Really Hot!. JENNIFER LABRECQUE
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.”
“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