Really Hot!. Jennifer Labrecque
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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