Really Hot!

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.”