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And obviously he hadn’t listened closely enough to Nick’s pointers. For God’s sake, he’d been in her bedroom… But then again, her boyfriend—nah, the love of her life—
“Hello again,” said a female voice directly in front of him.
He stopped. He’d almost plowed right into Jacey.
“Sorry, my mind was somewhere else.” He shook his head to clear it of Portia. He was delighted Jacey was here. He grinned at her. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you’re going to be the person behind the camera on the set.”
She returned the grin. “Yeah, it’s a regular old home week.”
“No kidding. I just ran into Portia,” he said.
“Her room is next to mine. We’re staying in the servants’ quarters,” Jacey said. “Tells you something about our jobs, doesn’t it?”
“Is it really that bad?” he asked.
“Nah. There are worse ways to make a buck.”
“How’d you get started in this business? Have you always been interested in cameras?” he asked, genuinely interested.
Jacey glanced at him suspiciously, as if he couldn’t possibly be curious. He laughed aloud at her dark look. “I really want to know. You sort of remind me of my younger brother.”
“He’s into Goth?”
Rourke laughed aloud at the mental image of Nick decked out in Goth attire. He’d have to be drugged or dead first. “No. He’s into Ralph Lauren, but you both say what you think.”
Jacey relaxed, and began outlining her work history. The transformation was incredible. Finally, she gave a self-conscious laugh. “Probably more than you bargained for there.”
“No. I think that’s really cool.”
“Have you ever looked through a studio camera?”
“I’ve never had any exposure to TV before this.”
“I could show you sometime. Like maybe after taping or something. If you wanted to. But you don’t have to.”
“That’d be awesome. I’d love it. You just tell me one day when you have time.”
“It’s a deal then. The camera brings this clarity to things…” she caught herself. “Whoa, there I go again.”
“It’s obviously more than a job with you. More like a passion.”
“Pretty much.” She cocked her dark head to one side and looked at him. “You know, you sort of remind me of Digg. You’re real.”
“Thanks. I’m extremely flattered. He seems like a great guy.” It hadn’t been rocket science to figure out that Digg and Jacey were an item. An unlikely item, but an item nonetheless. Although, after chatting with Jacey they didn’t seem as unlikely a couple as before.
“He’s okay.” Her smirk belied her tone. She checked her watch. “Holy shit. You’ve got a briefing and I’ve got camera checks in ten minutes. Portia’ll have my ass if I’m the reason you’re late.”
“Really? She’s a task master?”
“Not really. But she’s punctual.”
“She’s sort of hard to get to know. What does she do for fun?” Rourke shamelessly pumped Jacey for information about Portia.
“Laundry? Seriously, I don’t know. She keeps to herself. Hey, what’s with the interest in Portia? Twelve rich girls aren’t enough selection for you?”
“Of course not. I mean, of course they are. I was just curious about her since we’ll be working together. I’m not interested in her that way.”
The minute the words left his mouth, he realized they were patently untrue.
2
“HERE ARE the dossiers on the women you’ll be meeting this evening at the predinner cocktail party. You’ll find a variety of blondes, brunettes and redheads with varied interests. They do have three things in common. They’re all women,” Portia joked. Well, only sort of joked. The “female” contestant on Make Me Over had surprised everyone when she’d revealed that “she” was a “he.” “They’re all beautiful and they’re all wealthy. You’re the most envied man in America.”
O’Malley took the booklet and leafed through it.
Portia watched Terry and Jeff, sound techs, check out the wiring and test the sound nearer the divan. They’d planned the meet-and-greet cocktail party in this room. Reminiscent of a Moorish castle, the entire house was a masterpiece of intricate tilework, carved wooden doors, arched doorways and a maze of high-ceilinged hallways that led to private quarters and a central Turkish bath that boasted live palms. The mingled scents of almond, sandal-wood, frankincense and myrrh perfumed the air. It was opulent, with more than a hint of decadence, and a most fitting setting for a handsome man and his harem. Actually, and this twist delighted Portia, the house had originally belonged to a 1930s actress infamous for keeping a retinue of lovers on hand, a reversal of the classic male/female harem roles.
This room, the salon, was particularly lavish, with rich fabrics, low sofas, muted lighting and a high ceiling painted to resemble a velvet night sky alight with hundreds of stars. Doubtless these very walls contained the echoes of pleasure, perhaps with more than one lover at a time.
Was it her conversation with Sadie, the sensual setting, or the totally gorgeous bachelor beside her that had forbidden images teasing at the back of her mind? Images of her supine, being pleasured on that low divan by a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man who bore a striking resemblance to O’Malley were inescapable.
Ruthlessly, she swept aside the mental picture. Any pleasure given or received in this room, at least of the carnal nature, wouldn’t involve her. Portia’s delight would be in the subsequent ratings. One of the twelve women and O’Malley would play out that love scene. And it was her job to see that it happened. Sex sold. Sex pulled in viewers. And ratings meant she’d done her job well.
O’Malley finished thumbing through the photos and bio sheets. “You’re right. They’re all women.” He grinned, which notched up his sex appeal to a devastating level. “They’re definitely attractive and they all have that monied look about them. Have you met them? Were they nice? What do you think?”
Portia squashed the tingling response that slid down her spine and reminded herself that Rourke O’Malley was just another pretty face.
She’d met them. Nice and money, while not mutually exclusive, certainly didn’t go hand in hand. Nor did money ensure good taste and decent conduct. All the women had massive egos and she could foresee more than a little jealous bickering. And that would make for good footage. Portia smiled. “I’ve met them and I think you’ll find this very interesting. And very gratifying.”
“Good.” O’Malley shifted the papers into his other hand. “I know where this question is going to get me, but I’ve got to ask anyway.”
Here it came. The inevitable twist question. The “winner” had been promised her own TV show. It was weird, but hey, it had worked. Any of the women’s fathers could probably buy a network, but they all wanted to compete for their own TV show, which should, once again, translate to good footage as they all tried to show how outrageous and at home they could appear on the camera. Of course, she couldn’t reveal this to O’Malley. Terry and Jeff moved to the other side of the room, checking the audio cables running along the baseboards. Must be a snafu. She’d better check with them when she wrapped this up with O’Malley. “Go ahead. Ask away.”
Anticipating his question and distracted by potential sound problems, she didn’t really listen