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