Really Hot!

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“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.