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 to the question, she just answered what she expected him to ask. “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.”
He quirked one dark brow. “You can’t tell me why you don’t like me?”
He’d asked why she didn’t like him? A flush crept up her face. Portia had realized early on that one of her greatest assets was her ability to get along well with pretty much anyone and everyone. She had a knack for putting people at ease. People found her easy to talk to. The fact that she never offered personal information in return usually worked to her favor. Mostly people wanted to talk about themselves. “I thought you asked about the twist.”
He waved his hand in dismissal. “I never expected that you’d tell me anyway. I know I’m not a virgin, so that’s out the window.” His blue eyes twinkled devilishly and Portia wasn’t sure whether he was making fun of himself or flirting with her, or perhaps both.
But she did know a slow heat seeped through her at the visual supplied by her recently activated imagination—O’Malley naked, thrusting between a woman’s naked thighs. “I’m sure. Many times over.”
O’Malley shrugged. “Many is a relative term. I’m not a player. And I can only hope you don’t slip in a transvestite like on that other show.” He grinned, and Portia smiled in return. Most drop-dead gorgeous men took themselves far more seriously than O’Malley.
“No surprises there.” The production crew had managed to save that show, but afterward the executive director, Burt Mueller, threatened to can the entire screening crew if another transvestite revealed him- or herself on one of his shows. In typical Burt Mueller fashion, he’d declared he wouldn’t become known as the Transvestite Forum Network. She reassured Rourke again. “They’re all real women.”
“For certain?”
“For certain.”
“That’s good to know,” he said.
She bet it was. Portia’d seen a few looks pass between some of the male crew that clearly said they didn’t want to think about the point when a guy might figure out the “woman” carried the same equipment they did.
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why don’t you like me?” Despite his easy smile, his eyes were serious.
“I don’t dislike you.” And she didn’t. Not exactly. She was wary. When he’d been on the set of The Last Virgin, she’d dismissed him, categorizing him the way she did all narcissistic men. But O’Malley refused to be dismissed or categorized and that wasn’t a good thing. His low-key charm and good looks raised Portia’s red flags. It was akin to instinctively knowing a pretty red berry you found in the woods might look good and taste good but wasn’t necessarily good for you. However, she was supposed to be working with him and keeping him happy. She reiterated her earlier assertion. “I don’t dislike you at all.”
“I think you’re splitting hairs.”
O’Malley was more discerning than she’d given him credit. “I have a job to do. I can’t allow myself to get too close to our cast members.”
“I just feel like you know everything about me and I know nothing about you.”
She shook her head. “Contestants pretty much agree to open their lives up to the public. It’s the price of celebrity. But there’s the difference. You’re a participant. I’m behind the scenes. And I like it that way.” She personally thought anyone who agreed to come on to one of these shows wasn’t dealing with a full deck anyway, which was statistically
