Make Me Over_ Getting Real - Leslie Kelly [3]
Then they’d hit him in his weak spot, his Achilles’ heel. The production company had offered to donate ten percent of the gross profits of the show—not net profits; even he, a total non-Hollywood type knew better than that—to A Book and a Dream, Drew’s favorite charity. Few people knew Drew had helped found the organization, which taught reading to underprivileged kids. That they’d investigated him enough to track down the information showed how serious they were.
The biggest hitch came when they’d suddenly decided, last week, that he had to be on the set to oversee things and gauge the women’s progress. But when the ten percent had gone up to fifteen, he’d allowed himself to be persuaded. He’d consoled himself over the decision by thinking it wouldn’t be that difficult. He could transform anyone who had the drive and basic intelligence to succeed.
But not a dozen women at once.
Certainly not these dozen women, who looked much more up for a rave than a grammar lesson.
Sighing heavily, he turned to leave, thankful no one had spotted him, when suddenly his attention was caught by one woman who stood apart from the rest. Her back to the room, she faced a floor-to-ceiling bookcase loaded with leather-bound editions, completely oblivious to the cacophony behind her. She remained separate. Distinct. In a bubble of introspection over the books—a posture Drew could understand, having lost himself in research on many occasions.
From behind, she was, well, to put it in the most basic terms…hot. She was petite, likely the smallest woman here. Tight, worn jeans clung to a slim pair of legs and a quite delectable backside. They nipped in to hug a tiny waist, though not without spreading over some fine curvy hips.
Her heavy, red flannel shirt was too bulky to allow him to make out much of the rest of her figure. But the thick bunch of wavy brown hair cascading down to the middle of her back led him to suspect she had brown eyes and olive skin.
Suddenly, the most unusual sensation drew his attention to his hands. Prickly. They tingled—though not from cold. He soon realized why. His mind was overflowing with images of twining his hands in all that hair, testing its weight, its silkiness.
It was not his intellect that decided she was most likely sexier than anyone he’d ever known. That intuitive response had come from somewhere south of his brain. South of his belt, to be precise.
Turn around.
She didn’t respond to his silent order, leaving him wondering about the face of the woman who seemed so separate from the rest of the group.
“Woo hoo! Look who’s here! Hold me back, ladies, but hands off ’cause he’s mine.”
Blinking, he tried to pull his focus off the woman by the bookcase, who continued to run her fingertip down the spines of several books as she read their titles. The fifteen or so others had stopped their various lewd and possibly illegal activities and had focused every bit of their attention on him. Every pair of eyes in the place widened in stares that ranged from friendly to voracious. He managed to remain completely still under the scrutiny, though he suddenly began to empathize with those guys who stripped off their clothes for women in trendy nightclubs.
“Come join the party, sweetie,” the one on the floor said, a bit of beer dribbling down the side of her face. Wiping it off with the back of her hand, she gave him a big smile.
“Yeah, don’t be shy,” said the pole dancer, who suddenly looked much more animated. Like a tigress confronting a wounded wildebeest.
“Don’t mind me, ladies,” Drew murmured, nodding to them all. “I’m simply here to observe.”
A flurry of protests broke out from the women, all of whom were giving him lascivious looks usually found during mating rituals. Not in New England mansions.
He pulled back slightly, deciding he needed to track down Burt Mueller, or whoever was in charge, and try to end this thing here and now. Frankly, he’d rather be back in Bolivia searching