Really Hot!

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….