Really Hot!. JENNIFER LABRECQUE
redhead—he couldn’t remember her name— slid in front of Tara Mitchells and positioned herself on his other side. Okay, so these two were definitely the most aggressive of the pack. If he remembered correctly, an explicit tape featuring the redhead and her boyfriend du jour had surfaced on the Internet last year. Rourke had passed on watching it, but Jason, two offices down, had gone into a serious state of lust, and would definitely freak when this show aired. The other women surrounded him and he almost laughed as he recalled Cindy from wardrobe’s earlier shark analogy. They were all dressed to kill.
They all looked at him expectantly. He’d better get on with a toast and quit making bad jokes to himself.
Smiling, he raised his glass. “Here’s to a successful show and to all you lovely ladies.”
They all touched their glasses to each others’ and drank. Rourke tried to sip from his, but it was damn hard to drink without spilling with Lissa attached to his arm like a limpet.
“Now, I’d like to propose a toast,” the limpet said. She looked at him. “Here’s to the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”
Well, hell, he’d drink to that as long as it didn’t include her, and she hadn’t been specific. No sooner had he lowered his glass than the redhead—Maggie, that was her name—not to be outdone by Lissa, piped up. “My turn. Here’s to hoping the camera gets us at our best angle.”
Apparently now it had turned into a game because Bridget Anders, another contestant, waved the champagne-laden waiter over. “I’ve got one.” Everyone refreshed their glasses. “To long hot nights.”
Rourke lost track of who proposed what. He simply raised his glass, laughing as the toasts got progressively more suggestive.
At one point someone actually grabbed his butt and copped a feel. He worked very hard to relax and go with the flow of being the center of attention among very flirtatious, aggressive, beautiful women, but throughout it all, he was always aware of where Portia was in the room. He was, he reminded himself, an actor, but he felt as if he were playing for an audience of one.
PORTIA DRIED OFF and pulled on her terry-cloth robe, hurrying to free up the space. Servants’ quarters didn’t come with en suite bathrooms and there were six other crew members on site. She gathered her toiletries and knocked as she passed Jacey’s room. “It’s all yours,” she called out.
She heard Jacey’s muffled thanks.
Portia closed herself into her bedroom. The past several days on the set had been long and draining. And that hadn’t been, she assured herself as she pulled on the shorts and T-shirt that doubled for pajama duty, because she’d had to watch a dozen women cover O’Malley like bees on a honeycomb. That was, after all, why they were here. There were myriad details that had to be overseen each day, and O’Malley was merely one of them. It had nothing to do with the fact that she tossed and turned, exhausted but restless, dreaming disturbing erotic dreams that recapped the days’ events but put her center-stage with O’Malley. Small wonder, then, that after a night spent dreaming about him, it felt as if every flirtatious glance, every shared joke, every light-and-easy kiss he exchanged with the contestants was, in fact, meant for her. She’d heard about this happening—being locked on location and losing touch with reality. She could deal with it, of course, but she was becoming mentally and emotionally exhausted.
Even her hard, narrow bed looked welcoming about now. She towel-dried her wet hair. That was the benefit of straight hair and a good conditioner, she didn’t have to blow-dry. She’d just brush it and stick it in a twist tomorrow and she’d be set.
She turned down the covers and was just slipping between the sheets when her pager went off. Damnation. What now?
O’Malley. What could he possibly want this close to midnight? Hadn’t he had enough attention with all the fawning earlier tonight? She wasn’t a night person. She was tired and cranky and he was cutting into her time, although as long as they were on location, she was, in effect, on duty 24/7. But she’d had enough of O’Malley for the day. Enough of his dark good looks, his easy charm, even that scent of his that seemed to invade her space when he was around. And she’d definitely had enough of feeling as if she was walking on eggshells.
“What’s up, O’Malley?” she asked without preamble. Oy, that was the wrong thing to ask a man who’d just spent three hours with a dozen hot women. “What do you need?” Possibly not the best wording either. Dammit. She gave up.
“I can’t…um… get up,” he said in a low, strained voice.
She’d have bet her knock-off Prada bag that that wouldn’t be a problem for him. It was sort of disappointing to learn and sort of gross, too. “I don’t need to hear this.”
He laughed, still low and strained. “I didn’t say I couldn’t get it up. You don’t understand. I can’t get up. Literally. I need your help.”
“Why can’t you get up?”
“What? You think I want to humiliate myself and call you, be a pain in the ass late at night? No. But I can’t shoot tomorrow if I’m stuck, now can I?”
Blast. She’d been so relieved he wasn’t confessing impotence, she’d missed the filming implication.
“Where are you now?” she asked.
“On the floor in my room.”
“What—” Never mind. She find out soon enough. “I’ll be right there.”
“Thanks.”
Because it was business all day, every day, she had work clothes and more work clothes. Somehow putting on a suit to go rescue O’Malley seemed sort of dumb. What the hell? Like he couldn’t handle her in running shorts and a T-shirt? She slid her feet into flip-flops and closed her bedroom door behind her. She passed the bathroom and heard Jacey singing in the shower. Portia grinned to herself. Who would’ve figured Jacey for a shower crooner? You just never knew. Or maybe she was just under the influence of love. She and Digg were openly an item now. They’d met on the set of Killing Time last year. Digg had been a contestant and Jacey was the lead camera. According to the rumor mill, Jacey’d been fired for about half an hour and Digg had damn near got himself kicked off the show. Contestant/crew fraternization wasn’t the slickest move for either one of them to make. It had almost cost Digg a million bucks and Jacey her job and reputation.
Navigating the maze of hallways, which were kind of spooky late at night, Portia made a mental note to remember what had happened with Jacey and Digg. Letting herself into O’Malley’s room, she stifled a laugh. O’Malley was on the floor, folded over like an envelope.
“You should lock your door.”
“I forgot. It’s a good thing I did or you couldn’t have gotten in.”
“I’m scared to ask, but exactly what were you doing?”
“Exercising.” He turned his head to look at her. “You know you’re dead if you laugh.”
It had to be fairly uncomfortable folded over that way, but O’Malley had a devilish twinkle in his blue eyes.
“You don’t look particularly dangerous to me.”
“Ah, but sooner or later I’ll be mobile again.”
Okay, so maybe she’d been a bit hasty labeling him safe. Now that she wasn’t suffering the heebie-jeebies from the dark hallway and had sort of figured out what was going on with O’Malley, she noticed he was wearing pajama bottoms. And nothing else.
Holy mother of God, his back was spectacular, a physical work of art. All the saliva in her mouth evaporated as heat rushed through her like a wildfire.
She ran her tongue over her dry lips. “How can I help you? I’m not a doctor.”
“This has happened twice before at the gym. The trainer got behind me and sort of pulled, slow and steady.”
“Okay.”