High-Stakes Playboy. Cindy Dees

men—would pay far too much attention to her like this. Attention that made her acutely uncomfortable, thank you very much. Because...well, because of the whole virginity thing. But a little voice at the back of her head whispered that it had nothing to do with her virginity. Her dirty little secret was that she wasn’t even the least bit interesting or lovable.

      “Now put on the shortest skirt you’ve got and go get you that flyboy. If you don’t have screaming-hot sex with that man tonight, I’m going to be deeply disappointed.”

      The idea of screaming-hot sex with Archer sent her brain into blank, blue-screen-of-doom overload.

      Was it possible? Could she once and for all ditch her damned virginity and shut up that nasty little voice in her head? Goodness knew, Archer was the hottest prospect for doing the deed that she’d ever run across. Much hotter than she’d dared hope for, truth be told.

      All she managed to get out in response to Tyrone was, “I don’t own a miniskirt.”

      He just shook his head. “Me and some of the girls are taking you shopping the minute we get back to LA. Jeans, then. You got any tight ones?”

      Actually, she did. When she was sitting on a camera boom, she couldn’t afford to catch her clothing on the lift or wiring. While she rooted around in a drawer for a pair of clean jeggings, Tyrone rooted around in her closet. She pulled on her pants, and he held out a pair of slouchy ankle boots to her.

      “We’re getting you some proper heels when we get back to L.A., too,” Tyrone announced as she stomped into the soft leather boots. He looped a narrow, sparkly scarf casually around her neck and stepped back to survey his work. “Mmm-hmm, now we’re talkin’,” he declared, wagging his chin and wearing a bitch, please face.

      “Okay, Marilyn. Go have yourself the mother of all hot flings.”