Really Hot!

“Oh, my God, Portia, this is like a fantasy come true,” Rourke groaned, “but I’m not sure I’m up to it. Wait. What the hell am I saying? The sexiest woman in the universe is standing next to my bed, unwrapping a condom. Hell, yes, I’m up to it. You’ll have to do most of the work, but still…”

It took Portia’s hormonally oversaturated brain about a nanosecond to imagine herself pulling off her clothes and going for a ride.

She picked up an ice cube. “I’m making you an ice pack. For your back.”

“Oh.” Rourke lay there for a second, his eyes closed. It was suddenly incredibly hot in his room. Portia proceeded to pack ice into the penis-shaped rubber, struggling to hold it still. Damn, why had she grabbed a lubricated one?

“Okay, I’ve just forfeited all my pride today, so I’ll just confess that I can’t watch you do that. Or let’s just say that I shouldn’t,” he admitted.

Portia felt a surge of sexual power. She stood there teasing him with her deliberate stroking movements. The sexual energy between them made her feel almost drunk.

“You’re a wicked woman, Portia Tomlinson.” Rourke choked out the words. “But I wouldn’t have you any other way…”

Really Hot!

Jennifer LaBrecque

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dear Reader,

A look across a crowded room…the flight of butterflies in your tummy…the slow tingle of awareness down your spine…the sizzle of the briefest touch. This is chemistry, the magic elixir of romance, the inexplicable, undeniable blossom of attraction between two people.

That’s what finally happens to Rourke O’Malley. Rourke made his first appearance in “The Last Virgin,” the final story in the anthology Getting Real. What a guy! The proverbial Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, and a nice guy to boot, Rourke had hero written all over him. Unfortunately, the heroine of the story, Andrea Scarpini had other ideas….

But a potential hero is a terrible thing to waste. How could I just let this awesome, sexy guy walk away? There was only one thing to do…find him some chemistry. And what better way than to give this hottie his own reality TV show, complete with a bevy of beauties to choose from? Only, the woman he wants is “don’t go there” associate producer and single mom Portia Tomlinson.

I hope you enjoy reading Portia and Rourke’s story as much as I loved writing it. The only thing I like better than writing is hearing from readers. You can look me up at www.jenniferlabrecque.com or drop me a note by snail mail at P.O. Box 298, Hiram, GA 30141.

Happy reading…

Jennifer LaBrecque

Books by Jennifer LaBrecque

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

886—BARELY MISTAKEN

904—BARELY DECENT

952—BARELY BEHAVING

992—BETTER THAN CHOCOLATE

HARLEQUIN DUETS

28—ANDREW IN EXCESS

52—KIDS+COPS=CHAOS

64—JINGLE BELL BRIDE?

To Leslie Kelly, Julie Elizabeth Leto and Vicki Lewis Thompson, talented writers and extraordinary people, and the chemistry behind GETTING REAL.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

1

“ROURKE O’MALLEY is an orgasm waiting to happen,” Portia Tomlinson read aloud. She rolled her eyes and scrolled down the screen, following the postings on the fan site for The Last Virgin, the latest reality show she’d worked on as associate producer. “Give me a break. Some women don’t have good sense.”

Rourke had been the favored contestant, but the show’s bachelorette hadn’t picked him. He had, however, captured the hearts of female viewers around the world and they were in a veritable lust frenzy. Amazing. She swung around in her office chair.

“You mean you don’t think he’s an orgasm waiting to happen?” Sadie Franken, an administrative assistant, asked.

More than once, Rourke O’Malley had intruded on Portia’s dreams, but she wasn’t about to make that public knowledge. And she wasn’t happy about it, either. Portia shrugged. “He’s okay. Great face, great body, but that’s nothing new in Hollywood. Of course, this—” she gestured over her shoulder toward the computer screen “—should mean great ratings for our new show.” This time around, they’d signed Rourke on as their star bachelor and lined up twelve wealthy single women for him to choose from. She’d read an article citing that the latest trend among the twenty-something idle rich was to push their parents’ buttons by putting themselves in a controversial spotlight. They had twelve young women who were living proof. Portia, however, was the lucky duck saddled with baby-sitting Rourke, the star, through production. She eyed the petite redhead. “Obviously you’ve joined the legion of women ready to drop at his feet.”

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….

He’d thought about asking her out after the last show but they’d immediately offered him this upcoming show. And then there was the matter of him living in Boston and her living in LA. And those were both nice excuses. The ugly truth was he’d figured she’d turn him down so fast it’d leave his head spinning. “Trust me, I’d rather clean up after Watson than be hounded by those pampered princesses.”

They got on the elevator.

Nick, who ran through women the way a slots addict in Vegas runs through a bag of coins, shook his head. “You are seriously warped, Rourke. Like, maybe you need some therapy. I can’t say I understand it, but I appreciate your sacrifice.” Nick punched him on the shoulder. “Who knows? A dozen hot women, you might find your own true love.”

Maybe he did need therapy. Twelve women and he was half smitten already with a woman who wasn’t available. “Yeah.”

“I don’t want to step on your toes or anything, but I could give you some pointers. You know, I do okay with women,” Nick said. That was an understatement.

Rourke wasn’t exactly hitting any home runs on his own. Portia had treated him as if he were a piece of furniture, a prop, on the last show. And he didn’t want to humiliate himself by bombing with the twelve women. Best possible scenario would be to drag Nick along, a modern version of Cyrano de Bergerac, but that was impossible. He supposed the next best thing would be pointers. “I think I can use all the help I can get.”

The door opened and Rourke was relieved to find the lobby empty. Nick shoved the poop bag into his pocket and grinned, “Welcome to Women 101.”

PORTIA SCHLEPPED her suitcase along the service hallway of the mansion set high in the hills overlooking Hollywood. She grinned to herself. One of the first of many differences between a drone and a princess. Drones carried their own baggage.

“Can I help you with that?” The low, rich baritone slid across her skin, leaving a trail of goose-flesh in its wake. That voice belonged to the man who had haunted her dreams and left her discontented and frustrated the last couple of nights. O’Malley.

She pasted on a smile and glanced over her shoulder without breaking stride. “Thanks, but I’ve got it.”

Oh. Those startling blue eyes were right over her shoulder. He was closer than she’d thought.

“It’s no trouble,” he said.

She bit back the comment, save it for the princesses, pretty boy, they’re gonna run you ragged, reminding herself O’Malley was her star and it was her job to keep him happy. If he wanted to schlep for her then who was she to stand in his way? She stopped. “Well, thank you then, if it’s no trouble.”

She relinquished her suitcase, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. A slight tremor ran through her and the hallway suddenly seemed narrow and confining. His broad shoulders took up an inordinate amount of space and his subtle scent surrounded her.

Since the filming and subsequent airing of their previous show, The Last Virgin, the seemingly impossible had happened. Rourke O’Malley looked even better than he had before. Portia’s gaze stopped on the top two buttons of his golf shirt, which were unbuttoned, revealing a smattering of dark hair and tanned skin. She glanced up. For a second his eyes held hers and something passed between them that Portia didn’t want to acknowledge. Drawing a deep breath, she turned away from him. “It’s this way.”

“I’m following you,” he said.

They started back down the hall and Portia scrambled to dispel the awareness that lingered between them, to get things back on the friendly, light footing she maintained with all her co-workers. He was just another cast member and the good-looking guys never tired of hearing how… well, how good they looked. “You’re looking great. Obviously the adoration of thousands agrees with you.” She offered a smile.

O’Malley shook his head and looked embarrassed. Not the faux embarrassment so many handsome men adopted, but genuinely loosen-his-collar embarrassed. “The whole thing is crazy.” They turned a corner. “A woman chased me onto an elevator this week to give me her underwear… with her name and number pinned in the crotch.”

It was both funny and slightly erotic. Portia couldn’t choke back her laughter. O’Malley shot her a censoring look. “I hope she wasn’t wearing them at the time and I hope they were nice.”

He shook his head again, a glimmer of a smile in his startlingly blue eyes. “She had them in her hand. Purple thong. She offered to have my baby.”

He wasn’t boasting. It was more as if he were still reeling from the weirdness of it. It just confirmed Portia’s earlier assertion that some women had lost it over this guy.

“Well, the burning question is, did you call her?” Portia couldn’t resist teasing him.

“No. I didn’t call her,” he said, indignantly. Then he looked rather sheepish. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did, but I’m glad you confirmed it for me,” she said, stopping at the room door marked on the site map as hers. Go figure, the mansion was so huge, they’d armed the production crew with maps. And all of a sudden, she realized she’d been as relaxed, but still aware of O’Malley as a man instead of just a cast member, as she’d ever been. Which effectively dispelled any lingering camaraderie.

“Well, this is it.” She opened the door and turned for her suitcase, “I’ve got it. Thanks so much.”

O’Malley acted as if he hadn’t heard her and brought her luggage into the room. He glanced around at the single dresser and unframed mirror, the ladderback chair, uncarpeted concrete floor, his gaze finally settling on the narrow bed that was little more than a cot. “This is… minimalist.”

It was positively Spartan.

“You and the pri—” she caught herself in the nick of time, she had to stop thinking of the contestants as princesses “—contestants are housed in guest rooms. The crew, except for Lauchmann and Daniels—” the producer and director “—well, the rest of us get the slave quarters.”

Like a change in the wind, the atmosphere between them shifted. O’Malley flicked his eyes over her and heat seared her. “It’s hard to imagine you as anyone’s slave,” the husky note in his voice fired her imagination.

“I don’t take orders well. Do you?”

“It depends on what’s being asked of me,” he said. His glance slid over her. “And who’s doing the asking. Speaking of… How does our relationship work?”

“Our relationship?”

“During the filming.”

Of course. “Well, I need you to cooperate. If I ask you to be somewhere or do something, if you could accommodate that? On the other hand, it’s my job to make sure you’re satisfied—” that didn’t sound right “—that your needs are met—” oy, that sounded even worse, next he’d think she’d be offering her underwear with a phone number “—if you need anything, please let me know.”

“Anything?” He quirked a dark eyebrow and her heart knocked hard against her ribs.

“Within reason.” She squashed his suggestive note.

“I’ll try to keep my requests… reasonable.”

“I appreciate that. And I don’t think you’ll find me too demanding.” What was wrong with her? Why did demanding seem fraught with sexual innuendo?