Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(84)

Heart flutters? 

Shortness of breath? 

Lightheadedness? 

Tingles? 

Fantasies? 

Yes, all of the above. I even had his monogrammed hankie still tucked away in my purse.

I could tell Blake liked me. We shared some kind of chemistry. I aroused him and he aroused me. The thought made me quiver. Enough. Taking a much needed break, I opened my Hollywood Reporter. My eyes widened and my heart stuttered. Staring me in the face was a photo of Blake and one of his blond bimbos taken at a recent movie premier. A bell went off in my head. Ding! Ding! Ding! Reality check: this man was a player. Someone who hung out with gorgeous supermodels and starlets. And who had a new one in his bed every night of the week. He probably was just taunting me. It was all some kind of egotistic power trip. But why was I so foolishly letting him get to me? I was engaged. And hello . . . he was my boss. I had a career at stake. And a fiancé who was committed to me though we were going through a rough patch. The bottom line: I had to stop thinking about him and just focus on my job. And my upcoming wedding. I tossed the trade magazine into my waste paper basket and went back to my PowerPoint.

Six thirty rolled around. The taping of Wheel of Pain started at seven. Not wanting to be late, I shut down my computer and packed up my bags. On my way out of my office, I stopped by my bookshelf and pulled out the dictionary my father had given me. I looked up the word “infatuation.” “Foolish, short-lived affection for another person.”

I half-smiled with relief. My infatuation with Blake Burns would soon pass. Yet, while I walked over to the soundstage where Wheel was taping, my emotions were in a tailspin.




I wasn’t looking forward to overseeing this raunchy game show.

Blake had given me a list of things to watch for. And he’d made me watch two insufferable episodes. It was more than watching sex. It was a mixture of watching humiliation and human suffering. He’d also instructed me to not put up with any bullshit from the producer, Don Springer, who could be an *. That part of the job I thought I could handle.


When I arrived at the studio, the three competing couples, already undressed, were testing the Wheel of Pain. The Wheel resembled a small Ferris wheel with an attached capsule that was big enough to accommodate each of the couples in a variety of positions. Two cameramen were operating cranes while a third one was experimenting with a hand-held camera. Other production personnel were scattered across the set.

My eyes gravitated to a man who was pacing the floor and shouting orders. Curse words spilled from his mouth. I was sure he was the producer. Don Springer.

In his late forties, he was bronzed, balding, and beer-bellied. He wore a tight black open shirt with straining buttons, and jeans that sat low below his paunch. A thick gold chain hung around his neck, and a large diamond ring adorned his pinky. He was in a word: a sleazebag.

My belly bubbling with nerves, I sauntered up to him and introduced myself.

He gave me the once-over with his dark beady eyes. “You look familiar, sweetheart.”

I cringed at the word “sweetheart.” “I’m sure we’ve never met.”

“I never forget a beautiful face. Or body.” His eyes lingered on places he had no right to be. And then he took a sharp sniff. Drugs?

“That smell. I know it. You smell like cherries and cream.”

He was inhaling the scent of the Gloria’s Secret shampoo I’d used forever. Very Cherry Vanilla. Without responding, I stepped away and glanced down at my watch. “We should get going so we don’t go into overtime.” Overtime drove up the cost of production, and Blake had warned me Don was notorious for this.

“Oh, so you’re a network cop. If you know what’s good for you, sugar, don’t f*ck with me.” Snarling, he stomped off.

I felt shaky and was having second thoughts about being able to handle Don Springer. My confidence was more than a little shattered. I took a deep breath. You can do this, Jen. Yes, I can, I convinced my conscience. After another calming breath, I quickly checked the buff male contestants to make sure they were wearing condoms. A law had recently passed in California making their use mandatory in adult entertainment; for this reason, a lot of productions had moved to Vegas where they weren’t an issue. My eyes got a cockful, but to my relief, their condoms were in place. God, I so didn’t want to be doing this.

Eager to get away from Springer and the contestants, I headed upstairs to the director’s booth. Blake had told me this was the best place to watch the taping as I could see what was being captured by all the cameras. The room was small with a console and a dozen monitors. I took a seat behind the console waiting for the director. To my shock, in walked Don Springer. Unbeknownst to me, he was directing tonight’s final episode.

“I hope you like company,” he sneered, lowering himself into the swivel chair right next to mine. Unfortunately, there was no other place to sit. He deliberately brushed his hard thigh against mine, and I jumped. Hastily, I rolled my chair away from him.

“Don’t be such a prude, sweetheart.”

“My name’s Jennifer, and please act professionally.”

He snickered. “I’d like to take whatever pickle you have up your hole and f*ck you up the ass.”

My body quivered. Part of me wanted to run. What was I doing here? I was so out of my element. I should be overseeing children’s game shows, not this pornographic crap.