Really Hot!

Her cool gaze flickered over him, having just the opposite effect on his temperature. Forget a spoon, he mentally urged her. His body tightened and his heart pounded at the thought of her mouth against his skin, her scent mingling with his. What was it about her that drew him to her? She wasn’t beautiful in the accepted sense of the word, but she was arresting, exotic, intriguing, frustrating—and she got under his skin.

Cindy’s two-way radio went off. Tamsin, the lead makeup artist, came across after the initial squawk. “Cindy, Ms. Freeman needs you ASAP.”

Rourke had skimmed through the dossiers again, after his shower and before Cindy arrived. Lissa Freeman was heiress to a mind-boggling real-estate fortune, who’d spent the last year hanging out in Europe. What the dossier didn’t include, but the media had more than adequately covered, was the havoc Lissa had wrecked along the way. She was a dark-haired, petulant time bomb given to explosions when things didn’t go her way. Of course, he as well as anyone knew you couldn’t and shouldn’t believe all the media hype.

The radio clicked again. “I don’t need you ASAP, I needed you five minutes ago.”

Okay. Maybe you could believe the media. That peremptory tone could only belong to Ms. Freeman.

Cindy headed for the door, smirking. “Bet she doesn’t have a clue you heard that. Bet she’ll use a different tone with you.”

Rourke chuckled. “No doubt.”

The radio clicked again. “Are you on your way? I don’t have all night.”

“Okay, I can’t resist and she deserves it,” Cindy said to Rourke and Portia. She clicked the two-way. “I’m almost finished with Mr. O’Malley and then I’ll be right there.”

“Oh. Take your time. There’s no hurry.” Butter wouldn’t have melted in Lissa Freeman’s mouth this time around.

Cindy laughed and shook her head. “Take care of him,” she said to Portia. “We’re putting a guppy into a tank full of sharks.”

A guppy? He laughed to cover his sudden nervousness. Him, patently incapable of small talk, among twelve socially adept women. Right. “I object to being called a guppy.”

Cindy waved her radio. “You know what I mean. Take care of him, Portia.”

“I have the utmost confidence he’ll be fine,” Portia said. He was glad one of them did.

The minute the door closed behind Cindy the mood shifted and Rourke was aware of being in his bedroom alone with Portia Tomlinson, a woman he found both bewitching and aggravating.

He was aware of the bed with its massive carved headboard and gossamer curtains tied back with silken cords, the lush carpet underfoot, the sensual suggestion of the entwined couple in the gilt-framed reproduction of Gustav Klimt’s “The Kiss” adorning the wall, the copy of the Kama Sutra on the bedside table, the muted lighting, the sheer elegance of Portia’s upswept blond hair, her no-nonsense suit paired with sexy designer shoes, and most of all, her scent.

Rourke spoke to fill the space with something other than the sexual tension strumming through him and permeating the room. “Lissa Freeman just narrowed my choices down to eleven.”

“You should meet her with an open mind. She’s probably got a bad case of PDS, predate syndrome,” Portia said.

“Would you talk to someone like that even if you were nervous over a date?”

“No. Probably not, but you should still give her another chance.”

What would Portia be like on a date? Cool and reserved? What did she do for fun? To relax? What excited her?

“Okay,” her voice came out low and husky. She stopped and cleared her throat. Maybe she was as affected by him as he was by her. “So, we should go over any last-minute questions you have.”

Rourke tried to focus on the women he was about to meet instead of the one in front of him, but he was totally captivated by the way the shadows played across Portia’s skin and hair. He reminded himself the real purpose of being here was not to admire the straight line of Portia’s nose or the sensual curve of her mouth, but to give the network their show, pick up his prize money, and keep Nick’s butt out of jail. “Do you have any pointers on tonight?”

“Only one, really. We’ve set up a champagne fountain in the salon. You might want to go easy on it since you’re the star.”

“Not a problem. I’m not a big drinker.” Some of the guys on the set of The Last Virgin had complained about the minimal alcohol served. “Why didn’t we have a champagne fountain on the last set?”

“This is a different show altogether and the dynamics have shifted. Sexist or not, alcohol flowing freely among lots of men and one woman just doesn’t work. But you know sex sells the ratings. You’re a sexy man and they’re beautiful women, so Lauchmann ordered champagne to loosen things up.”

“I manage fine without ‘loosening up my dates’ with alcohol,” he said, just to set the record straight. Then he moved on to her comment that had caught and held his attention. “You think I’m sexy?”

“Of course I do.” Her expression remained pleasant and neutral, making him all the more curious as to what was going on in her head. “And that really doesn’t mean anything. I consider a Ferrari a work of art. I can admire it, but it doesn’t mean I want to drive one.”

He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know this conversation was about much more than a car. And he knew he was going where he shouldn’t, but he went there anyway. “What if you were offered a test drive?”

“They only want you to drive if you’re interested in buying, and I can’t afford a Ferrari.”

“What if it was a no-strings-attached test drive?”

“I’d pass. It would only make me want what I know I can’t have. I’m a realist.”

So was he, but he also had dreams, fantasies. Somewhere beneath that cool cover, surely she had fantasies as well. “And what is it about the Ferrari that appeals to you?”

“The same thing that appeals to everyone else. Beautiful, sexy lines. Perfectly proportioned. Responsive. I’ve read that it shifts hard and fast, but smooth. All of that power under the hood.” Her eyes glittered. “All the women you’re about to meet can afford Ferraris, probably more than one.”

What exactly were the rules of engagement? And what did it take to shake her up the way she shook him up inside? “What if I want to bring one back to my room?”

“I don’t think a Ferrari will fit in here.”

So she wasn’t shaken, but she did have a sense of humor. “I was asking more along the lines of one of the women.”

Portia looked pointedly at the large bed. “That’s certainly your prerogative. I believe there’s room for all twelve. And of course there aren’t any cameras in here.”

“How can I be sure there isn’t a Minicam with a microphone tucked away somewhere?”

“Because I’m telling you there isn’t. You’ll just have to trust me on this.”

Given the studio’s twist on the last show, parading Andrea Scarpini before the world as the last virgin, he’d be a fool to trust the studio or anyone associated with the studio. “So, if I want to bring one of them back here for… privacy… it’s okay?”

She glanced toward the bed. “Absolutely.”

“And if I bring back a different woman every night?”

“A different one every night or more than one, it’s up to you.” Ah, she could play the part of cool and collected, but the flush that suffused her neck and face was all too telling. She walked over to the nightstand and opened it. Rourke did a double take. The drawer held several boxes of condoms. “We take your welfare very seriously. If you find you’re running low, just let me know.”

This was worse than when his parents had put a brown-paper bag filled with condoms in the medicine cabinet when he was in high school and told him it was better to be safe than sorry.

Rourke laughed, both amused and offended. So much for needling Portia to get a rise out of her. He hadn’t signed on for stud service. “I think that’s an adequate supply.” Hell, he hadn’t run through that many condoms in a lifetime. And twice when he was working out at the gym, his back had gone out. Running through that many condoms would probably put him in traction.

“The only rule is everyone has to be willing. No means no.”

“And does that no work both ways? What if one of them comes on to me and I’m not interested?”

“I suppose you’d handle it much the same as you would on a date at home.”

“Maybe. But at home, I’d have the option of just not calling her again.”