

I hope you enjoy reading Portia and Rourke’s story as much as I loved writing it. The only thing I like better than writing is hearing from readers. You can look me up at www.jenniferlabrecque.com or drop me a note by snail mail at P.O. Box 298, Hiram, GA 30141.

Happy reading…

Jennifer LaBrecque

Books by Jennifer LaBrecque

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

886—BARELY MISTAKEN

904—BARELY DECENT

952—BARELY BEHAVING

992—BETTER THAN CHOCOLATE

HARLEQUIN DUETS

28—ANDREW IN EXCESS

52—KIDS+COPS=CHAOS

64—JINGLE BELL BRIDE?

To Leslie Kelly, Julie Elizabeth Leto and Vicki Lewis Thompson, talented writers and extraordinary people, and the chemistry behind GETTING REAL.

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

Epilogue

1

“ROURKE O’MALLEY is an orgasm waiting to happen,” Portia Tomlinson read aloud. She rolled her eyes and scrolled down the screen, following the postings on the fan site for The Last Virgin, the latest reality show she’d worked on as associate producer. “Give me a break. Some women don’t have good sense.”

Rourke had been the favored contestant, but the show’s bachelorette hadn’t picked him. He had, however, captured the hearts of female viewers around the world and they were in a veritable lust frenzy. Amazing. She swung around in her office chair.

“You mean you don’t think he’s an orgasm waiting to happen?” Sadie Franken, an administrative assistant, asked.

More than once, Rourke O’Malley had intruded on Portia’s dreams, but she wasn’t about to make that public knowledge. And she wasn’t happy about it, either. Portia shrugged. “He’s okay. Great face, great body, but that’s nothing new in Hollywood. Of course, this—” she gestured over her shoulder toward the computer screen “—should mean great ratings for our new show.” This time around, they’d signed Rourke on as their star bachelor and lined up twelve wealthy single women for him to choose from. She’d read an article citing that the latest trend among the twenty-something idle rich was to push their parents’ buttons by putting themselves in a controversial spotlight. They had twelve young women who were living proof. Portia, however, was the lucky duck saddled with baby-sitting Rourke, the star, through production. She eyed the petite redhead. “Obviously you’ve joined the legion of women ready to drop at his feet.”

Sadie raised her hand. “Guilty as charged. I’ve enjoyed several orgasms with him lately. I just crank my vibrator, close my eyes and Rourke O’Malley and I have a grand time.”

Brash and uninhibited, Sadie usually left Portia laughing. “That was so much more information than I ever wanted to know. Please feel free not to share in the future.”

Sadie arched a brow. “Can you honestly tell me you’ve never fantasized about him after working with him and seeing him day after day?” Portia opened her mouth but Sadie cut her off before she could utter the denial. “You’ve never thought about kissing that fabulous mouth? Never imagined that hot bod naked and sweaty and getting down? Never imagined him touching you, you touching him?”

Enough. “No, no and no. I haven’t.” But now thanks to Sadie, she had. A warm flush spread inside her and she mercilessly exorcized the erotic imagery.

“Well maybe you should—”

“Not.” Portia cut her off and finished the sentence. “I should not.”

“A little fantasy never hurt anyone.”

“I don’t have time for fantasy.” And if she craved the time, reality lurked right around the corner. The stark contrast between the two proved too painful. Portia lived in the here and now.

She’d found out nine years ago where fantasy got you—single, pregnant and shattered. The ensuing reality had been waiting tables, changing diapers, several long years of night school and working her butt off to get ahead and make a better life for her and Danny.

Sadie shook her head. “A woman without time for fantasy. That’s just not right.”

Portia grinned. “Sorry, toots.”

“When’s the last time you had a date?”

She shrugged and lied. “Not that long ago.”

“Ha. Name the day, place and man.”

Sadie was fun and they laughed together, but she’d just crossed into nunya territory, as in none of your business. Portia’d had one date in the last nine, almost ten, years. She had neither the time nor the inclination. Guys thought single moms were easy marks, desperate for sex. Thanks, but no thanks. The only thing she was desperate for was more hours in the day and a good pedicure.

Portia smiled to herself. Poor Sadie’d really be wrecked if she knew Portia hadn’t had sex since the last time she’d slept with Mark, Danny’s dad—wait, Mark hadn’t been a dad at all, make that sperm donor—just before she found out she was pregnant. Sweet-talking, pretty-boy Mark, who’d promised to love her forever, had dumped her before the word pregnant was out of her mouth. And he’d turned out to be one rung lower than a deadbeat dad. The last she’d heard, he was a crackhead shacked up in East L.A.

“You’re not going to answer me are you?” Sadie asked.

“Nope.” Portia smiled to take the sting out of it.

“Well, okay. Don’t date, don’t fantasize. I’ll handle all of that for both of us.” Sadie nodded toward the computer screen crammed with fan postings. “Me and the other women without good sense.”

“Good deal. You can drool enough for both of us.”

“What a wasted opportunity. It’s not fair you get to spend a couple of weeks shooting this new show with him. Fourteen days in a romantic setting with those blue eyes, that black hair, those chiseled features, that body… I’ve got chills just thinking about it.”

“I know.” Portia heaved a dramatic sigh, fluttered her lashes, and cooed in a falsetto voice. “Just me, him, the moonlight, the hot tub…” Portia lost the simpering tone and added dryly, “…a dozen poor little rich girls and a production crew. Cozy, intimate.”

“Go ahead, make fun. I’d be content just to breathe the same air he does.”

“You need to breathe a little more air now instead of waiting on O’Malley. Obviously your brain isn’t getting enough oxygen.” Portia glanced out the window. “Are we on red alert today?”

Actually, she thought the Santa Ana winds had blown through and temporarily cleared the wretched smog that smothered the city so badly that they issued breathing codes.

“Very funny.”

“I was just reminding you that even if I were remotely interested in Boy Toy O’Malley, and I think we’ve established that I’m not, he’s there to pick from a bevy of wealthy beauties and I’m a drone, there to produce a show that’ll pull in ratings.”

“Drone? That has such an ugly sound to it.”

“Ah, but apropos.” And nothing was going to stop her. This was her proving ground. One last two-weeker away on location. If she did well, she’d been promised a studio position. No more long stretches of time away on location, when Danny had to stay with her parents and her sister. He loved them and they loved him, but the poor kid only had one parent as it was. He deserved to have her around a little more. Yeah, she’d still work brutal hours, but she would be home every night and he’d wake up to her there every morning. She had high stakes riding on this assignment.

“I WANT to have your baby!”

Rourke ducked into the elevator and watched in horror as the woman chasing him brandished a pair of purple thong panties and almost lost a few fingers in the closing door. “I love you,” she yelled, dropping the panties and yanking her hand out at the last minute. “Call me.”

He slumped against the wall, relieved the stranger, nutso or not, wasn’t an amputee because of him. “The whole world’s gone insane.”

“Nah, man. Just the female portion. And, yeah, they’re all crazy about you,” his baby brother Nick said.

“I’m pretty sure I’m crazy agreeing to do this show and all of…this.” He gestured at the undies on the floor. No way. A piece of paper with a phone number was pinned in the crotch. Totally looney.

“You’re a good brother. You know I appreciate what you’re doing for me.” Despite his words, Rourke wasn’t sure whether Nick realized exactly how close he’d come to jail time. Embezzlement was a constant and serious temptation when you handled large quantities of money on a daily basis, and it had been a temptation his baby brother hadn’t resisted. If Nick returned the money, his employer had agreed not to press charges, preferring his money back to bad publicity. “Although choosing from twelve beautiful women with more money than God…I don’t know how much of a hardship that’ll be, bro.”

Nick really was clueless. “When people have that much money, they think they are God,” Rourke said. He knew. He worked with them on a daily basis.

“Okay, sorry I sounded like an ingrate. Ya know, I can’t thank you enough for helping me come up with the money.” The elevator door opened. Rourke checked out the hallway for any other lingerie-wielding women. Coast was clear. He stepped over the purple thong. With a shrug, Nick scooped the panties up and shoved them in his pocket. “And you were right about not telling Ma and Da, it would’ve killed them.”

Paul and Moira O’Malley had worked hard all their lives for a neat little house and yard in Quincey and an almost-comfortable retirement. They took pride in hard work, their home and their kids. If they knew how off-track Nicky had gotten…the shame of embezzlement and prison would indeed damn near kill them. Not to mention they wouldn’t hesitate to impoverish themselves trying to help him out of his jam. And Rourke wouldn’t see that happen, or he’d die trying.

As an investment banker, he made decent money. Investment being the key word—most of his money was tied up. Ready cash simply wasn’t that ready. Nick had pointed out that reality-TV winners could bring in big bucks. It had seemed like a long-shot, but more palatable than a loan shark.

It was too bad Nick couldn’t have been the one on the show. Nick had good looks and the charm to go with it. Having all those women acting crazy about Rourke was just testimony to the power of suggestion and slick PR hype. In the last twelve years, his braces had come off, he’d filled out a hell of a lot and traded in pop-bottle glasses for contact lenses, but Rourke knew he was a geek beneath it all. And he still found mixing and mingling difficult. He could talk financial investments all day, but outside of that, he was pretty much at a loss. He’d heard himself referred to as the strong, silent type, which made him feel even more like a fraud because he knew he was the quiet, I-don’t-know-what-to-say geeky type. The truth of the matter was, women sort of scared the hell out of him.

But here he was, having blown the first opportunity to cash in on reality TV, moving on to round two, a sure thing to bring in the cash and keep Nick out of prison.

He unlocked his apartment door and Nick followed him in. He’d lived here two years and still loved the view from his place, the mix of modern skyscrapers, pre-Revolutionary redbrick buildings and Boston’s legendary harbor.

“Thanks for looking after my place while I’m gone. Watson’ll be much happier at home this time.” Hearing his name, the miniature schnauzer jumped down from the recliner he shared with Rourke and trotted over to him. Rourke bent down to scratch him behind the ears. “We’ll go for a walk in a minute.” He straightened and Watson walked over to sit patiently at the door. “You know Mom and Dad aren’t really dog people.”

Watson had stayed with his parents during the taping of The Last Virgin. Not only had poor Watson lost the comfort of his recliner, he’d been relegated to the yard. This time around, Nick was staying at Rourke’s place and dogsitting.

“It’s cool. Wats and I are buds, but I hate scooping up the crap when he goes for a walk.” Nick shuddered, wearing a look of disgust.

Rourke laughed with something close to incredulity. Nick could be so damned self-absorbed it amazed Rourke. “Probably not nearly as much as you’d hate being some tattooed felon’s prison bitch. Keep that in mind while you’re cleaning up after Watson. It’ll put all the crap in your life in perspective.”

Nick winced. “Where’s a poop-scoop bag? Bring it on.”

Rourke grabbed Watson’s leash and passed the requested bag to Nick. Case in point, Rourke thought as he laughed with genuine amusement, it was impossible to stay angry with Nick.

“I’d love to trade places with you,” Rourke said as they headed back out the door, Watson leading the way. He shuddered thinking about the next couple of weeks. It hadn’t been so bad on the last show, a bunch of guys and one woman. And he and Andrea, the bachelorette now known around the world as The Virgin, had actually become friends. If they’d been on the set a bit longer he thought he might’ve become friends with the Goth-clad lead camera woman, Jacey, as well. Jacey was a bit of an odd fit and he’d instinctively known she wouldn’t mind if he was a geek. But this time, it was only him and a legion of spoiled, high-maintenance women. And Portia Tomlinson.

He’d had mixed emotions when the studio listed her as associate producer. Portia fascinated him. Despite her friendly, easy demeanor, she had a way of looking at him with a trace of disdain, as if she’d judged him and found him lacking in some way. Perhaps if she got to know him better….

He’d thought about asking her out after the last show but they’d immediately offered him this upcoming show. And then there was the matter of him living in Boston and her living in LA. And those were both nice excuses. The ugly truth was he’d figured she’d turn him down so fast it’d leave his head spinning. “Trust me, I’d rather clean up after Watson than be hounded by those pampered princesses.”

They got on the elevator.

Nick, who ran through women the way a slots addict in Vegas runs through a bag of coins, shook his head. “You are seriously warped, Rourke. Like, maybe you need some therapy. I can’t say I understand it, but I appreciate your sacrifice.” Nick punched him on the shoulder. “Who knows? A dozen hot women, you might find your own true love.”

Maybe he did need therapy. Twelve women and he was half smitten already with a woman who wasn’t available. “Yeah.”

“I don’t want to step on your toes or anything, but I could give you some pointers. You know, I do okay with women,” Nick said. That was an understatement.

Rourke wasn’t exactly hitting any home runs on his own. Portia had treated him as if he were a piece of furniture, a prop, on the last show. And he didn’t want to humiliate himself by bombing with the twelve women. Best possible scenario would be to drag Nick along, a modern version of Cyrano de Bergerac, but that was impossible. He supposed the next best thing would be pointers. “I think I can use all the help I can get.”

The door opened and Rourke was relieved to find the lobby empty. Nick shoved the poop bag into his pocket and grinned, “Welcome to Women 101.”

PORTIA SCHLEPPED her suitcase along the service hallway of the mansion set high in the hills overlooking Hollywood. She grinned to herself. One of the first of many differences between a drone and a princess. Drones carried their own baggage.

“Can I help you with that?” The low, rich baritone slid across her skin, leaving a trail of goose-flesh in its wake. That voice belonged to the man who had haunted her dreams and left her discontented and frustrated the last couple of nights. O’Malley.

She pasted on a smile and glanced over her shoulder without breaking stride. “Thanks, but I’ve got it.”

Oh. Those startling blue eyes were right over her shoulder. He was closer than she’d thought.

“It’s no trouble,” he said.

She bit back the comment, save it for the princesses, pretty boy, they’re gonna run you ragged, reminding herself O’Malley was her star and it was her job to keep him happy. If he wanted to schlep for her then who was she to stand in his way? She stopped. “Well, thank you then, if it’s no trouble.”

She relinquished her suitcase, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. A slight tremor ran through her and the hallway suddenly seemed narrow and confining. His broad shoulders took up an inordinate amount of space and his subtle scent surrounded her.

Since the filming and subsequent airing of their previous show, The Last Virgin, the seemingly impossible had happened. Rourke O’Malley looked even better than he had before. Portia’s gaze stopped on the top two buttons of his golf shirt, which were unbuttoned, revealing a smattering of dark hair and tanned skin. She glanced up. For a second his eyes held hers and something passed between them that Portia didn’t want to acknowledge. Drawing a deep breath, she turned away from him. “It’s this way.”

“I’m following you,” he said.

They started back down the hall and Portia scrambled to dispel the awareness that lingered between them, to get things back on the friendly, light footing she maintained with all her co-workers. He was just another cast member and the good-looking guys never tired of hearing how… well, how good they looked. “You’re looking great. Obviously the adoration of thousands agrees with you.” She offered a smile.

O’Malley shook his head and looked embarrassed. Not the faux embarrassment so many handsome men adopted, but genuinely loosen-his-collar embarrassed. “The whole thing is crazy.” They turned a corner. “A woman chased me onto an elevator this week to give me her underwear… with her name and number pinned in the crotch.”

It was both funny and slightly erotic. Portia couldn’t choke back her laughter. O’Malley shot her a censoring look. “I hope she wasn’t wearing them at the time and I hope they were nice.”

He shook his head again, a glimmer of a smile in his startlingly blue eyes. “She had them in her hand. Purple thong. She offered to have my baby.”

He wasn’t boasting. It was more as if he were still reeling from the weirdness of it. It just confirmed Portia’s earlier assertion that some women had lost it over this guy.

“Well, the burning question is, did you call her?” Portia couldn’t resist teasing him.

“No. I didn’t call her,” he said, indignantly. Then he looked rather sheepish. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did, but I’m glad you confirmed it for me,” she said, stopping at the room door marked on the site map as hers. Go figure, the mansion was so huge, they’d armed the production crew with maps. And all of a sudden, she realized she’d been as relaxed, but still aware of O’Malley as a man instead of just a cast member, as she’d ever been. Which effectively dispelled any lingering camaraderie.

“Well, this is it.” She opened the door and turned for her suitcase, “I’ve got it. Thanks so much.”

O’Malley acted as if he hadn’t heard her and brought her luggage into the room. He glanced around at the single dresser and unframed mirror, the ladderback chair, uncarpeted concrete floor, his gaze finally settling on the narrow bed that was little more than a cot. “This is… minimalist.”

It was positively Spartan.

“You and the pri—” she caught herself in the nick of time, she had to stop thinking of the contestants as princesses “—contestants are housed in guest rooms. The crew, except for Lauchmann and Daniels—” the producer and director “—well, the rest of us get the slave quarters.”

Like a change in the wind, the atmosphere between them shifted. O’Malley flicked his eyes over her and heat seared her. “It’s hard to imagine you as anyone’s slave,” the husky note in his voice fired her imagination.

“I don’t take orders well. Do you?”

“It depends on what’s being asked of me,” he said. His glance slid over her. “And who’s doing the asking. Speaking of… How does our relationship work?”

“Our relationship?”

“During the filming.”

Of course. “Well, I need you to cooperate. If I ask you to be somewhere or do something, if you could accommodate that? On the other hand, it’s my job to make sure you’re satisfied—” that didn’t sound right “—that your needs are met—” oy, that sounded even worse, next he’d think she’d be offering her underwear with a phone number “—if you need anything, please let me know.”

“Anything?” He quirked a dark eyebrow and her heart knocked hard against her ribs.

“Within reason.” She squashed his suggestive note.

“I’ll try to keep my requests… reasonable.”

“I appreciate that. And I don’t think you’ll find me too demanding.” What was wrong with her? Why did demanding seem fraught with sexual innuendo?

“I’m more than willing to accommodate any of your demands. Just let me know.” Rourke hefted her suitcase to the bed which didn’t give an inch. “This bed is like a brick. Do you like it hard?”

It’d been so long she couldn’t remember…and that was so not what he meant. He’d awakened some sexual energy she’d thought was long gone. But obviously she wasn’t immune to drop-dead gorgeous O’Malley standing by her bed asking her if she liked it hard. The thought alone made her shiver inside. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

“This hardly seems fair compared to our rooms.”

“Oh, come on. Could you imagine Tara Mitchells in here?” Tara’s father was an oil mogul. Or was he the real estate mogul? All the fathers were moguls, it merely varied by industry. “Or maybe one of the gaffers bunking down next to her?”

“Okay. You’ve got a point.”

“Plus, we’ve got security in place that rivals Fort Knox. If some looney or terrorist group decided they wanted some ready cash, they could pick up twelve hostages, whose families’ combined wealth is more than that of some small nations, in one fell swoop.”

Rourke nodded. “I’d thought about that too. The studio’s taking some pretty big chances on Pick a Date with the Rich and Beautiful.”

Portia’s surprise must’ve shown through.

“What?” Rourke asked.

“You’re one of them.”

Rourke laughed. “Not by a long shot. I’m not rich. I do okay, but I’ll never be in the same league as any of their wealth—”

“Unless you marry one of them.”

“Nobody said a word about marriage and I read the fine print on my contract. But even if I went there, it’s still not my wealth is it? And as for being beautiful, the panties and all of that, it’s just media hype. I know what I look like.”

“And so do the women of the world. You’re an incredibly handsome man, O’Malley, but then I have a hard time believing you don’t already know that.” She said it dispassionately, impersonally, as if she were observing the weather. In Hollywood, good looks were a commodity.

He shook his head. “My brother got the looks in the family.”

There was another O’Malley that looked better than him? “God help the women of the world.” And she mentally made a note to pass the info along to PR.

Her cell phone rang and her mother’s number flashed on caller ID. “Excuse me. I need to take this call.” She turned her back to him, dismissing him and the sexual energy he exuded. She flipped the phone open. “Hello.”

“Hi, Mom,” Danny said.

“Hey, you.” She walked over to the small window that overlooked the back kitchen entrance.

“Are you busy?” He’d learned always to ask if she was tied up on the job. Every time she left home for a location, he called the first day or so. Poor guy. He was amazingly flexible and resilient, but it was an adjustment for him every time she traveled. It’d be nice to move into the studio job.

“No, I’m not too busy. What are you doing?” A white-jacketed cook stepped out of the kitchen door and lit up a cigarette.

“Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you got there okay.”

“I did. This house is cool. You’d love it.”

They talked for a minute about his day and she assured him she missed him before she ended the call.

“Love you, Danny. I’ll call you tonight.”

She snapped the phone shut and turned around, surprised to find O’Malley still by her bed.

“Oh, I thought you’d left,” she said.

“I just had one more question for you.” He shifted his weight to his other foot and nodded toward her phone. “Boyfriend?”

Portia shook her head. “The love of my life.” Her private life was her own business and let him make of that what he would. And maybe that would block this energy, this awareness, that seemed to flow between them.

“So you don’t need to go on a TV show to find someone special?”

They couldn’t pay her enough. “No. I have someone special waiting at home.” This was much better. Now if she could just get him out of her room before she found herself mired in more inappropriate thoughts. “Thanks for bringing my suitcase. I’ll see you at the briefing.”

She all but pushed him out into the hall and closed the door behind him. She blew out a deep breath and realized O’Malley’d never asked the question he’d waited around to ask. Too bad, so sad. She’d needed him out of her room. He had a way of invading her space, getting under her skin, unnerving her.

She opened her suitcase on the bed. O’Malley’s scent lingered—or was it all in her head? Do you like it hard? She felt flushed. God help her, but her nipples hardened just thinking about the lazy challenge in his deep-blue eyes. Her hands shook slightly as she unpacked her underwear.

She had a feeling this was going to be a very long two weeks.

ROURKE WANDERED BACK through the mansion, fascinated by the architectural details in the house and disquieted by his encounter with Portia Tomlinson. She was pleasant, complimentary even, but he still had the feeling she disliked him. No. That wasn’t exactly true. It was something between dislike and dismissal. She’d told him how handsome he was and even with her dispassionate tone, it’d meant more than all the crazy rantings Nick had shown him on a Web site. Pathetic really. When she’d laughed and teased him over the purple panties, she’d been different—more accessible, not so distant—which only accentuated the other.

And the change in her when she’d taken that phone call—there’d been a softness about her. What kind of man brought that look to her face? She’d deemed the caller, Danny, the love of her life and Rourke had felt a stab of something akin to jealousy. Which was ridiculous because she was clearly off-limits. He was about to meet twelve beautiful women who were here because they were interested in him. So what if, every time he was in the same room with Portia, his gut knotted and he felt as energized as he did when he was about to close a big deal?

And obviously he hadn’t listened closely enough to Nick’s pointers. For God’s sake, he’d been in her bedroom… But then again, her boyfriend—nah, the love of her life—

“Hello again,” said a female voice directly in front of him.

He stopped. He’d almost plowed right into Jacey.

“Sorry, my mind was somewhere else.” He shook his head to clear it of Portia. He was delighted Jacey was here. He grinned at her. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you’re going to be the person behind the camera on the set.”

She returned the grin. “Yeah, it’s a regular old home week.”

“No kidding. I just ran into Portia,” he said.

“Her room is next to mine. We’re staying in the servants’ quarters,” Jacey said. “Tells you something about our jobs, doesn’t it?”

“Is it really that bad?” he asked.

“Nah. There are worse ways to make a buck.”

“How’d you get started in this business? Have you always been interested in cameras?” he asked, genuinely interested.

Jacey glanced at him suspiciously, as if he couldn’t possibly be curious. He laughed aloud at her dark look. “I really want to know. You sort of remind me of my younger brother.”

“He’s into Goth?”

Rourke laughed aloud at the mental image of Nick decked out in Goth attire. He’d have to be drugged or dead first. “No. He’s into Ralph Lauren, but you both say what you think.”

Jacey relaxed, and began outlining her work history. The transformation was incredible. Finally, she gave a self-conscious laugh. “Probably more than you bargained for there.”

“No. I think that’s really cool.”

“Have you ever looked through a studio camera?”

“I’ve never had any exposure to TV before this.”

“I could show you sometime. Like maybe after taping or something. If you wanted to. But you don’t have to.”

“That’d be awesome. I’d love it. You just tell me one day when you have time.”

“It’s a deal then. The camera brings this clarity to things…” she caught herself. “Whoa, there I go again.”

“It’s obviously more than a job with you. More like a passion.”

“Pretty much.” She cocked her dark head to one side and looked at him. “You know, you sort of remind me of Digg. You’re real.”

“Thanks. I’m extremely flattered. He seems like a great guy.” It hadn’t been rocket science to figure out that Digg and Jacey were an item. An unlikely item, but an item nonetheless. Although, after chatting with Jacey they didn’t seem as unlikely a couple as before.

“He’s okay.” Her smirk belied her tone. She checked her watch. “Holy shit. You’ve got a briefing and I’ve got camera checks in ten minutes. Portia’ll have my ass if I’m the reason you’re late.”

“Really? She’s a task master?”

“Not really. But she’s punctual.”

“She’s sort of hard to get to know. What does she do for fun?” Rourke shamelessly pumped Jacey for information about Portia.

“Laundry? Seriously, I don’t know. She keeps to herself. Hey, what’s with the interest in Portia? Twelve rich girls aren’t enough selection for you?”

“Of course not. I mean, of course they are. I was just curious about her since we’ll be working together. I’m not interested in her that way.”

The minute the words left his mouth, he realized they were patently untrue.

2

“HERE ARE the dossiers on the women you’ll be meeting this evening at the predinner cocktail party. You’ll find a variety of blondes, brunettes and redheads with varied interests. They do have three things in common. They’re all women,” Portia joked. Well, only sort of joked. The “female” contestant on Make Me Over had surprised everyone when she’d revealed that “she” was a “he.” “They’re all beautiful and they’re all wealthy. You’re the most envied man in America.”

O’Malley took the booklet and leafed through it.

Portia watched Terry and Jeff, sound techs, check out the wiring and test the sound nearer the divan. They’d planned the meet-and-greet cocktail party in this room. Reminiscent of a Moorish castle, the entire house was a masterpiece of intricate tilework, carved wooden doors, arched doorways and a maze of high-ceilinged hallways that led to private quarters and a central Turkish bath that boasted live palms. The mingled scents of almond, sandal-wood, frankincense and myrrh perfumed the air. It was opulent, with more than a hint of decadence, and a most fitting setting for a handsome man and his harem. Actually, and this twist delighted Portia, the house had originally belonged to a 1930s actress infamous for keeping a retinue of lovers on hand, a reversal of the classic male/female harem roles.

This room, the salon, was particularly lavish, with rich fabrics, low sofas, muted lighting and a high ceiling painted to resemble a velvet night sky alight with hundreds of stars. Doubtless these very walls contained the echoes of pleasure, perhaps with more than one lover at a time.

Was it her conversation with Sadie, the sensual setting, or the totally gorgeous bachelor beside her that had forbidden images teasing at the back of her mind? Images of her supine, being pleasured on that low divan by a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man who bore a striking resemblance to O’Malley were inescapable.

Ruthlessly, she swept aside the mental picture. Any pleasure given or received in this room, at least of the carnal nature, wouldn’t involve her. Portia’s delight would be in the subsequent ratings. One of the twelve women and O’Malley would play out that love scene. And it was her job to see that it happened. Sex sold. Sex pulled in viewers. And ratings meant she’d done her job well.

O’Malley finished thumbing through the photos and bio sheets. “You’re right. They’re all women.” He grinned, which notched up his sex appeal to a devastating level. “They’re definitely attractive and they all have that monied look about them. Have you met them? Were they nice? What do you think?”

Portia squashed the tingling response that slid down her spine and reminded herself that Rourke O’Malley was just another pretty face.

She’d met them. Nice and money, while not mutually exclusive, certainly didn’t go hand in hand. Nor did money ensure good taste and decent conduct. All the women had massive egos and she could foresee more than a little jealous bickering. And that would make for good footage. Portia smiled. “I’ve met them and I think you’ll find this very interesting. And very gratifying.”

“Good.” O’Malley shifted the papers into his other hand. “I know where this question is going to get me, but I’ve got to ask anyway.”

Here it came. The inevitable twist question. The “winner” had been promised her own TV show. It was weird, but hey, it had worked. Any of the women’s fathers could probably buy a network, but they all wanted to compete for their own TV show, which should, once again, translate to good footage as they all tried to show how outrageous and at home they could appear on the camera. Of course, she couldn’t reveal this to O’Malley. Terry and Jeff moved to the other side of the room, checking the audio cables running along the baseboards. Must be a snafu. She’d better check with them when she wrapped this up with O’Malley. “Go ahead. Ask away.”

Anticipating his question and distracted by potential sound problems, she didn’t really listen to the question, she just answered what she expected him to ask. “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.”

He quirked one dark brow. “You can’t tell me why you don’t like me?”

He’d asked why she didn’t like him? A flush crept up her face. Portia had realized early on that one of her greatest assets was her ability to get along well with pretty much anyone and everyone. She had a knack for putting people at ease. People found her easy to talk to. The fact that she never offered personal information in return usually worked to her favor. Mostly people wanted to talk about themselves. “I thought you asked about the twist.”

He waved his hand in dismissal. “I never expected that you’d tell me anyway. I know I’m not a virgin, so that’s out the window.” His blue eyes twinkled devilishly and Portia wasn’t sure whether he was making fun of himself or flirting with her, or perhaps both.

But she did know a slow heat seeped through her at the visual supplied by her recently activated imagination—O’Malley naked, thrusting between a woman’s naked thighs. “I’m sure. Many times over.”

O’Malley shrugged. “Many is a relative term. I’m not a player. And I can only hope you don’t slip in a transvestite like on that other show.” He grinned, and Portia smiled in return. Most drop-dead gorgeous men took themselves far more seriously than O’Malley.

“No surprises there.” The production crew had managed to save that show, but afterward the executive director, Burt Mueller, threatened to can the entire screening crew if another transvestite revealed him- or herself on one of his shows. In typical Burt Mueller fashion, he’d declared he wouldn’t become known as the Transvestite Forum Network. She reassured Rourke again. “They’re all real women.”

“For certain?”

“For certain.”

“That’s good to know,” he said.

She bet it was. Portia’d seen a few looks pass between some of the male crew that clearly said they didn’t want to think about the point when a guy might figure out the “woman” carried the same equipment they did.

“You still haven’t answered my question. Why don’t you like me?” Despite his easy smile, his eyes were serious.

“I don’t dislike you.” And she didn’t. Not exactly. She was wary. When he’d been on the set of The Last Virgin, she’d dismissed him, categorizing him the way she did all narcissistic men. But O’Malley refused to be dismissed or categorized and that wasn’t a good thing. His low-key charm and good looks raised Portia’s red flags. It was akin to instinctively knowing a pretty red berry you found in the woods might look good and taste good but wasn’t necessarily good for you. However, she was supposed to be working with him and keeping him happy. She reiterated her earlier assertion. “I don’t dislike you at all.”

“I think you’re splitting hairs.”

O’Malley was more discerning than she’d given him credit. “I have a job to do. I can’t allow myself to get too close to our cast members.”

“I just feel like you know everything about me and I know nothing about you.”

She shook her head. “Contestants pretty much agree to open their lives up to the public. It’s the price of celebrity. But there’s the difference. You’re a participant. I’m behind the scenes. And I like it that way.” She personally thought anyone who agreed to come on to one of these shows wasn’t dealing with a full deck anyway, which was statistically frightening when you considered the staggering number of applicants flooding the screening sites. Andrea and Zach from The Last Virgin had been exceptions. She’d heard through the studio grapevine that Sarah Donovan and Luke Richards from Surviving Sarah and Charlie Cuesta and Sam Ryan from The Great Chase weren’t flakes either. Thank goodness, though, for all those other quirky people in the world because it meant she had a job.

“You’re here for a love fest. I’m here to make sure it goes well for you. End of story.” She smiled, but they both knew she meant it.

Honestly, if she hadn’t known better, she’d swear hurt flashed in his eyes before he answered her smile with his own. “You’re absolutely right. I apologize for overstepping boundaries.”

Now she felt even more awkward, as if she’d extracted an apology that wasn’t owed. “Don’t worry about it.” She checked her watch, relieved to see it was time to end this. “Okay, I should let you get back to your room to shower and change.”

How many times had she said that to a man in similar circumstances and never thought a thing about it? What was wrong with her that she suddenly had a disturbingly erotic image of O’Malley naked, dripping wet, surrounded by a thick cloud of steam? And found it totally, inappropriately arousing.

She glanced back down at the clipboard in her hands, not because there was anything important there, but because it gave her somewhere to look other than at him. “Wardrobe will be along to your room in an hour or so. And I’ll meet you there in an hour and a half to go over any last-minute questions.”

O’Malley’s smile held an edge. “Ah, yes, so you can expertly orchestrate my—what was it?—love fest.” He gave her a nod of dismissal and walked away.

Portia stood in the middle of the room and watched his broad-shouldered retreat, until the door closed behind him.

“So, are you the newest member of the fan club, Portia?” Terry called from across the room, his voice teasing.

Startled, she almost dropped her clipboard. Damn, she’d been so caught up in watching him walk across the room, she’d forgotten about Terry and Jeff.

“You boys know better than that. I don’t do fan clubs.”

Bottom line. She orchestrated. He participated. And that was that.

“HOLD STILL for one more second…” Cindy from wardrobe tugged his black tie into place. She stepped back and surveyed him with a critical eye. A knock sounded on his bedroom door.

“Come in,” he called over his shoulder. Portia had said she’d arrive in an hour and a half. She was punctual. Behind him, his bedroom door opened and closed.

He knew without turning that it was Portia. Yeah, she was scheduled to be here, but he could feel her. Tiny hairs stood up on the back of his neck and adrenaline surged through him.

Cindy tweaked his tux jacket and smiled. “Your mama will be proud and those women don’t stand a chance.” Cindy, with her cheerful attitude and nonstop chatter, rather reminded him of his mother. “Honey, you are yum-my.” She winked outrageously at him and looked over his shoulder. “Makes you wish you had a spoon so you could eat him up doesn’t it?”

Laughing—how could you not laugh at such outrageous hyperbole—and she was obviously teasing him rather than flirting—he turned to face Portia.

Her answering smile struck him as a bit forced. “He’s lucky I left my spoon in my room.”

Her cool gaze flickered over him, having just the opposite effect on his temperature. Forget a spoon, he mentally urged her. His body tightened and his heart pounded at the thought of her mouth against his skin, her scent mingling with his. What was it about her that drew him to her? She wasn’t beautiful in the accepted sense of the word, but she was arresting, exotic, intriguing, frustrating—and she got under his skin.

Cindy’s two-way radio went off. Tamsin, the lead makeup artist, came across after the initial squawk. “Cindy, Ms. Freeman needs you ASAP.”

Rourke had skimmed through the dossiers again, after his shower and before Cindy arrived. Lissa Freeman was heiress to a mind-boggling real-estate fortune, who’d spent the last year hanging out in Europe. What the dossier didn’t include, but the media had more than adequately covered, was the havoc Lissa had wrecked along the way. She was a dark-haired, petulant time bomb given to explosions when things didn’t go her way. Of course, he as well as anyone knew you couldn’t and shouldn’t believe all the media hype.

The radio clicked again. “I don’t need you ASAP, I needed you five minutes ago.”

Okay. Maybe you could believe the media. That peremptory tone could only belong to Ms. Freeman.

Cindy headed for the door, smirking. “Bet she doesn’t have a clue you heard that. Bet she’ll use a different tone with you.”

Rourke chuckled. “No doubt.”

The radio clicked again. “Are you on your way? I don’t have all night.”

“Okay, I can’t resist and she deserves it,” Cindy said to Rourke and Portia. She clicked the two-way. “I’m almost finished with Mr. O’Malley and then I’ll be right there.”

“Oh. Take your time. There’s no hurry.” Butter wouldn’t have melted in Lissa Freeman’s mouth this time around.

Cindy laughed and shook her head. “Take care of him,” she said to Portia. “We’re putting a guppy into a tank full of sharks.”

A guppy? He laughed to cover his sudden nervousness. Him, patently incapable of small talk, among twelve socially adept women. Right. “I object to being called a guppy.”

Cindy waved her radio. “You know what I mean. Take care of him, Portia.”

“I have the utmost confidence he’ll be fine,” Portia said. He was glad one of them did.

The minute the door closed behind Cindy the mood shifted and Rourke was aware of being in his bedroom alone with Portia Tomlinson, a woman he found both bewitching and aggravating.

He was aware of the bed with its massive carved headboard and gossamer curtains tied back with silken cords, the lush carpet underfoot, the sensual suggestion of the entwined couple in the gilt-framed reproduction of Gustav Klimt’s “The Kiss” adorning the wall, the copy of the Kama Sutra on the bedside table, the muted lighting, the sheer elegance of Portia’s upswept blond hair, her no-nonsense suit paired with sexy designer shoes, and most of all, her scent.

Rourke spoke to fill the space with something other than the sexual tension strumming through him and permeating the room. “Lissa Freeman just narrowed my choices down to eleven.”

“You should meet her with an open mind. She’s probably got a bad case of PDS, predate syndrome,” Portia said.

“Would you talk to someone like that even if you were nervous over a date?”

“No. Probably not, but you should still give her another chance.”

What would Portia be like on a date? Cool and reserved? What did she do for fun? To relax? What excited her?

“Okay,” her voice came out low and husky. She stopped and cleared her throat. Maybe she was as affected by him as he was by her. “So, we should go over any last-minute questions you have.”

Rourke tried to focus on the women he was about to meet instead of the one in front of him, but he was totally captivated by the way the shadows played across Portia’s skin and hair. He reminded himself the real purpose of being here was not to admire the straight line of Portia’s nose or the sensual curve of her mouth, but to give the network their show, pick up his prize money, and keep Nick’s butt out of jail. “Do you have any pointers on tonight?”

“Only one, really. We’ve set up a champagne fountain in the salon. You might want to go easy on it since you’re the star.”

“Not a problem. I’m not a big drinker.” Some of the guys on the set of The Last Virgin had complained about the minimal alcohol served. “Why didn’t we have a champagne fountain on the last set?”

“This is a different show altogether and the dynamics have shifted. Sexist or not, alcohol flowing freely among lots of men and one woman just doesn’t work. But you know sex sells the ratings. You’re a sexy man and they’re beautiful women, so Lauchmann ordered champagne to loosen things up.”

“I manage fine without ‘loosening up my dates’ with alcohol,” he said, just to set the record straight. Then he moved on to her comment that had caught and held his attention. “You think I’m sexy?”

“Of course I do.” Her expression remained pleasant and neutral, making him all the more curious as to what was going on in her head. “And that really doesn’t mean anything. I consider a Ferrari a work of art. I can admire it, but it doesn’t mean I want to drive one.”

He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know this conversation was about much more than a car. And he knew he was going where he shouldn’t, but he went there anyway. “What if you were offered a test drive?”

“They only want you to drive if you’re interested in buying, and I can’t afford a Ferrari.”

“What if it was a no-strings-attached test drive?”

“I’d pass. It would only make me want what I know I can’t have. I’m a realist.”

So was he, but he also had dreams, fantasies. Somewhere beneath that cool cover, surely she had fantasies as well. “And what is it about the Ferrari that appeals to you?”

“The same thing that appeals to everyone else. Beautiful, sexy lines. Perfectly proportioned. Responsive. I’ve read that it shifts hard and fast, but smooth. All of that power under the hood.” Her eyes glittered. “All the women you’re about to meet can afford Ferraris, probably more than one.”

What exactly were the rules of engagement? And what did it take to shake her up the way she shook him up inside? “What if I want to bring one back to my room?”

“I don’t think a Ferrari will fit in here.”

So she wasn’t shaken, but she did have a sense of humor. “I was asking more along the lines of one of the women.”

Portia looked pointedly at the large bed. “That’s certainly your prerogative. I believe there’s room for all twelve. And of course there aren’t any cameras in here.”

“How can I be sure there isn’t a Minicam with a microphone tucked away somewhere?”

“Because I’m telling you there isn’t. You’ll just have to trust me on this.”

Given the studio’s twist on the last show, parading Andrea Scarpini before the world as the last virgin, he’d be a fool to trust the studio or anyone associated with the studio. “So, if I want to bring one of them back here for… privacy… it’s okay?”

She glanced toward the bed. “Absolutely.”

“And if I bring back a different woman every night?”

“A different one every night or more than one, it’s up to you.” Ah, she could play the part of cool and collected, but the flush that suffused her neck and face was all too telling. She walked over to the nightstand and opened it. Rourke did a double take. The drawer held several boxes of condoms. “We take your welfare very seriously. If you find you’re running low, just let me know.”

This was worse than when his parents had put a brown-paper bag filled with condoms in the medicine cabinet when he was in high school and told him it was better to be safe than sorry.

Rourke laughed, both amused and offended. So much for needling Portia to get a rise out of her. He hadn’t signed on for stud service. “I think that’s an adequate supply.” Hell, he hadn’t run through that many condoms in a lifetime. And twice when he was working out at the gym, his back had gone out. Running through that many condoms would probably put him in traction.

“The only rule is everyone has to be willing. No means no.”

“And does that no work both ways? What if one of them comes on to me and I’m not interested?”

“I suppose you’d handle it much the same as you would on a date at home.”

“Maybe. But at home, I’d have the option of just not calling her again.”

“Don’t forget you’ll be eliminating contestants. Of course, it won’t be as many or as often as it was on The Last Virgin, because we’re starting out with fewer people.”

“And what if I don’t want to kiss any of them?”

Her smile held a tight edge. “I find that scenario unlikely. Surely out of a dozen beautiful women, you’ll be attracted to at least one.” She glanced down at her clipboard. “I can’t imagine you won’t be inspired to share a few kisses at the Turkish bath or on the terrace.”

“Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable? Watching people kiss? Listening to intimate conversation?” Rourke had always been very private and Portia seemed so reserved, he couldn’t imagine it didn’t make her uncomfortable. God, his palms were sweating just thinking about facing a dozen women, much less making out with them.

She shrugged. “We’re doing a job. You distance yourself. It helps if you think of yourself as an actor playing a part.”

“I don’t suppose you’re willing to tell me where there aren’t any cameras other than here?”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t do that. It’s cheating, plus it would cheat our viewers at home.”

“Do you always play by the rules, Portia?” He knew the answer before he asked.

“Absolutely. Do you?” she challenged back.

“I always have before. I’ve never wanted something so much that I was willing to break the rules for it, but if I wanted something—” he looked into the depths of her eyes and paused deliberately “—or someone, desperately, if I couldn’t think of anything else…”

“That sounds obsessive.” A husky note colored her voice.

“I think it’s that same fine line that separates love and hate,” he said.

She deliberately looked away from him, breaking the tenuous sensual thread woven by their conversation. “Well, let’s go meet your bachelorettes and see if you find a woman who inspires you to break the rules.”

3

“YOU SEEM nervous,” Portia said to Rourke outside the salon. He might be nervous, but she was relieved to be out of his bedroom and away from that big bed and assortment of condoms.

“Hell, yeah, I’m nervous.”

This didn’t seem like a playboy to her. “Don’t be. They’re just women and you’re absolutely gorgeous. They’ll be falling all over themselves to get to you.” She offered the same reassurances that were part of her stock in trade. Ridiculous, really, what an abhorrent thought it was this time.

The set of his shoulders, beneath the dark jacket and crisp white shirt of his tux, was definitely tense. “Turn around and hold this.” She handed him her clipboard. Taking a deep breath herself, she lightly massaged his shoulders. She’d never actually done this for any other contestants, but certainly she would have if she’d thought they needed it. It had nothing to do with actually wanting to touch O’Malley because she didn’t. She didn’t want to touch him, didn’t want to feel the hard muscles beneath her fingertips. This was nothing personal, this was just her job.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked with a low moan of appreciation.

“I’ve always been good with my hands.”

“Oh, Portia.”

It took no imagination to hear that voice moaning her name in bed, her hands on something other than his shoulders… What was wrong with her? Was it the conversation with Sadie? The conversation with O’Malley with its deeper level of meaning? The sensual setting? Easy, Portia, girl. Get yourself in check.

“You’ll be fine,” she said as she smoothed out his jacket. She dropped her hands to her sides.

Pivoting slowly until he faced her, his eyes dark, serious, he bent his head until he was so close she felt the warmth of his breath against her face, and could see the fine lines bracketing his eyes. Oh, God, O’Malley was going to kiss her. And the worst of it was, she wanted it. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers, to test the texture of his lips, to sample in his kiss the heat reflected in his eyes. “Portia…”

At the very last second, sanity prevailed. What was she thinking? Anyone could walk by. Any crew member. And what was he thinking? Did he assume he was such a hot commodity that any woman was fair game? She stepped away.

She took her clipboard from him and prayed he didn’t see her hands shaking. She checked the schedule she’d already memorized and glanced at her watch. “Thirty seconds and you’re on.”

He reached as if to brush his fingers over her cheekbone and longing coursed through her, so intense it nearly buckled her knees. How long since she’d shivered with the heat of a man’s touch? How long had she denied herself as a woman? And this was absolutely the wrong man to feel this way with. At the last minute he pulled back and let his hand fall.

Portia licked her dry lips. “It’s time for you to go inside.”

He shook his head, as if he’d lost track of reality as well. He looked oddly vulnerable and unsure of himself. “I’m—”

“Ready to meet your ladies,” she finished for him, still quaking inside from that near kiss. She had to get them both back on track. “Viewers already love you and these women will too.”

Portia turned on the mike that fed directly into the earpiece of Grant Atwood, the show’s emcee. “Ten seconds to showtime.” She mentally counted backward. Reaching the number one, she opened the door and sent Rourke in, stepping aside so that the camera wouldn’t pick her up in the background. O’Malley moved into the room as if he owned it.

Portia had thought all the women were lovely before, but tonight, they were positively stunning. Money couldn’t buy happiness, and according to the show’s title it didn’t buy love, but money certainly bought some kick-butt outfits. Two gowns screamed signature Versace, as well as Vera Wang, Halston and what looked like a Dolce and Gabbana. And the shoes and the jewelry were spectacular.

There was more money tied up in those dresses than she made in a year. Make that a couple of years. Not to mention the accessories. And she’d bet there wasn’t a rhinestone on the property. Tara Mitchells wore a pair of Jimmy Choos with a diamond mesh collar that wrapped around the ankle. Paste didn’t sparkle like that. Portia’s finely cut suit had seemed perfectly presentable…until now. These women were glitz, glamour and designer fashion at its finest and the audience would eat it up. And O’Malley should too, she thought with a hint of cattiness as the women all preened before him.

Grant started the introductions. Portia found a dark corner and observed. Each woman had been instructed not to kiss O’Malley. From a practical standpoint, they didn’t need to have their star covered in lipstick and it also gave O’Malley the position of authority. It was all about playing up the harem aspect.

Jacey’s camera was rolling and Portia couldn’t have asked for a better round of first filming. Despite his earlier pre-entry tension, O’Malley was perfect, greeting each woman as if he were truly glad to meet her, brushing his lips against her cheek as if it were a prelude or a promise of more to come. She knew what it felt like to have his warm breath feather against her skin, to be enveloped in his dark, spicy scent, to feel anticipation quiver through her. But she didn’t know what it felt like to have his lips caress her flesh. And thinking this way was sheer, utter madness. Hadn’t she just told him that the crew distanced themselves? And whatever this thing, this tension, between herself and O’Malley, surely it would dissipate with the arrival of his women, wouldn’t it? Whatever it was that simmered between them was probably just a product of all the hype and the sexual tension conjured up by the situation and the setting. Now he had not just another, but a dozen other outlets for his interest and that suited her just fine. Didn’t it?

“I DIDN’T THINK it was possible, but you’re even better-looking in person,” Carlotta Zimmerman said. Carlotta was the last of the twelve.

Rourke laughed. “Thanks. It’s the tux. Even Yoda would look good in a tux.”

Carlotta smiled rather blankly, obviously missing the Star Wars reference. Oh, well. He bent and pressed a light kiss to her cheek, the same as he had eleven times before. “Thank you for being here. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Carlotta turned to join the crowd. They were all beautiful. They all smelled good. Looked good. It had actually gone better than he’d anticipated, but he hadn’t felt any rush of sexual energy, no slow ribbon of desire curling through him the way he had in the hallway with Portia. She was tucked in the far-left corner now. He’d been excruciatingly aware of her quiet circumnavigation of the room. In her plain suit, with her hair in the twist she favored, she embodied understated elegance and poise. The other women looked almost garish in comparison.

A waiter offered him a flute of champagne from a tray. He snagged one, sipping. It wasn’t his favorite beverage, but it was cold and wet and quite frankly he wouldn’t mind a little bit of alcohol to take the edge off, although he wasn’t nearly as nervous as he had been. Now he had a half hour of mix and mingle.

He had to admit, being the center of all this female attention was pretty flattering. Of course, he didn’t know any man who wouldn’t be flattered by this. Maybe he didn’t need Nick’s prescribed therapy after all. Maybe this was therapy. Maybe now he wouldn’t make a fool of himself the next time he was with Portia and do something stupid like try to kiss her.

“Rourke, why don’t you propose a toast?” Lissa Freeman said, curling her arm through his and pressing against his side, as if they were already an item. Lissa’s full breasts pressed against his jacketed arm. Oddly, her barely clad bosom didn’t send a jolt through him the way Portia’s hands on his shoulders had.

A redhead—he couldn’t remember her name— slid in front of Tara Mitchells and positioned herself on his other side. Okay, so these two were definitely the most aggressive of the pack. If he remembered correctly, an explicit tape featuring the redhead and her boyfriend du jour had surfaced on the Internet last year. Rourke had passed on watching it, but Jason, two offices down, had gone into a serious state of lust, and would definitely freak when this show aired. The other women surrounded him and he almost laughed as he recalled Cindy from wardrobe’s earlier shark analogy. They were all dressed to kill.

They all looked at him expectantly. He’d better get on with a toast and quit making bad jokes to himself.

Smiling, he raised his glass. “Here’s to a successful show and to all you lovely ladies.”

They all touched their glasses to each others’ and drank. Rourke tried to sip from his, but it was damn hard to drink without spilling with Lissa attached to his arm like a limpet.

“Now, I’d like to propose a toast,” the limpet said. She looked at him. “Here’s to the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

Well, hell, he’d drink to that as long as it didn’t include her, and she hadn’t been specific. No sooner had he lowered his glass than the redhead—Maggie, that was her name—not to be outdone by Lissa, piped up. “My turn. Here’s to hoping the camera gets us at our best angle.”

Apparently now it had turned into a game because Bridget Anders, another contestant, waved the champagne-laden waiter over. “I’ve got one.” Everyone refreshed their glasses. “To long hot nights.”

Rourke lost track of who proposed what. He simply raised his glass, laughing as the toasts got progressively more suggestive.

At one point someone actually grabbed his butt and copped a feel. He worked very hard to relax and go with the flow of being the center of attention among very flirtatious, aggressive, beautiful women, but throughout it all, he was always aware of where Portia was in the room. He was, he reminded himself, an actor, but he felt as if he were playing for an audience of one.

PORTIA DRIED OFF and pulled on her terry-cloth robe, hurrying to free up the space. Servants’ quarters didn’t come with en suite bathrooms and there were six other crew members on site. She gathered her toiletries and knocked as she passed Jacey’s room. “It’s all yours,” she called out.

She heard Jacey’s muffled thanks.

Portia closed herself into her bedroom. The past several days on the set had been long and draining. And that hadn’t been, she assured herself as she pulled on the shorts and T-shirt that doubled for pajama duty, because she’d had to watch a dozen women cover O’Malley like bees on a honeycomb. That was, after all, why they were here. There were myriad details that had to be overseen each day, and O’Malley was merely one of them. It had nothing to do with the fact that she tossed and turned, exhausted but restless, dreaming disturbing erotic dreams that recapped the days’ events but put her center-stage with O’Malley. Small wonder, then, that after a night spent dreaming about him, it felt as if every flirtatious glance, every shared joke, every light-and-easy kiss he exchanged with the contestants was, in fact, meant for her. She’d heard about this happening—being locked on location and losing touch with reality. She could deal with it, of course, but she was becoming mentally and emotionally exhausted.

Even her hard, narrow bed looked welcoming about now. She towel-dried her wet hair. That was the benefit of straight hair and a good conditioner, she didn’t have to blow-dry. She’d just brush it and stick it in a twist tomorrow and she’d be set.

She turned down the covers and was just slipping between the sheets when her pager went off. Damnation. What now?

O’Malley. What could he possibly want this close to midnight? Hadn’t he had enough attention with all the fawning earlier tonight? She wasn’t a night person. She was tired and cranky and he was cutting into her time, although as long as they were on location, she was, in effect, on duty 24/7. But she’d had enough of O’Malley for the day. Enough of his dark good looks, his easy charm, even that scent of his that seemed to invade her space when he was around. And she’d definitely had enough of feeling as if she was walking on eggshells.

“What’s up, O’Malley?” she asked without preamble. Oy, that was the wrong thing to ask a man who’d just spent three hours with a dozen hot women. “What do you need?” Possibly not the best wording either. Dammit. She gave up.

“I can’t…um… get up,” he said in a low, strained voice.

She’d have bet her knock-off Prada bag that that wouldn’t be a problem for him. It was sort of disappointing to learn and sort of gross, too. “I don’t need to hear this.”

He laughed, still low and strained. “I didn’t say I couldn’t get it up. You don’t understand. I can’t get up. Literally. I need your help.”

“Why can’t you get up?”

“What? You think I want to humiliate myself and call you, be a pain in the ass late at night? No. But I can’t shoot tomorrow if I’m stuck, now can I?”

Blast. She’d been so relieved he wasn’t confessing impotence, she’d missed the filming implication.

“Where are you now?” she asked.

“On the floor in my room.”

“What—” Never mind. She find out soon enough. “I’ll be right there.”

“Thanks.”

Because it was business all day, every day, she had work clothes and more work clothes. Somehow putting on a suit to go rescue O’Malley seemed sort of dumb. What the hell? Like he couldn’t handle her in running shorts and a T-shirt? She slid her feet into flip-flops and closed her bedroom door behind her. She passed the bathroom and heard Jacey singing in the shower. Portia grinned to herself. Who would’ve figured Jacey for a shower crooner? You just never knew. Or maybe she was just under the influence of love. She and Digg were openly an item now. They’d met on the set of Killing Time last year. Digg had been a contestant and Jacey was the lead camera. According to the rumor mill, Jacey’d been fired for about half an hour and Digg had damn near got himself kicked off the show. Contestant/crew fraternization wasn’t the slickest move for either one of them to make. It had almost cost Digg a million bucks and Jacey her job and reputation.

Navigating the maze of hallways, which were kind of spooky late at night, Portia made a mental note to remember what had happened with Jacey and Digg. Letting herself into O’Malley’s room, she stifled a laugh. O’Malley was on the floor, folded over like an envelope.

“You should lock your door.”

“I forgot. It’s a good thing I did or you couldn’t have gotten in.”

“I’m scared to ask, but exactly what were you doing?”

“Exercising.” He turned his head to look at her. “You know you’re dead if you laugh.”

It had to be fairly uncomfortable folded over that way, but O’Malley had a devilish twinkle in his blue eyes.

“You don’t look particularly dangerous to me.”

“Ah, but sooner or later I’ll be mobile again.”

Okay, so maybe she’d been a bit hasty labeling him safe. Now that she wasn’t suffering the heebie-jeebies from the dark hallway and had sort of figured out what was going on with O’Malley, she noticed he was wearing pajama bottoms. And nothing else.

Holy mother of God, his back was spectacular, a physical work of art. All the saliva in her mouth evaporated as heat rushed through her like a wildfire.

She ran her tongue over her dry lips. “How can I help you? I’m not a doctor.”

“This has happened twice before at the gym. The trainer got behind me and sort of pulled, slow and steady.”

“Okay.” Portia moved behind him and swallowed hard. If he’d looked good from the doorway he was positively…orgasmic up close. The light from the bedside lamp spilled across him, burnishing his skin with a golden glow.

“If you can, straddle me and slip your arms under mine.”

She braced her feet on either side of his hips and leaned down, hooking her arms beneath his armpits. He was hurt and she was helping, but, God help her, it felt wonderfully intimate to touch the satin of his skin, to smell his scent, to feel the brush of his pajama-clad hips against her bare legs.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.