Girl of My Dreams

by Morgan Mandel

  “Okay,” Jillian said, tying the apron, and slipping on the high heels, which fortunately were in her width. Well, that made two things right.

  Her stomach did a flip-flop as she stepped out of the cubicle.

  Was her idea too farfetched? Could she carry it off? What would Blake think of it?

  STRIDING BACKSTAGE, BLAKE scanned the set. The contestants were all in place, except for Jillian. Where was she? She’d promised to be back on time. He’d had enough of unreliable women today, starting with the first one in his life, Barbara Branton, whom he’d spied alongside her current leading man, Kevin Princeton, on the cover of Peepers magazine. Why the hell didn’t Darryl put his foot down? It bugged Blake to think about it, so he wouldn’t.

  The click of heels made him turn his head. Relief turned to heat as he took in Jillian’s outfit.

  What the hell was she wearing, or more accurately, not wearing? Again, she looked ready to fall out of her top. His pants tightened, his throat dried. Damn, he didn’t need this.

  He ignored his body’s response and glared into Jillian’s cat-like eyes. “Don’t cut it so close.” “I had traffic issues.”

  “What did you expect? This is Vegas, not some hick town.”

  She shot him a dagger look. Okay, he’d sounded curt, but damn it, he had enough going on without worrying about contestants showing up on time. Well, at least she’d made it.

  “Get to your mark,” he said.

  Without a word, she turned and stalked away. He stopped to watch. There was something about the back of those long, shapely legs that was way too distracting for his peace of mind.

  Forget her. There were plenty of others. She was only a sexy babe in a costume. He should be used to it. Yeah, tell that to a certain member of his body that stood at attention too often in her presence. Damn, he had a show to run.

  He parted the curtains to get a better look at the crowd. There was not a seat left at the Lucky Sevens Winners’ Club. The buzz of expectation set his blood pulsing. The patrons were excited. They would not be disappointed. He’d give them a show to remember.

  He stepped into the makeshift control room and punched the go-ahead signal from his pager. Instantly, the lights dimmed. The rich tones of the announcer’s voice filled the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, turn your attention to the spotlighted stage in front of you. That’s where our five indisputable beauties will soon display their talents.”

  The theme song played. The curtains parted. A yellow spotlight roved to the billionaire, clothed in a golden tunic, seated on a crimson velvet throne at the side of the stage.

  The acts began. In an erotic version of the Charleston, a long-legged redhead dressed in Roaring Twenties spangles jiggled and shimmied across the stage.

  The second contestant performed somersaults, ending up in a daring split position. A girl like that could murder a man. Picturing himself landing in that last position, Blake winced. Damn, that would hurt.

  Stage hands next rolled out an ebony grand piano for the following contestant, who played a moving rendition of Debussy’s Claire de Lune. Its haunting melody floated through the air.

  Out of nowhere, a vast loneliness filled Blake, along with a deep longing for something he couldn’t identify. No doubt about it. That contestant had enough talent to play with his emotions, which wasn’t easy.

  Next, the whine of a country song emanating from Maxine of the Dolly Parton boobs grated on Blake’s ears. At the pitiful sound, an irresistible urge hit him to rush the stage and douse her with a pail of water. That would cause some uproar, with the lady’s credentials being so impressive. Blake narrowed his eyes, estimating whether her goods were authentic or surgically enhanced. He suspected the latter.

  Jillian was next. Blake’s interest quickened. For the sake of spontaneity, the contestants had offered the briefest of sketches of their acts and were basically on their own. He had no control over what they chose to do. The concept could be dangerous where Jillian was concerned. He told himself to remain calm and have a little trust. Jillian knew the lay of the land. She’d come through for him.

  After flashing a go-ahead signal, he looked at the monitor and took in the simple set of a vinyl card table. A stripper song played as Jillian entered on the right, carrying a tattered brown grocery bag.

  The audience gasped. This was no ordinary cook, but a fantasy wife who’d stepped from the pages of a gentlemen’s magazine.

  Her presence again struck him below the belt. Her ruffled top took a nose dive, barely covering her perfect assets. The mini skirt of the jumper she barely wore molded tightly to her rounded tush. Her perfectly proportioned gams stretched long, lean and bare.

  The only sound was the click of pointy stiletto heels as Jillian swayed across the stage.

  Blake’s throat parched. He couldn’t swallow. Mesmerized, he watched Jillian step up to the table and carefully place the paper bag on top. She leaned over to reach inside. In the process, her breasts, barely constrained by the flimsy top, begged to be released.

  Blake held his breath. Would they break free as they’d done on the volleyball set? If so, this time he was too far away to rush in and save her. Besides, his pants were too tight.

  The bag rustled, claiming his attention. What was inside? He pictured handcuffs and other sexual paraphernalia. That’s what he, and probably the other men in the audience, would like her to take out and put to use. Instead, Jillian retrieved an innocuous looking steel mixing bowl, followed by a rubber spoon, a bottle, along with a few food cans. She poured the ingredients into the bowl, then began to stir. In the process, her breasts moved up, down and sideways, matching the tempo of her movements with the stripper music, which grew louder and more insistent.

  The sight was torture, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Stupefied, he watched and listened as Jillian proceeded to beat the contents of the bowl faster and faster. With each stroke, Blake’s already tight pants grew tighter, almost to the bursting point. He shifted his position. Right when he thought he’d explode, she stopped.

  He let out a sigh of relief, as did the other males in the audience. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one affected.

  Blake glanced in the direction of the billionaire. Troy appeared to be in the throes of a powerful force. His eyes were narrowed to slits. The veins in his neck seemed ready to pop. He looked feral, like a lion cornering its prey. An alarm sounded in Blake’s mind. Did Jillian have a clue what she was toying with?

  Seemingly oblivious to her effect on Troy and the other males in the vicinity, Jillian picked up the bowl and approached the crimson throne. She carefully dipped the spoon, withdrew a portion of the mixture and offered a sample to the billionaire.“Would you like something to eat?” she asked, with a wide-eyed, innocent expression.

  The audience tittered.

  Troy jumped off the throne. “I sure would, but it’s not that.”

  He reached for Jillian. The spoon flew up into the air, its contents splattering across the stage. The hat flew off her head, as Jillian lost her balance and fell onto Troy.

  Whistles and cheers rang out as the billionaire buried his face in Jillian’s breasts. She squirmed to break free.

  That must not happen on his watch. Blake dashed from the audience and onto the stage. “This is not a porn show. Stop that right now,” he hissed, as he pulled them apart.

  Believing it was part of the act, the audience cheered and booed, getting into the spirit of the act.

  With a bellow, Troy swung at Blake. The noise from the audience grew deafening. Would the onlookers clamber onto the stage? He couldn’t let that happen. He must restore order.

  Blake sidestepped the billionaire and turned to Jillian. “Give me your microphone,” he said.

  She fumbled with the clip.

  “Do you want me to help you get it off?”

  “No, I can do it.” She tugged harder.

  It finally released. Blake grabbed the microphone and turned to the audience.

  “Ou
r last contestant’s time has expired. The final judgment will take place in a few minutes. Until then, everyone sit tight,” he said.

  He made a cutting motion. As soon as the curtains had closed, he turned to the offending parties. “Okay, you two. No more fooling around. Get ready for the last segment.”

  “I’ve had it with your ordering me around,” Troy snarled.

  The mikes were still on. Their voices rang out. The din from the audience rose to a crescendo. Blake grabbed Troy’s mike and flung it onto the floor beside Jillian’s.

  “And I’ve had it up to here with your bending the rules. You just broke the morals clause of your contract.”

  “Sue me. I can afford it,” Troy said.

  “I just might.” Blake stared hard at the billionaire.

  “Fine, but remember, there’s nothing in the contract about what I do off camera.” Troy spun around, giving Blake the shoulder.

  Blake barely restrained himself from picking up the card table and heaving it at the billionaire’s back.

  He turned to Jillian, the instigator of the commotion. “What I said goes for you, too. I don’t care if you were my assistant. If you cross me, I’ll have your hide.”

  “When did Nevada secede?”

  “What?” She wasn’t making sense. Nothing did.

  “You’re worse than Troy Langley. He broke his contract, but you broke the law of the land. I’m entitled to a fair trial before being declared guilty.”

  With that, she spun on her heel, took two steps, then slipped on the mixture on the floor. Her skirt rode up. Blake hardened at the sight of her classic hide barely covered by the bikini panty.

  Instinctively, he reached down to scoop Jillian into his arms. At contact, electricity shot through him. His hold tightened, even when his fingertips encountered something sticky. What was that concoction she’d mixed?

  She struggled to break free. “Stop that.”

  “I was only helping,” he said, loosening his grip.

  “Some help you are. I’m safer with Troy.”

  With that, she pulled down her skirt and flounced off the stage.

  Glancing around, Blake tried to get his bearings. The show must go on. He must maintain a semblance of order. What was next?

  His fingers stuck together as he motioned for the grips to change the set. Absently, he licked them. Ambrosia, the food of the gods. It tasted sweet.

  Damn, what was he thinking? He had work to do. He dashed backstage to alert the pages of the ten minute warning. Thanks to that uncalled for scene, Ms. Suzy Homemaker would have to get her pretty butt in motion or be ruled out.

  He half-hoped she’d disqualify, so he wouldn’t keep wondering how Troy had felt smothering himself in her breasts.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IF SHE COULD, Jillian would kick herself. What had made her say those silly things? Stepping out of the stiletto heels and wriggling her toes, she wondered if she’d ever understand herself. Since the makeover, an alien being inhabited her mind and body.

  It had suggested she act as provocative as her outfit and attract Troy’s attention so Blake would notice her. He had, but not in the way she’d hoped.

  As she slipped out of her sultry homemaker costume, she could no longer deny her attraction to Blake. She might intellectually despise what he stood for, but physically her own body incriminated her. She remembered too well the hunger he’d awakened when he’d scooped her into his arms after she’d fallen on the stage.

  She reached for the snowy white Roman gown and quickly threw it over her body’s treachery. She didn’t want to think about the savage trip of her heart, and the urge to mash herself against Blake and submit to his every wish. She had to remember he was off limits—a ladies’ man, not a family man, definitely not her type. That article she’d seen about his mother and her leading man was proof enough.

  The best plan would be to avoid Blake as much as possible. If she happened to run into him, as she surely would while performing on the show, she’d ignore the treachery of her melting body.

  Jillian tied the gold tasseled belt around her waist and slipped into the matching high-heeled sandals. It was time for the finale.

  She climbed the back stage stairs until she stood at the top of the winding staircase. Blake gave the signal. One by one, as if they were Vegas show girls, the contestants descended the staircase in cadence with the music. When each drew up to the billionaire, she curtseyed deeply, reminiscent of a scene at a royal court.

  With a bland smile, Jillian followed, hoping she wouldn’t trip over the overlong skirt and disgrace herself by pitching forward.

  Wouldn’t that cause a commotion? The picture of her pristine gown marred by ugly crimson stains made her almost miss her step. Like in the movie, Carrie, the red would spill onto the floor, cover the wooden planks, creep between the cracks and drip below. The ghoulish spectators would crane their necks to catch a glimpse of the unfortunate contestant who’d died in the line of duty. My, wouldn’t that be grand! For sure, the ratings would be cinched. The tape would be played and replayed on the ten o’clock news. The show would get lots of coverage. Blake would have his hit.

  Her lips formed a grim smile. She automatically performed the requisite curtsey before Troy, then made the mistake of looking up at him. In his crested gold tunic, with the crown of fig leaves circled around his glowing hair, Troy nodded to her, accepting her homage as his rightful due. His supercilious grey eyes enforced the notion he was the lord of a castle deigning to look down at the mere peasant girl. What a snob.

  Jillian stifled a grin and moved to her designated spot. Let Troy enjoy his moment of glory. He didn’t mean anything to her.

  With amusement, she watched the billionaire rise from his lofty throne. Holding up three olive branches, he sauntered to the waiting contestants.

  He stopped first at the redhead. “Care to do the horizontal shimmy?” he asked, proffering the branch.

  She accepted it, placing it between her breasts before breaking into another shimmy to the delight of the audience.

  Next, Troy approached Ms. 44D, glanced down her well-endowed bosom and extended the second branch. “I won’t even try. Can you make it fit?” he asked.

  “I’ll squeeze it in,” she said.

  The audience hooted with laughter.

  Troy made an about turn, then stood in front of Jillian and held out the remaining branch.

  His glinting eyes slowly gave her the once over, mentally stripping her of her gown, making her feel soiled. Heat rose to her face.

  “There’s room for more. Will you join us, fair maiden?” he asked.

  Jillian nodded, ignoring the double entendre. It was obvious Troy meant a threesome. For certain he wouldn’t get such behavior from her. That sort of thing was Ms. 44D’s department.

  The theme song played. The curtains closed. As Jillian and the other contestants filed into the hallway, the eliminated Nadia, of splits fame, nudged Jillian on the shoulder and flashed a dirty look. “You won’t get away with it,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb. You’re the producer’s assistant. I was there.”

  “Where?”

  “In the bathroom. You know, when you did the counting.”

  “We were short a contestant. I had to fill in.”

  “You’re an employee. It’s against the rules.”

  “I was only a temp. I was never hired by the studio.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “There’s proof.”

  “It won’t wash. The thing’s fixed and I’m suing.”

  With that, the girl stomped away, leaving Jillian standing in the hallway with her mouth gaping.

  She’d thought no one would make the connection. She’d assumed all the girls in the bathroom had been there because of the food poisoning. She shouldn’t have overlooked another possibility. One person, who had not been ill, had gone there to perform normal bodily functions.

 
Nadia had held on, waiting until the right moment to play her insurance policy. What did the others think? If questioned, would they offer testimony that the contest was fixed? If so, the backlash would be disastrous.

  The hurt part of Jillian said it would serve Blake right and teach him a lesson for putting the show first. The soft part said he’d worked hard and deserved success. It wasn’t his fault she’d stepped in before he could do anything to stop her. By trying to help him against his wishes she may have hurt him even more. Guilt churned inside her. Had her motives been entirely selfless? In the back of her mind had her plan been not to help Blake but to make him notice her?

  Her motivation didn’t matter. The important thing was to get to Blake and warn him of the potential calamity before it was too late. Any minute Nadia might release her story to the press. Blake needed a chance to defend himself.

  That meant finding him. Since the show had been live tonight, Blake wouldn’t be looking over the tape. Maybe he’d already gone back to his suite.

  She didn’t have time to change. Still wearing the Roman gown, she rushed from the backstage area, passing staring people in the hallway. Ignoring cries of recognition, she dashed on. Before anyone could tell where she was headed, she slipped into the elevator, ascended two floors, got off, then punched the button for another elevator, rode back down and headed out.

  Darting into the main lobby, she headed for the reservation desk to get Blake’s room number. With any luck, she could still catch him.

  Ten steps from her destination, a fan yelled into his cell phone, “I see Veronica.”

  A horde of excited fans descended on Jillian, begging for her autograph, some making flattering, others lewd remarks. Where was security?

  Apparently now that the taping was over, she was on her own. There was no escape. Too late she realized it would have been wiser to have called from her room and asked for Blake’s number.

  Precious time was wasted as she smiled and signed autographs for the ever replenishing line. She pretended nothing was wrong, but inside the tension mounted. Hers and Blake’s reputations were at stake, not to mention the show’s life.