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Strictly Seduction: Watch Me
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About the Author
LISA RENEE JONES spends her days writing the dreams playing in her head. Before becoming a writer, Lisa lived the life of a corporate executive, often taking the red-eye flight out of town and flying home for the excitement of a Little League baseball game. Visit Lisa at www.lisareneejones.com.
Strictly Seduction
Watch Me
Follow My Lead
Winning Moves
Lisa Renee Jones
www.millsandboon.co.uk
1
SCREAMS FILLED THE AIR, jolting Meagan Tippan, the producer of the new dance reality show America’s Stepping Up, from a dead sleep to a startled, heart-pounding sitting position. That was about two seconds before the sprinkler system in the restored Victorian beachfront mansion kicked into gear. Meagan arched her back against the icy fingers of wetness that seeped through her thin T-shirt.
The very real possibility of a fire pierced the momentary shock of Meagan’s abrupt awakening. Quickly, she shoved away her soaked blankets and darted across the room. There were twelve hopeful dancers in the house who’d come here to chase a dream, not to live a nightmare, and she had to get them, and her crew, to safety.
Flinging open her door, Meagan found Ginger Scott, one of the two choreographers for the show and “House Mom,” in the hallway, rushing the six female dancers in the competition down the stairs.
“Is anyone hurt?” Meagan shouted loudly, because the water seemed to be muffling everything but the panicked voices echoing around her.
“Just scared,” Ginger said, shoving a wet mop of blond hair from her face, as Meagan did the same to her light brown hair. “And I don’t see a fire. DJ says he doesn’t see one downstairs, either.” DJ being her twin brother and male counterpart in the house.
“I called 9-1-1,” DJ shouted, rushing up to meet them. “Could be electrical though. Big trouble for a house this old.”
Right, Meagan thought grimly. Wouldn’t that be peachy? After ten weeks spent casting across the country, with one mishap after another—enough to prompt whispers of a “curse” that she’d hoped to put to rest—only to discover they’d also managed to move into a place with electrical problems, and have it catch on fire their first night there.
“Is everyone okay?” came the voice of another male dancer at the bottom of the stairs. “Do you need help?”
“No! Stay where you are,” Meagan yelled, taking in water as she spoke. “We don’t need help up here, and there is no fire.” That they knew about, but she didn’t say that. She didn’t want to freak anyone out any more than they already were.
“Get everyone on the lawn where we can get a head-count,” Meagan said, shooing Ginger and DJ down the stairs. The sooner they had this situation under control, the better. Control? After thirty-two years, and her own dance career destroyed by a knee injury, she should know control was a facade. Just when you thought you had it, it slipped away.
Eventually, Meagan finally had all her hot-bodied, dripping-wet dancers on the front lawn, looking as if they were posing for a kinky spread in an X-rated magazine. She could only imagine editing this segment. Their stationary cameras had no doubt caught everything and the studio execs would want this mishap included in behind-the-scenes footage. After all, they’d insisted on broadcasting every other disaster—from falling sets and broken-down buses, to a crazed fan who’d set the hotel lobby on fire.
A thought hit Meagan like a huge brick. Oh, God. It was a very bad thought.
Meagan whirled around to face the house, as if it were possessed, glaring at the monster that was about to ruin everything, even her own career. The chance to pitch the idea for this show had come after years of working as the producer for a top news show in Dallas, Texas. Leaving that job on the long shot that this could survive the ratings war had been a big risk. She knew the chips would be stacked against her. Tonight that stack had gotten bigger. Not only were the cameras getting wet, but the house, where they’d intended to spend the next twelve weeks, was being destroyed by the water. And she had enough experience with fickle network executives to know that her show, her darn dream-fulfilling show, was turning into a nightmare that might well be called “cancelled.”
And although the top dancer among her contestants was set to win a new car, a studio contract and cash, while the other dancers would earn major industry exposure that could change their lives, she wondered if it would all end tonight.
Meagan tried to comfort herself by recalling the high-powered panel of judges she’d secured for the live shows—a well-known choreographer, a highly respected casting agent and even a highly acclaimed pop star. Surely, the studio wouldn’t want to pay out their contracts and see no real return.
Who was she kidding? Studio executives always leaned toward taking their financial hits and cutting losses. Meagan had to do something to save the house, if she expected to save the show.
Meagan leapt to action, darting toward the house, ignoring shouts of her name. Clearly, there was no fire, only water—lots and lots of destructive water. She burst through the door, and headed straight to the basement through the kitchen. Though she had no real idea how to turn off the sprinklers, flipping the circuit breaker seemed logical, and she remembered seeing it by the washer and dryer.
Sure enough, the breaker was where she thought it was, but any relief she felt at finding it was doused when she realized it was ridiculously high off the ground. Oh yeah, it was high, well above her reach, or any normal human’s, for that matter. Resigned to the climb ahead of her, she splashed her way closer.
She couldn’t help but ask herself if the night could possibly get any worse, as she heaved herself on top of the washer.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and she yelled over her shoulder, “I said go to the lawn!” She jerked the metal panel, but it wouldn’t open. “I need everyone outside and safe.” There was the sound of more splashing and she grimaced. “I said—”
“Come down from there before you get hurt,” came an order from behind her.
Meagan froze at the deeply resonating voice of Samuel Kellar, the sexy, blond-haired, blue-eyed, irritating, arrogant, six-foot-two—if she had to bet her life on it—head of studio security, who she knew all too well and wished she didn’t.
Samuel, or Sam as everyone called him, had directly coordinated much of the show’s security over the past few months, especially the open casting calls. She’d had innumerable occasions to know with certainty that few people could rattle her nerves the way Sam could. When Sam said jump, people jumped. He didn’t ask anyone to do anything, he ordered them. And since that trait irritated her to no end, how was it that the man made her want to both yell at him and strip him naked at the same time—she didn’t know.
But shouting wasn’t her style, nor was sleeping with a man like Sam. She preferred subtle and submissive, to his demanding and arrogant. Unfortunately, Sam wasn’t the least bit dissuaded by her sharp-tongued retorts meant to be off-putting. In fact, he infuriatingly seemed to enjoy sparring with her.
And just when Meagan thought Sam’s presence ensured that the night really, truly, couldn’t get any worse, it did. With frustration, she yanked at the panel door with an unsuccessful jerk that hiked her butt up in the air. Meagan froze, mortified, in the embarrassing position. Sam, her sexy pain-in-the-backside, now had a view of her backside. Because Meagan was pretty sure her skimpy, wet, hot-pink boxers weren’t leaving much to the imagination.
SAM KELLAR MIGHT BE former Special Forces, a man of restraint and discipline who considered himself a gentleman, but he was still a man when it came down to it. And the man in him was standing at attention for Meagan’s impossibly sexy, heart-shaped butt, despite the cold shower he was enduring. It said a lot about how much he wanted this “taboo” woman. Taboo because they not only worked together, but she chilled him with her ice-princess routine every time the sparks between them got too hot.
“Get down, Meagan,” he ordered, having no doubt he would get an argument—prickly arguments were part of her ice-princess routine.
She yanked ineffectively at the panel door. “Not until I turn off the water.”
“I’ll do that,” he promised. “Come down before you—”
She slipped before the words were out and then tried to right herself. He didn’t wait to see if she was going to succeed or fail. Sam wrapped his arms around her long, slender legs to make sure she didn’t fall.
“Sam!” she objected, pressing her hands to the ceiling, shifting unsteadily to stare down at him. Their eyes locked. Awareness flashed hot and fast between them, a silent understanding that she was half naked and in his arms, and that this wasn’t the first time either one of them had thought about such a moment.
“Let go of me,” she said, a hint of panic in her voice, the same panic he heard every time their combustible attraction flared to life.
“And let you break your pretty little neck?” he asked. “Not a chance.” Not giving her time to object, he slid his hands to her waist and forcefully lifted her down from the washer. Not an easy task from his lower position, and she ended up plastered against him as intimately as those shorts hugged her backside. And oh yeah, the man in him was alert and present all right. He’d wanted this woman too long not to react to having her lush body pressed to his.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. Her hips were melded to his, her hands pressed against his chest—hands he’d often dreamed of having on his chest and all kinds of other places. Sexual awareness had caught them like the water they couldn’t escape.
Her nervous energy escalated, just as her temper did, meaning their same routine as always. “Sam, damn it! The house is being destroyed. My career is being destroyed.” She squirmed out of his arms, and reluctantly he let her go. “I have to stop the water.” She turned back to the washer.
That, he wasn’t letting her do. Sam shackled her arm and pulled her around to face him, and she was close, so close he could kiss her, and damn if he didn’t want to in a bad way. He would have, too, if not for the fact that she was right—the water needed to be turned off.
“Stubborn woman,” he mumbled. “I’ll do it. That’s why I came down here in the first place. That and I saw you rush into the house, and knew you were up to no good.”
Sirens sounded in the distance, and unintentionally, his gaze brushed her very visible, red, puckered nipples beneath the transparent shirt. He didn’t like the idea of the entire fire department getting the same view.
“Sam!” she objected, folding her arms over her chest.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, as if he would ever wipe away the image of those perfect breasts. “Sorry,” he said, meaning it. He didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable—no, uncomfortable was the last thing he wanted to make Meagan feel. “That wasn’t on purpose. It just…happened.” He slid out of the rain jacket he’d put on before coming inside and handed it to her. “Put this on,” he told her, “before a gaggle of firemen make the same mistake.” The idea of that gnawed away at his gut in an unfamiliar, uncomfortable way.
Sam turned away from her, lifting himself on top of the washer and hitting the button to the panel door that Meagan had missed.
She made a surprised sound. “I loosened the door for you.”
His lips quirked, but he didn’t reply. He so enjoyed how easily he ruffled her feathers, even when he wasn’t trying. He cut the breaker to the sprinklers. The water was off. The sound of firemen’s voices and loud, heavy footsteps echoed from the floor above.
He eased to the floor, ankle deep in water. Meagan was thankfully well covered in his way-too-big jacket, but there was something intensely erotic about her in something of his that he couldn’t dismiss.
She slicked her hair back, drawing it away from her face, a face incredibly appealing without makeup, au naturel. And then they stood there.
Water clung to her thick, dark lashes, framing grass-green eyes that swept over his wet studio T-shirt and returned to his face.
More of that sexual tension zipped between them.
“We need you folks out of here,” came a male voice from the stairs, effectively jolting them from the hot little spell spinning around them.
“We’re coming,” Sam yelled, and then to Meagan, “Better late than never, but had this been a real fire, people could have been hurt. I’ll be talking to them about how this happened. In the meantime, one of my guys is already arranging a hotel for everyone.” He motioned for her to head upstairs.
A sudden wave of vulnerability washed across her features. “I ah…considering the firemen and your guys and…well, thanks for the jacket. And for turning off the water.” And then, when he thought they’d made some progress, she proved him wrong, pursing her lips and adding, “But I was about to turn off the water myself. I had it. I was getting it.”
He couldn’t stop the corners of his lips from twitching, despite the certainty that a smile—and most certainly the laugh threatening to escape—would only set him up for a battle. “Of course you would have,” he agreed, playing the cat-and-mouse game she seemed to want him to play—though, damn if he knew who was the cat and who was the mouse half the time. “But I’m here, Meagan. Why not use me?”
Her lips parted slightly at the words. Then her brows knit together, and her hands went to her hips, giving him a delectable glimpse of skin below her breasts. “You’re impossible,” she announced, glowering, before sloshing toward the stairs.
He stood watching her, thinking that the real “impossible” here, was not him, but that either of them believed they were going to be satisfied with this game much longer. She wanted him. He wanted her. And he was going to do something about it. No matter how many washers he had to climb.
2
SEEING SAM AGAIN SO SOON after…well, he’d seen her up close and personal wasn’t something Meagan welcomed. Not even after she’d had access to a hotel bed for a few hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking about his body pressed to hers.
Now dressed in her conservative black skirt and blouse, feeling a mess, as she stepped off the elevator and directly into the studio’s executive offices, she was pretty darn sure she wasn’t going to escape Sam’s presence. Because instantly, as if she had some cosmic radar for the man, a flutter of anticipatory butterflies overtook her stomach. The kind a lover felt for a lover.
Meagan didn’t want to react like this to Sam. Life had taught her not to date men like Sam, certainly not to invite them into her bed. She stuck with the easy-going types, who’d actually listen to what pleased a woman, rather than assuming they knew and getting it wrong. Men who cared about what a woman wanted, which right now, for her, was to keep her job. Scratch that. This wasn’t about a job. It was about a dream, about the career as a dancer never realized. About how she could use that passion in a positive way and help others who loved dance. Exactly like a very special teacher had done for her once when she was a young girl working hard to become a top-class ballerina.
With an intake of breath, she reminded herself she was here to pitch shooting the show from the hotel she and the cast and crew had moved into. As far as ideas went, it was a good one. Meagan approached the secretary, June, who smiled her usual friendly welcome from behind an oversize mahogany desk.
“Morning, Meagan. Or maybe not. I hear you had a rough night.”
“What doesn’t kill you makes interesting television,” Meagan replied lightly, shoving a lock of brown hair behind her ear.
June chuckled at her quip. “I’ll let Sabrina know you’re here.”
A masculine voice rumbled behind Meagan, thick with a sensual taunt. “Good morning, ice princess. How are you feeling today?”
Meagan tensed, hating when he called her that, and he did it often. Hating it even more since Sam’s presence most likely meant the studio intended to shut down the show. He’d be called in to plan damage control in case of any trouble that might occur when the contestants heard they were headed home.
Feeling nauseous at the thought, she told herself to hold it together, to give him the sass he expected from her. She turned to face him, but found herself captured by his amused, piercing blue eyes that not only sent a sizzle down her spine, but to other more intimate places. And that made the “sass” come a wee bit easier.
“I’m feeling downright chilly, why thank you,” she replied, pivoting on her heels and making a beeline for the lobby chairs. She was all too eager to escape Sam’s assessing stare. He would see that she wasn’t feeling chilly at all—she was feeling hot enough to fan herself. And stare he did, indeed. Settling into one of the black leather chairs lining the wall, Meagan didn’t have to look up to know Sam was watching her. She felt his gaze, hot and heavy, following her movements.
Crossing her legs, she snagged a magazine, and tried to live up to the “ice princess” label, rather than the “wanton vixen,” that he made her want to be. Despite her effort to resist, her gaze lifted at his approach, tracking the strut that she could tell came natural to him. Meagan’s mouth went dry at the sexy way his jeans molded those really nice, strong legs, and at the memory of another pair of jeans, wet and plastered to lithe muscle.
“You’re easily agitated this morning,” he commented, claiming the chair directly across from her. “I usually have to work harder to get you this riled up.”
“I’ll just have to sleep less more often,” she replied. “Then you’ll have your princess raring to go.”
He grinned, his eyes twinkling again. “I’m not even going to take advantage of that poorly worded rebuttal because you are tired, and I’m afraid you might hurt me in front of Sabrina.”
Her cheeks heated as the double meaning of his statement sank in, but before she could reply, the door to her boss’s office opened. Sabrina stepped into view, her long blond hair neatly pinned at the back of her neck, her white suit impeccable. “Come in, you two. So sorry I’m running late. Would either of you like coffee?”
“No coffee for me,” Sam answered, as he pushed to his feet.
“I’d love some coffee,” she said, mostly to contradict Sam, desperate to feel like she still had some semblance of control. It was silly, ridiculous, immature, and proof that she, in fact, had absolutely no control when it came to this man.
Sam arched an eyebrow at her, a knowing look in his too-blue eyes that said he knew exactly what she was thinking. She grimaced. “I haven’t slept. Who doesn’t want coffee when they haven’t slept?” She lifted her chin, and headed toward the office.
Once inside, Sabrina motioned to a small conference table, and Meagan found herself seated between her boss and Sam. A cup of coffee quickly appeared in front of her.
Sabrina flattened her hands on the table. “Well. Where do we begin? We knew this show would be a bit of a crazy ride, but just how crazy were we thinking? The good news is, a crazy ride will usually translate to high ratings. Several of the big gossip websites not only reported last night’s occurrence, they’re feeding the rumor of the show’s curse. Twitter and Face-book are buzzing. So we’ll go with this and feed the curse, so to speak. The plan is that over the next two weeks, we’re going to show reruns of the auditions. Which gives you that two weeks as a reprieve to get settled in a new house. We’ll also run a series of promotional commercials playing up the curse. You’ll be responsible for the promotional footage, Meagan. We want to give the viewers glimpses of contestants talking about what happened last night, laced with some spooky ‘what if’ kind of paranormal flavor. Then play up the curse during the first two episodes. We’ll talk from there based on ratings. Everyone will be paid as if on-air for these two weeks off.”
Meagan’s head was swimming with a mixture of relief and panic. They weren’t cancelled. That was good and she’d been in television long enough to understand about working the ratings. “I’m concerned about fitting the dancing in with the curse footage.”
Sabrina smiled. “You get two hours for your first episode. Deliver the ratings, and that’s just the beginning. We keep the same standard format we’ve planned all along. One night of reality television. One night of competition and results, with the three judges choosing who goes home. The final show will still be open to votes from viewers. And those superstar performers you wanted us to deliver for the live episodes? That will be your reward if the curse promotionals deliver the viewer interest we believe they will. We’ll keep investing in you, and the show, as long as the ratings justify it.”
Meagan could hardly believe it. In the midst of a dark disaster, everything was looking really quite spectacular. “That’s amazing, Sabrina. I’m speechless,” she said. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t,” she said. “Exactly why I support this venture so completely. But everyone isn’t as onboard here at the studio as I am. There are liability issues with the situations we’ve encountered. That means, we have to take some precautions to protect everyone. You and Sam will work together to locate a new house for the filming, and get the contestants safely settled. And then as a final precaution, we’ll have on-site, around-the-clock security.”
A sudden rush of anxiety came over Meagan, and her heart galloped. Her gaze met Sam’s. “What exactly does that mean? Around-the-clock security?”
“It means,” Sabrina said, “that this show has big potential, but as things have progressed, it has also proven to have huge potential liability associated with it. The studio prefers to protect the up side and limit the down side of the show. Sam was nearby when he got the emergency call to go to your aid. Next time, we might not be that lucky. In other words, we’ve asked Sam to handle the show’s security with a personal touch, rather than a distant supervisory one, as he has up to this point.”
The corners of his mouth twitched slightly. “I’m your new roommate. I’m moving into the house with you.”
Meagan’s silent gasp delivered a smile to Sam’s face.
“Am I that bad?”
“There is nothing bad about any of this,” Sabrina told them, getting to her feet. “You two are going to make great ratings magic together.”
3
MEETING OVER, SAM FOLLOWED Meagan into the elevator, and the instant the doors shut, she turned to him. “You’re the head of studio security. Surely you have better things to do than babysit me and my dancers.”
