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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.”
