Really Hot!. JENNIFER LABRECQUE

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      “YOU SEEM nervous,” Portia said to Rourke outside the salon. He might be nervous, but she was relieved to be out of his bedroom and away from that big bed and assortment of condoms.

      “Hell, yeah, I’m nervous.”

      This didn’t seem like a playboy to her. “Don’t be. They’re just women and you’re absolutely gorgeous. They’ll be falling all over themselves to get to you.” She offered the same reassurances that were part of her stock in trade. Ridiculous, really, what an abhorrent thought it was this time.

      The set of his shoulders, beneath the dark jacket and crisp white shirt of his tux, was definitely tense. “Turn around and hold this.” She handed him her clipboard. Taking a deep breath herself, she lightly massaged his shoulders. She’d never actually done this for any other contestants, but certainly she would have if she’d thought they needed it. It had nothing to do with actually wanting to touch O’Malley because she didn’t. She didn’t want to touch him, didn’t want to feel the hard muscles beneath her fingertips. This was nothing personal, this was just her job.

      “Where did you learn to do that?” he asked with a low moan of appreciation.

      “I’ve always been good with my hands.”

      “Oh, Portia.”

      It took no imagination to hear that voice moaning her name in bed, her hands on something other than his shoulders… What was wrong with her? Was it the conversation with Sadie? The conversation with O’Malley with its deeper level of meaning? The sensual setting? Easy, Portia, girl. Get yourself in check.

      “You’ll be fine,” she said as she smoothed out his jacket. She dropped her hands to her sides.

      Pivoting slowly until he faced her, his eyes dark, serious, he bent his head until he was so close she felt the warmth of his breath against her face, and could see the fine lines bracketing his eyes. Oh, God, O’Malley was going to kiss her. And the worst of it was, she wanted it. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers, to test the texture of his lips, to sample in his kiss the heat reflected in his eyes. “Portia…”

      At the very last second, sanity prevailed. What was she thinking? Anyone could walk by. Any crew member. And what was he thinking? Did he assume he was such a hot commodity that any woman was fair game? She stepped away.

      She took her clipboard from him and prayed he didn’t see her hands shaking. She checked the schedule she’d already memorized and glanced at her watch. “Thirty seconds and you’re on.”

      He reached as if to brush his fingers over her cheekbone and longing coursed through her, so intense it nearly buckled her knees. How long since she’d shivered with the heat of a man’s touch? How long had she denied herself as a woman? And this was absolutely the wrong man to feel this way with. At the last minute he pulled back and let his hand fall.

      Portia licked her dry lips. “It’s time for you to go inside.”

      He shook his head, as if he’d lost track of reality as well. He looked oddly vulnerable and unsure of himself. “I’m—”

      “Ready to meet your ladies,” she finished for him, still quaking inside from that near kiss. She had to get them both back on track. “Viewers already love you and these women will too.”

      Portia turned on the mike that fed directly into the earpiece of Grant Atwood, the show’s emcee. “Ten seconds to showtime.” She mentally counted backward. Reaching the number one, she opened the door and sent Rourke in, stepping aside so that the camera wouldn’t pick her up in the background. O’Malley moved into the room as if he owned it.

      Portia had thought all the women were lovely before, but tonight, they were positively stunning. Money couldn’t buy happiness, and according to the show’s title it didn’t buy love, but money certainly bought some kick-butt outfits. Two gowns screamed signature Versace, as well as Vera Wang, Halston and what looked like a Dolce and Gabbana. And the shoes and the jewelry were spectacular.

      There was more money tied up in those dresses than she made in a year. Make that a couple of years. Not to mention the accessories. And she’d bet there wasn’t a rhinestone on the property. Tara Mitchells wore a pair of Jimmy Choos with a diamond mesh collar that wrapped around the ankle. Paste didn’t sparkle like that. Portia’s finely cut suit had seemed perfectly presentable…until now. These women were glitz, glamour and designer fashion at its finest and the audience would eat it up. And O’Malley should too, she thought with a hint of cattiness as the women all preened before him.

      Grant started the introductions. Portia found a dark corner and observed. Each woman had been instructed not to kiss O’Malley. From a practical standpoint, they didn’t need to have their star covered in lipstick and it also gave O’Malley the position of authority. It was all about playing up the harem aspect.

      Jacey’s camera was rolling and Portia couldn’t have asked for a better round of first filming. Despite his earlier pre-entry tension, O’Malley was perfect, greeting each woman as if he were truly glad to meet her, brushing his lips against her cheek as if it were a prelude or a promise of more to come. She knew what it felt like to have his warm breath feather against her skin, to be enveloped in his dark, spicy scent, to feel anticipation quiver through her. But she didn’t know what it felt like to have his lips caress her flesh. And thinking this way was sheer, utter madness. Hadn’t she just told him that the crew distanced themselves? And whatever this thing, this tension, between herself and O’Malley, surely it would dissipate with the arrival of his women, wouldn’t it? Whatever it was that simmered between them was probably just a product of all the hype and the sexual tension conjured up by the situation and the setting. Now he had not just another, but a dozen other outlets for his interest and that suited her just fine. Didn’t it?

      “I DIDN’T THINK it was possible, but you’re even better-looking in person,” Carlotta Zimmerman said. Carlotta was the last of the twelve.

      Rourke laughed. “Thanks. It’s the tux. Even Yoda would look good in a tux.”

      Carlotta smiled rather blankly, obviously missing the Star Wars reference. Oh, well. He bent and pressed a light kiss to her cheek, the same as he had eleven times before. “Thank you for being here. It’s an honor to meet you.”

      Carlotta turned to join the crowd. They were all beautiful. They all smelled good. Looked good. It had actually gone better than he’d anticipated, but he hadn’t felt any rush of sexual energy, no slow ribbon of desire curling through him the way he had in the hallway with Portia. She was tucked in the far-left corner now. He’d been excruciatingly aware of her quiet circumnavigation of the room. In her plain suit, with her hair in the twist she favored, she embodied understated elegance and poise. The other women looked almost garish in comparison.

      A waiter offered him a flute of champagne from a tray. He snagged one, sipping. It wasn’t his favorite beverage, but it was cold and wet and quite frankly he wouldn’t mind a little bit of alcohol to take the edge off, although he wasn’t nearly as nervous as he had been. Now he had a half hour of mix and mingle.

      He had to admit, being the center of all this female attention was pretty flattering. Of course, he didn’t know any man who wouldn’t be flattered by this. Maybe he didn’t need Nick’s prescribed therapy after all. Maybe this was therapy. Maybe now he wouldn’t make a fool of himself the next time he was with Portia and do something stupid like try to kiss her.

      “Rourke, why don’t you propose a toast?” Lissa Freeman