The guy gave a whole new meaning to the term hardened soldier.

“Oh, my,” Ivy murmured in appreciation, devouring Garrett with her eyes. He was like hot silk in her hand. In awe, she smoothed a thumb across the head of his erection. When it came away slick with moisture, an answering heat pooled in her centre. Unable to resist, she circled her fingers around him.

He jerked reflexively in her hand and made a deep sound of pleasure. When she glanced at him again, the expression in his eyes – hot and intense – consumed her, made her want to see just how far she could go before he completely lost control.

“I don’t know, soldier,” she mused aloud, sending him a sultry look. “Your situation appears…dire.”

He smiled, but Ivy didn’t miss how his muscles tightened as she squeezed him gently. “Yeah,” he said, his voice husky. “But don’t worry, sweetheart. The word retreat isn’t in my vocabulary…”

Available in April 2010 from Mills & Boon® Blaze®

BLAZE 2-IN-1

Out of Control by Julie Miller & Hot Under Pressure by Kathleen O’Reilly

The Right Stuff by Lori Wilde

Overnight Sensation by Karen Foley

Overnight Sensation

by

Karen Foley

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Karen Foley is an incurable romantic. When she’s not working for the Department of Defense, she loves writing sexy romances with strong military heroes and happy endings. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and two daughters and enjoys hearing from her readers. You can find out more about her by visiting www.karenefoley.com.

This book is dedicated to some of the amazing women in my life. To Samantha Hunter, who came up with the great title for this book; to Barbara, Cathryn, Denise, Michelle and Nina for providing constant support; to Vicki and Ellen for playing the name game; and to my mother, Mary Jo, a true role model and inspiration.

1

NO DOUBT ABOUT IT—she was going to die. She could almost see the headlines: B-List Actress Killed In Chicken Bus Accident. Dreams Of Hitting The Big Time Crushed With Her.

For someone who’d just been chosen to star opposite Hollywood’s hottest actor, Ivy James sure didn’t feel like red-carpet material. While she certainly hadn’t expected mobs of eager fans to greet her, or a stretch limousine to sit waiting to whisk her away to a five-star hotel, still she’d held out hope that someone—even a minor crew member—would come to meet her flight. But no one had been waiting for her at the arrivals terminal, and in the end, her only option had been to stick with the itinerary provided to her and hop a public bus for the eighty-mile ride from the resort city of Veracruz to the remote mountain town of Pancho Viejo. And now here she was, bone-tired, sweaty and, above all, scared stiff, on a suicide ride through the Mexican jungle.

The garishly painted bus, decked out with a roof rack and brush guards, lurched violently to one side of the badly potholed road, throwing her against her neighbor. The driver—or piloto, as he’d called himself—apparently believed that although his vehicle might look like a beat-up school bus, it was in fact a finely tuned Formula One race car.

For the past hour they’d careened along steep mountain roads. Twice, they’d passed other buses on blind, hairpin curves. Ivy had squeezed her eyes shut, but the honking horns, smoking brakes and violent rocking weren’t things she’d soon forget.

With a muttered apology to her neighbor, Ivy clutched her overnight bag tighter on her lap and pressed herself against the window, praying she didn’t throw up. She cast a sideways glance at the old woman beside her. Her brown face was seamed with creases, her eyes were closed and her mouth worked soundlessly as her callused fingers slid over the beads of a rosary. The sight gave Ivy a strange sense of relief that she wasn’t the only passenger who found the ride terrifying, but at the same time it confirmed her belief that her life was indeed in peril.

The air was sticky and hot. Passengers were packed in like cattle. Some sat three to a seat; others stood in the aisle, gripping the handrails and swaying with the movement of the vehicle. The steamy heat only worsened the pungent smells permeating the air—everything from rank body odor to diesel fumes to the rich coffee beans the old woman carried in the sack at her feet. Even the lush vegetation, carved gorges and occasional stunning waterfall failed to distract Ivy from the odors. She was too busy keeping her stomach in check to appreciate the dramatic scenery that surrounded her.

The linen pantsuit she’d donned back in New York had seemed a good choice at the time, but after hours of traveling, it was wrinkled beyond recognition. Perspiration trickled between her breasts, and her shirt stuck uncomfortably to her back. Her feet, clad in a pair of slip-on sandals, ached.

A sudden waft of air through the bus brought with it the strong smell of spicy jalapenos, and Ivy’s stomach roiled alarmingly in response. Stifling a curse, she dug through her handbag until she found what remained of a roll of antacids. She brushed away crumbs from the exposed end, unwrapped the last three tablets and popped them into her mouth, praying the chalky substance would help her queasiness subside. The bus driver had assured her they were going to Pancho Viejo, but she hadn’t expected the trip to take so long. She pulled out her itinerary, which was crumpled from handling. After unfolding it, she read through it swiftly.

Arrive Veracruz, Mexico. Okay, she’d managed that part, having departed New York City some fourteen hours earlier aboard an AeroMexico flight, with only a brief layover in Mexico City.

Take public bus to Pancho Viejo. She’d managed that, too. Well, so far. It was anyone’s guess when or if she’d make it safely to her destination.

Obtain local transport from Pancho Viejo to Hacienda la Esperanza. Just where was Pancho Viejo, anyway? If the bus ride was any indication, the place was somewhere in the dense mountain region north of Veracruz.

The events that had led to this moment had unfolded so quickly she hadn’t even had time to do an Internet search about the region before her agent had hustled her off to the airport. She’d been back in New York less than a week, having just wrapped up a film shoot in Montreal, when he had called with the mind-blowing news.

Ivy had been too stunned to question why Finn Mac-Dougall wanted to cast her in his latest movie, opposite Hollywood’s golden boy, Eric Terrell. If she hadn’t actually touched the contract with her own hands, she’d have thought somebody was playing a bad joke on her.

Finn MacDougall wasn’t just a great director. In the hallowed studios of Hollywood, he was king, with a reputation for filmmaking rivaled only by Steven Spiel-berg’s. Barely forty years old, he had it all: a gorgeous wife, two adorable kids and a house overlooking the Pacific worth seven figures.

According to Ivy’s agent, MacDougall had seen her in several small, independent films and thought she’d be perfect for his newest project, Eye of the Hunter. The proposed salary had left Ivy speechless. As if there had ever been any doubt Ivy would agree to take the part. A two-time Academy Award–winning director, Mac-Dougall specialized in action movies that were pure adrenaline, with edge-of-your-seat suspense that ensured every picture was an unforgettable experience for the audience. Some of the most acclaimed actors in the business owed their careers to Finn MacDougall.

And he wanted her.

Ivy wasn’t about to question his motives. Without even reading the script, she knew she wouldn’t let this opportunity slip by. She just needed to get to the set before he changed his mind, especially since they’d begun shooting three weeks earlier. That information had surprised her. Obviously, she was a last-minute replacement. Directors normally didn’t wait until the eleventh hour to pick their leading ladies.

The two days following MacDougall’s offer had been a whirlwind of signing contracts and release forms, obtaining medical clearances and insurance, packing and making travel arrangements. Finally, her agent had driven her to the airport, where, at the last minute, he’d thrust a large envelope into her arms.

“It’s the script, darling,” he’d told her. “You have a nine-hour flight. Do yourself a favor and read it.”

She had. Three times, using a lime-green highlighter to underscore all her lines. The story was about a Special Forces soldier, Garrett Stokes, who’d been taken prisoner by a ruthless drug cartel in Colombia, then rescued by a beautiful missionary. It had more than captured her imagination; it had held her spellbound.

Initially, the script, with its graphic violence and no-holds-barred depiction of covert warfare, had disturbed her. At one point she’d had to put it down and pull several deep breaths in order to control her emotions. The screenplay touched a place within her that was still raw, dragging old memories out from where she’d kept them carefully hidden for two years.

Even now, thoughts of her older brother, Devon, brought an ache to her heart. That he’d died doing something he loved didn’t matter. It couldn’t dispel the anger and grief she had felt at his loss. She’d arrived at the military hospital in Washington, D.C., shortly after he’d emerged from surgery. Despite the severity of his wounds, she hadn’t believed he would die. He’d always been so confident, able to handle anything life threw at him. With the death of their mother four years earlier, he’d been the only family she’d had left. He’d always promised her that he’d come back from Iraq in one piece, that he’d always be there for her. She’d believed it—right up until the moment he’d died.

Devon had wanted to join the marines for as long as Ivy could remember. He’d enlisted on his eighteenth birthday, and nothing had given him as much pride as wearing that uniform. He’d served three tours in Iraq, but his career had come to a tragic and bloody end the day a roadside bomb had shattered his convoy. He’d survived long enough to be airlifted to Landstuhl Hospital in Germany, then to the Walter Reed Army Medical Center, where he’d finally succumbed to his injuries.

Ivy thought he would have approved of the script she now held in her hands. Her own feelings aside, she acknowledged that the story held a universal appeal. Guys would love it for all the military pyrotechnics, everything from exploding cars to buildings to aircraft. Not to mention some graphically brutal torture scenes. Women would appreciate the romance in the film, especially the love scenes featuring a naked Eric Terrell as the special-ops soldier who falls in love with the missionary who saves his life. Women around the world would faint in their seats at the sight of Eric’s cobblestone abs and supremely sculpted arms, not to mention his superior posterior.

Ivy felt a little faint herself at the knowledge that she would be on the receiving end of his manly caresses. Thank God she’d maintained her daily exercise regimen in Montreal. Nothing worse than playing opposite the most desired man in America while your thighs jiggled with cellulite.

Not that she was interested in Eric Terrell other than professionally. The last thing she needed was to become involved with yet another leading man. She’d been there, done that, and it had led to only heartache.

There’d been Jacques, the artistic Frenchman she’d thought was totally into her, until she’d discovered he was more into himself. Then there’d been Simon. He’d played a deliciously sexy bad-boy hero, but his naughty habits had extended into his private life to the degree that he’d been unable to commit to just one woman. Finally, there had been Malcolm. She’d completely fallen for his charm, and had believed him when he’d told her she was the only girl for him. It had been the truth, at least while they’d worked on the same project. But once filming had ended, so had his interest in her.

As she looked back on those disastrous affairs, her only excuse was that she’d really believed she was in love. She just hadn’t realized that her leading men had been heroes only in the films they were shooting. They’d morphed into complete jerks once they’d returned to the “real” world.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to work so closely with an actor whose reputation made her own appear tame by comparison. Eric Ter-rell’s risqué love affairs were continual fodder for the tabloids, upstaged only by his public displays of temper. He’d once dangled an overly ambitious photographer from a tenth-floor balcony for trying to take his picture. Of course, Eric had also been cheating on his thenfiancée that night, and hadn’t been too thrilled about having those particular photos made public.

The bus pitched to the right, and Ivy flung out a hand to steady herself, praying the nightmarish ride would soon be over. As if to mock her, the overcast skies opened up, releasing a torrent of rain so heavy that Ivy could no longer see the dense vegetation on either side of the road. Water sprayed in through the open window, soaking her as she struggled with the latch until she finally succeeded in closing the window against the onslaught.

She thought of her tapestry suitcases, strapped to the roof, and all her belongings inside, getting completely soaked. The bus began to slow down, but the hammering rains prevented her from seeing why. Several minutes later, the vehicle shuddered to a stop and the driver stood up, grabbing a little umbrella from beneath his seat.

“Pancho Viejo!” he called, and several people rose and began pushing their way through the passengers in the aisle.

Ivy rose, as well, clutching her carry-on bag to her chest as she struggled to squeeze around the old woman beside her.

“Con permiso,” she murmured, squeezing past the woman and trying not crush the coffee beans underfoot. She worked her way to the front of the bus, but halted in the doorway, reluctant to step out into the deluge. She hugged her bag closer in an attempt to protect the script inside from becoming completely ruined. Then, with a deep breath, she exited the bus.

The force of the tropical downpour took her breath away, blinding her as it slapped against her face and plastered her clothing to her skin. Grimacing at the mud swirling around her feet, she peered toward the roof of the bus, where her suitcases were strapped down. Shielding her eyes, she thought she could just make out the driver crawling along the top.

She was unprepared when a piece of luggage came hurtling off the bus to land squarely in the red soup at her feet and splash her with mud.

“Oh!” She jumped back just in time to avoid a second suitcase pitched over the side. This one, a floral tapestry bag, bounced once then split open, exposing its contents to the torrential downpour. “Hey!” she cried indignantly. “That was my suitcase!”

The bus driver climbed down from the roof, and without glancing in her direction, clambered back aboard the bus. Ivy stepped over to the first suitcase and bent over it, studying the blue vinyl exterior before jerking upright.

This one was not her suitcase.

A swift look around showed no other luggage sinking into the mud, which meant her second suitcase was still secured to the roof. Even as she watched, the engines throbbed into life and the vehicle began to slowly pull away.

“Hey, wait!” Ivy started toward the door of the bus, but was abruptly halted when the thick mud refused to release her foot. Staring in desperation at the retreating bus, she gave her foot a yank. With a sucking sound, it pulled free from the slip-on sandal, which remained entrapped in the churning muck. Ivy grimaced as she half ran, half hopped after the bus.

“Wait! My suitcase!” Grasping her overnight bag in one arm, she frantically waved her free arm, but knew the likelihood of the bus driver’s seeing her was slim to none.

When the bus finally vanished into the driving rain and surrounding forest, Ivy stopped, her shoulders sagging in defeat. Great. Her larger suitcase had contained the majority of her clothing and cosmetics. The smaller suitcase, now lying open to the elements like a split melon, held mostly her underclothes, nightwear and three swimsuits.

Peering through the torrent, she saw she’d been deposited at the beginning of a narrow road that was little more than a rutted path through the dense undergrowth. A low stone wall curving alongside it was the only other sign of civilization. The bus driver had said this was Pancho Viejo, but there wasn’t so much as a shanty in sight. How was she supposed to get to the hacienda? The passengers who had disembarked before her had seemingly melted into the surrounding vegetation, leaving Ivy completely alone. A hundred different thoughts raced through her mind, each one more disturbing than the last. Impossible as it seemed, the bus had left her in the middle of nowhere. Pushing down her rising panic, Ivy turned back to her suitcase—and stopped dead in her tracks.

Despite the deluge of rain, the man was hard to miss. He was bending over her damaged luggage and it looked as if he was rifling through her belongings.

With a gasp of indignation, Ivy swiped the wet hair back from her eyes and blinked rapidly as the rain pelted her face. If the man was aware of her presence, he gave no indication, and Ivy was torn between confronting him and slinking into the vegetation in hope that he wouldn’t notice her. Were there bandits in Mexico? Or, worse, guerrillas? Surely Finn MacDougall wouldn’t shoot a movie in a dangerous area. Would he?

She wished now she’d spent more time paying attention to world events and less time reading the celebrity pages of the newspaper. Her imagination surged with all kinds of lurid scenarios. She could almost see the headlines: B-List Actress Abducted By Mexican Bandits. Wealthy Director Refuses To Pay Ransom.

As she stood there, uncertain and wary, the man swiveled his head in her direction. With his eyes still on her, he flipped her small suitcase shut, then lifted it and tucked it beneath his arm, pressing it against his body to keep it closed. He rose slowly to his feet. Dark-red mud clung to the suitcase and stained his white shirt, running in rivulets down his pant legs, like blood.

Despite the fact that he stood perfectly still, the air around him thrummed with energy, like the hum of high-voltage current. Even through the downpour, she felt his eyes on her.

She shivered.

They stared at each other for a long moment, before Ivy gestured helplessly at the piece of luggage he carried.

“That’s—that’s my suitcase you have there,” she said, struggling to keep her voice from wobbling. “There’s nothing in it except lingerie. I—I doubt it will fit you.” She had a insane urge to giggle at the idea of this man donning her intimate apparel. When his expression didn’t change, she instantly sobered. “But you can keep it if you want to.”

He didn’t answer—he probably didn’t even speak English. His black hair was long and framed a jaw covered by at least two days’ worth of dark growth. He reached up and pushed his fingers through his hair to slick it back from his square forehead. Rain sluiced down the chiseled planes of his face and glistened on his cheekbones and throat. His soaked white shirt was plastered against his body. Through the thin material, she could see every ridge of muscle that layered his chest and stomach.

The wet fabric emphasized the wide thrust of his shoulders and the impressive bulge of his biceps as he held her suitcase. He wore a pair of khaki cargo pants, also soaked, that hugged his trim hips and strong thighs.

He bent to where her sandal was anchored in the mud and plucked it free. Dangling it from the end of one finger, he began walking toward her.

Ivy shifted her weight. The toes of her bare foot squished in the soggy ground and her wet clothing clung to her skin, but she barely noticed. She hugged her overnight bag tighter against her chest and watched him approach. He had a slightly uneven gait, but she couldn’t tell if he was limping or he was compensating for the awkward suitcase he carried.

Despite his dark hair and tanned skin, he didn’t really look like a bandit. At least, he didn’t look like the Mexican bandits she’d seen in any Hollywood movie, unless you counted Zorro, she amended silently.

The guy was a total hunk.

As he drew closer, she realized he was bigger than she’d first thought. It wasn’t so much his height—he was probably just over six feet—but he radiated strength. He could probably bench-press her with one hand and never break a sweat.

She swallowed hard.

He stopped less than a foot away, and it was only then that she noted there wasn’t anything remotely Mexican about him. Unless, of course, you counted his eyes, which were such a light shade of brown that they reminded Ivy of Aztec gold. As she stared at him, something stirred deep in her subconscious—a recognition of sorts. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but his eyes disturbed her. And right now, they were traveling over her in a way that could only be called predatory.

Hungry.

Ivy shivered and her heart rate kicked into overdrive. Her breathing quickened and she was acutely conscious of a fight-or-flight response surfacing within her. But even more alarming was her awareness of the male appreciation in this man’s heated eyes, and that secretly she thrilled to it.

As his gaze traveled lazily over her, a small voice urged her to neither fight nor flee, but surrender willingly to whatever it was he might have in mind for her.

2

GARRETT STOKES KNEW he made her nervous, but, damn, he couldn’t stop staring at her. He knew he should introduce himself, assure her that Finn Mac-Dougall had sent him to transport her to the Hacienda la Esperanza. But the ability to form words had suddenly abandoned him. Seeing Ivy James in the flesh exceeded every erotic fantasy he’d ever had about her, and he’d had his share.

She stood watching him with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity in her wide eyes. The rain plastered her dark hair to her head in a sleek cap, while her clothing had taken on the appearance of wet tissue paper. Too bad she’d shifted her overnight bag around to her front. He’d really appreciated the view before she’d hidden her body from his sight.

She was taller than he remembered, and more slender, but her eyes were what really did it to him. Looking into them was like having somebody sucker punch him in the gut.

He felt winded and a little weak.

He couldn’t recall having had this reaction to her the first time he’d seen her two years earlier. Then again, he’d been too busted up and hazy from the pain meds they’d given him to feel much of anything. But his own injuries had been insignificant compared with those of the soldier in the bed next to his at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. Devon James had been a tank gunner deployed with the 10th Marine Regiment in Iraq when an IED—an improvised explosive device—had hit his convoy. The explosion had taken his right arm and shredded his body. He’d lain in bed with wires and tubes protruding from what remained of him.

On Devon’s second day at Walter Reed, his sister had arrived at the hospital, pale but determined, reassuring her brother that he’d be okay. Devon had been conscious, but heavily sedated. Through the gap in the curtain that had separated their beds, Garrett had observed her. Even in his own foggy state, he’d thought her beautiful. Her calm demeanor had been so impressive; he’d almost believed she could be right and that her brother would survive. But when she’d left the room to confer with one of the doctors, her brother had turned his face toward Garrett.

“I’m not going to make it, man,” he’d said, his voice little more than a whisper. “She won’t accept it, though. Always was a stubborn brat.”

“Hang in there,” Garrett had croaked.

“No, man,” Devon had said, closing his eyes. “It’s no good. I worry what’s going to happen to her when I’m gone. She’ll be alone.”

“There must be someone,” he’d responded. “Some family or friend.”

“No. It was just the two of us.”

Garrett had been silent. He couldn’t make a promise to watch over some chick he didn’t even know, no matter how gorgeous she was. Besides, she appeared more than capable of taking care of herself.

“I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Devon had looked over at him, and Garrett had flinched at the hope he’d seen flare in his gaze. “You swear? She doesn’t even have to know. Just do it for me.”

“I swear.”

Less than three hours later, while his sister had looked on in dismay, Sergeant Devon James had flatlined. Nurses had hustled Ivy out of the room while medical personnel had tried to resuscitate her brother, but their efforts had been futile.

The weight of Garrett’s promise had settled heavily onto his shoulders, but it had also given him something to live for. He’d latched on to the promise with all the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a lifeline, determined to be there for the girl in the future.

Now here he was, two years later, standing in front of the woman he’d promised to keep an eye on, completely kicking himself that he’d never made contact with her before now. Back then, just the knowledge that she might someday need him had been enough of an incentive to push him to recover. Throughout the long months of rehabilitation, he’d followed her career. He’d kept tabs on her activities and had been prepared to step in and help her if necessary, but an opportunity had never arisen.

Until now.

He should say something to her, tell her about his connection to her, if you could even call it that. Instead, he stared speechlessly, wondering how she would react if she knew the truth. Ivy James had saved his soul, and she wasn’t even aware of it.

He still wasn’t sure how he felt about having his combat experiences made into an action-adventure movie, but there was one thing he’d always been certain of: he’d wanted Ivy James to play the part of the leading lady. It was just one way he could fulfill the promise he’d made to her brother.

When Garrett’s brother-in-law, Finn MacDougall, had initially approached him about the venture, he’d adamantly refused to give his consent. He still had nightmares about those last horrific days in Colombia when a covert narcoterrorism mission had come apart like a five-dollar shirt.

He’d allowed himself to be captured in order to provide the rest of his team a chance to escape. It had worked, but the three days he’d endured in the hands of the brutal Escudero cartel had just about sapped his belief in the goodness of mankind. It wasn’t so much what they’d done to his body that had nearly killed him; it was what they’d done to his spirit.

If anybody knew just how tough his recovery had been, it was Finn. After all, Garrett had spent nearly a year living in Finn’s home while recuperating from injuries that included multiple gunshot and stab wounds. His body still bore the scars from where he’d been tortured by the cartel. Despite having pushed himself to the max to regain his strength, he had to live with the knowledge that his abilities were now compromised to the point where he’d never again serve as part of a Green Beret “A-Team,” the twelve-man basic unit that could carry out any number of deadly covert operations.

Even after he’d managed to escape, two more days had passed before he’d found refuge, then another six days before he’d been airlifted out of the steaming Colombian jungle to an American hospital. His only satisfaction was knowing the information he’d brought back with him had been enough for the Colombian military to target the cartel and put an end to their reign of terror and drug smuggling.

Now, looking at the woman who would play Helena Vanderveer, the Dutch missionary responsible for rescuing his sorry ass, he wondered if he’d been wrong. There was a sensuality about Ivy James that was undeniable, yet at the same time she looked so god-damned…fragile. The real Helena might fool some with her small stature and sweet smile, but beneath it all she was as tough as Kevlar. Nobody could ever call her fragile.

Ivy was still staring at him. As he tried to formulate the right words to introduce himself, the rain suddenly stopped, and a warm burst of sunlight fell over the spot where they stood. Ivy tilted her face up toward the clearing skies and smiled.

Garrett felt something in his chest shift.

“Oh, wow,” she breathed. “It’s over. Just like that.”

She turned her gaze back to Garrett. Her eyes were the same rich, dark-chocolate shade he remembered, thickly fringed with spiky dark lashes. She used her fingers to wipe the moisture from her face as she again focused on the suitcase he carried.

“La maleta…la sandalia,” she said haltingly. A small frown creased her forehead as she pointed first toward the luggage, then toward the sandal he held. “Es mina.”

Her pronunciation was terrible, her grammar worse. But even if he hadn’t spoken Spanish fluently, there was no mistaking her meaning. Glancing down at the mud-covered shoe that still dangled from his hand, he swiped it against the wet fabric of his cargo pants until most of the mud was gone, then handed it to her.

“Yeah, I know they’re yours.”

“Oh! You speak English! That’s great.” Her face cleared as she accepted the shoe, and then she balanced on one leg as she slid her bare, mud-covered foot into the sandal. “For a second, I wasn’t sure if you understood me.”

Garrett smiled. “I’m American. Finn sent me to meet you.” He gestured over his shoulder at the rutted lane that intersected the main road. “I have a Jeep parked just down there. I’ll drive you out to the hacienda.”

“Thank God!” she exclaimed, and Garrett saw all the tension leave her body. “I really thought I was going to be stranded out here in the middle of nowhere, and then I saw you and—”

He watched with interest as her cheeks pinkened.

“Well, let’s just say I envisioned the worst,” she admitted, tucking a wet strand of hair behind one ear and slinging her carry-on bag over her shoulder. “You must be part of the film crew.” She tilted her head and considered him for a moment. “Do I know you? Have we met before? You seem familiar to me.”

Garrett hesitated, momentarily at a loss for words. Shifting her bag to her other shoulder had brought her luscious breasts fully into view. Beneath the wet fabric of her sleeveless top, he could clearly see her bra and, beneath that, the dark shadow of her nipples. His throat went dry, and he had to drag his gaze from her and turn away.

“Ah, no,” he finally managed to say, keeping his voice neutral. “I’m a technical consultant. Let me grab your other bag, and then we can head out.”

“Oh, that’s not my suitcase.” She laid a hand on his arm to stop him. “The driver threw down the wrong one and took off before I could tell him.”

Garrett glanced at her hand. She jerked it back, but he could still feel her slender fingers against his skin. Briefly, he wondered how they would feel against other parts of his anatomy.

“We’ll take it along with us,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s unlikely yours will be returned, but just in case, we’ll have someone bring this back to the airport in Veracruz and put in a claim for your bag.”

With any luck, her second travel case wouldn’t show up. Ever. He’d spent only a second or two shoving her spilled belongings back into the ruined suitcase, but that had been long enough for him to realize the case contained mostly underwear and shit, girly stuff not meant to be worn in public. His hands had skimmed over wet satin panties and lacy bras, silky pajamas and fragile camisole tops, all soaked from the rain. His imagination soared with tantalizing images of a barely clad Ivy. He had no problem whatsoever with her wearing nothing but underwear for the entire time she was in Mexico.

Hefting the blue suitcase in one arm and still holding her tapestry bag under his other, he made his way to where he’d parked the Jeep, acutely aware of the woman following closely behind him.

Watching him.

For the first time since he’d been released from the hospital, after months of excruciating physical therapy to finally get rid of his damn crutches, he felt self-conscious about his limp. He knew he was lucky even to have use of his leg, but he hadn’t quite resigned himself to the limp now being as much a part of the “new” him as the scars that went with it.

“How long will it take to get to the hacienda?” Ivy asked, as he stowed her gear behind the passenger seat and held the door open for her to climb in.

“Not long. About ten minutes.” He rounded the hood of the Jeep and slid into the driver’s seat, using his hand to help lift his bad leg into the vehicle. He didn’t meet her eyes as he started the engine. There were a lot of expressions he’d like to see in those big, dark eyes, but sympathy wasn’t one of them.

“I like the name. Hacienda la Esperanza,” she said experimentally. “It sounds…beautiful.”

“The place started out in the sixteenth century as a monastery,” he said, maneuvering the Jeep along the rough road. “Then it was used as a coffee plantation, before being abandoned about thirty years ago. Now it’s privately owned, and mostly used for retreats or special events. Weddings. Reunions. That kind of thing.”

“Oh.”

Garrett couldn’t tell what her expectations were, but suspected she’d be pleasantly surprised by the hacienda. With over one hundred rooms on two levels, it was a masterpiece of classic Spanish architecture. Rooms that had once housed Jesuit seminarians had been converted into elegant spaces with most of the original architectural features, including arched windows and heavily beamed ceilings. The only indulgence had been the addition of private marble baths in each room.

The hacienda had been chosen not only because it could accommodate the entire cast and crew, but because the property itself, as well as the mountainous region surrounding it, closely resembled Colombia.

Garrett had spent his first two nights in the monastery-turned-hacienda, but the vast hallways and vaulted ceilings made him feel exposed. He preferred the old workers’ quarters behind the house, a series of casitas, or cottages. Each casita consisted of a simple wooden platform with wood walls and a tin roof. He’d cleared a host of small scorpions and spiders out of one of the cottages, and the production crew had acquired some basic furniture and a couple of kerosene lanterns for him. It was sparse, but comfortable. In it, Garrett could enjoy the solitude of the nearby forest and avoid the endless noise and activity of the main house.

The set director and his crew had divided the property into several separate filming locations. One area served as the Dutch mission where Helena Vanderveer worked, complete with small chapel. The design folks had done almost too good a job at transforming the derelict warehouse located on the premises into a replica of the cartel stronghold where he’d been held and tortured.

Garrett glanced over at Ivy.

She was sitting upright, trying not to let her back touch the seat, and he knew her wet clothing must be uncomfortable. Despite the humid warmth of the afternoon, he could see goose bumps on her bare arms.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” he commented. “One of the girls in the makeup department is about your size. Maybe you can borrow something from her until we get your own wardrobe figured out.”

She cast him a grateful glance. “That would be great.” She was silent for a moment. “So what’s it like on the set? I mean, everyone else has been on location for three weeks. I can’t help but feel like—like an intruder.”

He knew she was referring to the fact that she’d been offered the role only two days earlier. Although Finn had given his word that he would cast Ivy as Helena Vanderveer, he’d held off actually making the offer until the very last minute, no doubt hoping Garrett would change his mind and let him offer the part to some A-list actress who, when paired with Eric Terrell, would guarantee record-breaking crowds at the theaters.

No freaking way.

Garrett had wanted Ivy James. Okay, so he’d had an ulterior motive, but his own lust for her aside, he’d seen every film she’d ever made and knew she’d do justice to Finn’s project. Her previous work had consisted of almost exclusively small, independent films, but her performances had been impressive. The only reservations Finn had had about bringing her onto this project had nothing to do with her acting.

Of course, Ivy James did have a history of falling in love with her leading men. With the exception of her two most recent films, she had become romantically involved with several of her male costars, although the relationships had never seemed to last beyond filming.

But it wasn’t her failed love affairs that had made Finn hesitate. It was the fact that despite her talents, she was a relative unknown. Her prior flicks hadn’t garnered wide distribution. She was a risk, and if not for Garrett’s insistence, Finn probably wouldn’t have considered her for the part.

Garrett glanced over at Ivy again, unwilling to tell her why Finn had waited until the last minute to contact her agent. She’d accepted the part. She didn’t need to know the circumstances surrounding the offer.

“Finn probably would have approached your agent sooner, but he didn’t want to distract you from the project you were wrapping up in Montreal,” he lied. “I know that he’s eager to meet you. They’ll begin shooting your scenes in just a couple of days.”

“Have you—have you worked with Eric Terrell before?”

Her tone was casual, but Garrett didn’t miss the underlying anxiety. He noted the color in her cheeks and the way she clenched the strap of her carry-on bag. She was nervous about meeting the acclaimed actor, and he couldn’t really blame her. The guy was on the front page of every tabloid and at the top of every media list there was. Hottest Actor. Most Eligible Bachelor. Sexiest Man Alive.

They’d forgotten to add Biggest Dickhead On The Planet, but Garrett guessed that most folks who knew him already had that one figured out. He’d shown up on location with an entourage of support personnel, including a bodyguard, a personal secretary and his own makeup person. Hell, the production company had even agreed to pay for a private cook for him. He’d put up a huge stink when he’d learned he’d be working with a relatively unknown actress. He’d actually told Finn he would only star opposite an A-list actress. Garrett had to give his brother-in-law credit. Finn hadn’t backed down. Instead, he’d calmly told Eric that he could get over it or get off his set. Eric had buttoned his mouth, but Garrett knew the decision had rankled. He hoped to hell the other man would maintain his pompous-ass mind-set and leave Ivy the hell alone, but he doubted he’d get that lucky. With her looks, Ivy would be pure temptation.

Garrett never would have chosen Terrell to portray him in the film, but Finn had insisted the choice was a good one. During the past three weeks, Garrett had reluctantly acknowledged he was right. Based on the uncut footage he’d seen so far, he’d say Finn had another blockbuster in the making.

“This is the first time I’ve worked with him.” He was carefully noncommittal.

Ivy flashed him a smile. “I’ve seen his movies.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “I mean, who hasn’t seen his movies, right? I just never thought I’d get the chance to work with him. I’d have thought they’d want somebody like Angelina Jolie or Jessica Alba for this part.”

Garrett let his gaze slide over her. “Trust me,” he drawled, “there was never any question about you being cast for this part.”

Her eyes widened fractionally and then filled with pleasure before she looked out the window, hiding her expression from him. But Garrett could still see the smile that hovered on her lips, and he felt a ridiculous sense of satisfaction knowing he’d put it there. His eyes lingered on her a moment, noting how her hair was beginning to dry in soft corkscrews around her face. He wondered how the curls would feel in his hands. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, and he forced himself to focus on his driving.

“I’ve worked so hard at my career,” she continued. “True, a lot of people would say my choice of films has been a little unorthodox, but I’ve always tried to choose roles that would challenge me, you know?”

He glanced over at her. “Sure.”

“I mean, I’ve been offered plenty of roles in popcorn movies, but I want to be taken seriously.” She turned earnest eyes to him. “That’s why this role is so exciting. It means I’m finally reaching that point in my career where people are starting to sit up and notice.” She smiled. “I just never thought my past projects would capture the attention of a director like Finn MacDougall. It’s more than I could’ve ever hoped for.”

Garrett determinedly ignored the guilt that rose in him and gave her a polite smile of acknowledgment. “I’m certain you won’t let him down.”

She laughed. “Not if I can help it. I’ll do whatever is necessary to make this the best performance of my career.”

The dense foliage fell away as they entered the tiny village of Pancho Viejo, a cluster of small houses and rustic buildings that circled a central plaza with an ornate fountain. Carefully manicured trees lined the narrow road, their trunks painted white and their branches strung with colorful lights. The picturesque scene elicited a murmur of delight from Ivy.

They turned off the small road and drove through a set of old, iron gates, then along a road less rutted than the one they had just traveled. Slowly, the thick vegetation on either side of the road gave way to steep, tiered hillsides still bearing traces of the coffee bean cultivation that had supported generations of local residents. Before long, the hills leveled out. Garrett suppressed a smile as Ivy caught her first glimpse of Hacienda la Esperanza and gasped.

Situated at the end of a long drive bordered on either side by fig and cypress trees, the hacienda was a sprawling, two-story structure of white stucco. Tall, narrow windows marched along the first and second floors. Creeping ivy clung to the near side of the building, completely obscuring the white stucco, insinuating itself into the window embrasures and dangling in long ropes from the overhanging roof. The sun was sinking behind a panoramic backdrop of lush mountains, streaking the skies with warm hues of orange and pink, and Garrett admitted the house made a stunning first impression.

Skirting the building, he drove around to the back of the hacienda. The circular drive stopped in front of a covered walkway supported by stone pillars and flanked on either side by lush gardens.

As he pulled onto the gravel lot, the sound of laughter and muted conversation drifted toward them. Garrett eyed his watch. It was almost nine o’clock. Congregating by the pool after dinner to discuss the day’s filming over drinks, before going to bed, had become something of a ritual for the cast.

Ivy stood close by his side as he hauled her suitcase out of the Jeep, and he caught her looking speculatively toward the house. Her clothing still clung damply to her skin, and the thought of parading her past the other cast members held little appeal for him. No way did he want Eric Terrell to see Ivy in her current state. That Ivy would be shooting some pretty intimate love scenes with the actor didn’t matter. To Garrett’s way of thinking, her nearly transparent clothing was almost more erotic than if she was butt naked.

Okay, that was a complete lie.

Just the thought of Ivy James in the nude made his body tighten in response.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice more brusque than he’d intended. “I’ll show you to your room and then ask Denise, who works in makeup, to find you something dry to wear.”

She cast him a grateful glance and walked ahead of him down the covered walkway and into the large, central courtyard. A fountain gurgled in the center, surrounded by lush gardens. The hacienda rose up on all sides. What had once been the cloisters had been converted into private balconies overlooking the gardens.

“Up these stairs to the left,” he murmured, indicating the winding stone staircase that connected the two floors of the hacienda and led to the private rooms on the second level.

Garrett followed at a slower pace, not even trying to force his bad leg to move faster. He knew from bitter experience that would do no good, and he’d just be sore and sorry the following day. Besides, being several steps behind Ivy gave him the opportunity to admire her perfect, heart-shaped rear as she climbed the steps.

They reached the upper level of the hacienda, and he preceded her along an interior corridor with vaulted ceilings and tiled floors. He stopped in front of an ornately carved door at the end of the hallway.

“This is your room.” He pushed open the door and set her luggage just inside. “It has a nice view of the mountains. I’ll go find Denise and get you those dry clothes. When you’ve changed, just come back down the stairs and follow the voices to the pool area, okay?”

“Wait.” She faced him. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, “but I don’t even know your name. You’ve gone out of your way to be so nice to me, and I can’t believe I haven’t even asked your name.”

“It’s Garrett Stokes.”

“Garrett—”

She broke off, and Garrett knew the exact instant she realized who he was.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “You’re him. The special-ops guy this movie is all about.”

Garrett allowed himself a wry smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

She’d had absolutely no clue who he was. He wasn’t surprised that she had no recollection of him. She’d definitely had bigger things on her mind than some injured soldier who’d shared hospital space with her brother. Nevertheless, he still found it disconcerting that in those few hours, she’d made a profound impact on his life, while he hadn’t even registered on her radar. He wouldn’t betray her brother’s trust by telling her that he’d been that soldier, since doing so would be equivalent to opening Pandora’s box. But a part of him still wanted to create a ripple in her world, make her as aware of him as he was of her.

She frowned. “I thought you were a technical consultant.”

He shrugged. “I am. Finn brought me aboard to ensure the film captures my covert-ops experiences as realistically as possible.”

Her face paled, and Garrett could tell she was remembering the gruesome torture scenes. He’d seen the storyboards and read the script. The screenwriter hadn’t spared the audience when he’d written those portions of the screenplay.

As quickly as the color had drained from her cheeks, it flooded back. “The scenes with the missionary—are they based on real life, as well?”

Garrett hesitated.

She was referring to the explicit, highly sensual love scenes. He fought briefly with his conscience, debating whether to tell her the truth. They were the one facet of the movie that didn’t conform to events as he’d experienced them. Finn had insisted on taking artistic license in portraying Helena Vanderveer as a beautiful young woman with a healthy libido and an instant attraction to the injured soldier who’d found his way to her mission.

In reality, Helena was a sturdy Dutch woman in her midsixties, with a strong spiritual calling and zero interest in any romantic entanglements. Furthermore, Garrett had been unconscious most of the time she’d cared for him. He had only hazy memories of her and their time together.

Finn had brushed all that aside, insisting a torrid love affair between the soldier and the missionary would heighten the film’s appeal. At his request, the writer had revised the script to depict the soldier as badly injured, but not to the extent that he couldn’t engage in some creative lovemaking with the attractive missionary. Never underestimate the healing powers of lust, Garrett thought wryly.

“Pretty much everything in the script is accurate,” he fibbed, boldly meeting Ivy’s eyes, “especially the scenes with Helena.”

“Oh.” She was silent as she digested his words, and the color in her cheeks deepened. “Well, I hope I can do your…relationship…justice.”

Garrett kept his face carefully impassive. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you know if you’re not getting it right.”

Her eyes grew big. “You’re not—you’re not actually going to be on the set while we shoot those scenes…are you?”

Garrett heard the horror in her voice, and only barely suppressed a grin. “You bet.”

“Why?” She sounded desperate.

“Just in case you need any pointers,” he responded guilelessly. “It’s my job to make certain every scene is shot as realistically as possible.”

“Why would I need pointers from you?”

“Because every woman responds differently to a man’s touch,” Garrett replied, allowing his gaze to drift over Ivy’s body. “And despite the fact that you’re shooting the scenes with Eric Terrell, you’ll have to respond as if you’re with me.”

He left her standing wide-eyed and mute in the doorway of her bedroom. But as he turned away, he saw with satisfaction the beginnings of something else in her dark eyes, and he smiled.

That something was awareness.

3

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Ivy stood by the pool with a margarita in one hand as Finn MacDougall shook her other hand and apologized for his rudeness in waiting until the last possible minute to offer her the role. He had indeed not wanted to distract her from the project she’d been involved in. He’d meant to contact her sooner, but time had gotten away from him. He was thrilled to have her on location, and excited to begin working with her.

Dazed, Ivy could only listen and nod and smile like an idiot. Finn was every bit as charismatic and artistic as she’d imagined he would be, and she was tempted to pinch herself to ensure the whole thing wasn’t a dream. How was it possible that Finn MacDougall was apologizing to her?

The entire scene was like something in a bad comedy, and completely opposite to how she’d envisioned her first meeting with the famed director. In her endless imaginings, she’d been composed, casually elegant and regally gracious. She certainly hadn’t looked like something the cat had dragged in.

Her hair was almost dry, but the humidity caused it to curl into an unruly tangle. She hadn’t had time to freshen her makeup, and she knew she looked tired and pale. Worse, the clothing that Denise had loaned her made her feel like a grungy teenager. Denise herself had been little more than a petulant adolescent, clearly put out by Ivy’s needing to borrow her clothes.

“Here,” she’d snapped. “It’s all I can spare. You’ll have to talk to the wardrobe people for any other clothes.”

She’d flounced out of Ivy’s room without another word. Ivy had reluctantly changed into the clothing, and cringed when she saw how terrible she appeared in the borrowed outfit, which consisted of a shapeless T-shirt and a pair of baggy pants that suspiciously resembled pajama bottoms.

God, what must Finn think of her?

“Well, it’s great to finally meet you,” he was saying. “I wish I could stay, but I have an appointment with the assistant director to review the dailies, so just—” he swept a hand toward the people who milled around the pool “—make yourself comfortable. We’ll talk again in the morning.”

Ivy watched as he made his way back to the main house, stopping several times to speak to people. She’d been hastily introduced to the other cast members, but aside from one or two familiar faces, they were mostly unknown to her. Viewing them now as they chatted and laughed, she was reluctant to insert herself into their intimate conversations.

She swirled her drink uncertainly for a moment, feeling awkward and self-conscious, until her gaze fell on the man at the far side of the terraced patio. Even while talking with Finn, she’d been acutely aware of Garrett Stokes several paces away, observing her.

She couldn’t get his last words out of her head: “You’ll have to respond as if you’re with me.”

Worse, every time she envisioned herself acting out the love scenes for the movie, Garrett was the man she cast in the leading role. A supremely muscled, naked Garrett, with molten eyes.

Which was crazy. An hour ago, she’d been a jumble of nerves just thinking about working with Eric Terrell. She considered him so far out of her league, both personally and professionally, that she’d had trouble visualizing herself as his on-screen love interest. Now she couldn’t even recall what he looked like. The man who came to mind was Garrett Stokes. Maybe it was the knowledge that he was the real deal—the Green Beret who’d experienced everything in the script firsthand. He was the one Helena Vanderveer had risked everything for, including her life…and her heart.

Unwillingly, her gaze slid over him. He’d changed out of his wet clothes and now wore a loose-fitting shirt made of some gauzy, breathable material over a dry pair of cargo pants. But even the casual clothing couldn’t disguise his wide shoulders or flat stomach, or hide that his was a leanly muscled physique. He exuded a raw sexuality that turned a woman’s thoughts to hot, potent kisses and bone-melting orgasms. Despite knowing him less than an hour, Ivy realized she wasn’t at all immune to those insidious thoughts.

She wondered what it would be like to be pressed against all that hard warmth. He’d said every woman responded differently to a man’s touch—as if he was an expert on the subject. How would she respond to his touch, to his hands on her body and his mouth on her skin?

As though sensing her wayward thoughts, Garrett smiled at her, a slow, knowing smile that caused her breasts to tighten and heat to swamp her midsection. If that was how he’d looked at Helena Vanderveer, no wonder the missionary had torn off her clothes and jumped into the guy’s sickbed with him. Ivy felt hot color sweep up her neck to her face, but she was helpless to drag her eyes away from him.

“Hey, you must be Ivy.”

Startled, Ivy turned to see an attractive woman in a turquoise sarong smiling at her. Her red hair was an artful disarray of curls, captured in an oversize clip at the back of her head, and her green eyes were elongated by an expert sweep of black eyeliner. She had such an open, friendly face that Ivy couldn’t help but smile back at her. The other woman extended her hand.

“I’m Carla Ricci, and I’ll be doing your makeup.” She gave Ivy an appraising look. “You have great bone structure, and your eyes are amazing, but we’ll have to do something with the hair. A little conditioner, and you’ll be all set.”

Ivy grimaced and self-consciously put a hand to her head. “We got caught in a downpour, and I haven’t had time to do anything with it,” she explained.

“Oh, yes, I heard. You and Mr. Military Badass over there.” She rolled her eyes meaningfully in Garrett’s direction. “He wanted to drive into Veracruz to pick you up at the airport, but Finn needed him here, instead. I expected the guy to go completely Rambo when he found out you were taking the public bus in.” She shuddered. “You poor thing.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Ivy lied, “except that I lost my luggage.”

Carla put a conciliatory hand on Ivy’s arm. “I heard.” She cast a sympathetic glance at Ivy’s outfit. “If your suitcase doesn’t show up and you need something to wear, come see me. I have some little dresses that would look totally hot on you, and it would teach Denise a lesson, the little bitch. She’s just worried that Eric will find you more attractive than he finds her.”

Surprised, Ivy couldn’t help but give a small bark of laughter. “Me? Oh, please. I’ve seen the women Eric Terrell is attracted to, and I’m pretty sure I’m not up to those standards.”

“Are you kidding?” Carla shot her a look of astonishment. “When’s the last time you stood in front of the mirror, sweetie? You totally have a young Julia Ormond look going on, all sweet and sexy at the same time. And those curls are to die for.” She caught an errant ringlet on the end of her finger. “Most women would kill for hair like this.” She winked at Ivy conspiratorially. “Besides, from what I hear, your leading men have a hard time keeping an arm’s length, if you know what I mean. If you ask me, you could have this one eating out of your hands…or more.”

Embarrassed by the other woman’s candidness, Ivy couldn’t help darting a glance at Garrett Stokes, wondering how much of the bizarre conversation he could overhear. She hoped none of it. “Well, I’m definitely just here to do a job, so I doubt there’ll be any of that going on.”

Carla smiled at her knowingly. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and find out, won’t we? Of course, none of us would be heartbroken if Eric developed a little thing for you, since it would put Denise’s nose hugely out of joint, if you get my meaning.”

Ivy blinked.

A burst of laughter erupted from those nearest the house, and the cast members sitting by the pool glanced up, suddenly alert.

“Oh, here he is now,” Carla said sotto voce. “Good luck, sweetie. See you on the set!”

Ivy turned around expectantly, to find that Eric Terrell had arrived. For him to make his way toward the terrace where she stood took several long moments, giving Ivy the opportunity to study him.

He was without doubt the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His golden skin glowed with good health, and his teeth flashed white as he laughed at something a woman said to him. His famous hair, long acclaimed by the style press as a masterpiece of tousled honey and wheaten streaks, had been cropped to military standards, but even the quarter inch that remained managed to look like gilded velvet, begging to be stroked. He was every inch the golden boy, and he knew it.

Ivy watched as he ingratiated himself with the other cast members, but she couldn’t help feeling his joviality had a falseness. As he drew closer, she heard the deep warmth of his voice, and caught the tail end of an outrageous remark that made those nearest him guffaw anew.

Eric smiled as he moved away from the group, but when he finally stopped in front of Ivy, she could tell the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He let his gaze drift over her for a moment, taking in every detail of her disheveled appearance. His beautiful mouth twisted briefly.

“You must be Ivy James.”

“Yes.” Was it really her voice that sounded so breathless? She watched in utter fascination as the pink tip of his tongue probed the corner of his mouth. He assessed her silently for a moment, nodding to himself.

“Okay, okay. I think we can make this work,” he finally murmured. “But you might want to wear something…I don’t know…more feminine?” He shifted his weight, and Ivy could have sworn his chest had expanded by at least two inches. “You’ve never worked with me, but those who have know that when I’m filming a project, I get completely into character, both on and off camera. I mean completely. And if I’m not feeling the love off camera, then it’ll show when I’m trying to execute those intimate scenes on camera.” He tilted his head. “Are you understanding what I’m saying?”

Ivy shook her head, completely bemused. “No.” Out of her peripheral vision, she noticed that Garrett Stokes had moved closer.

Eric scratched the bridge of his nose, clearly struggling with his patience. “Look,” he said, as if addressing a three-year-old, “the audience has to believe that the chemistry between us on-screen is the real deal. But in order for me to convey that passion, I need to feel it. I mean really feel it.” His eyes were a light blue, almost silver. Now they boldly skimmed her body. “I need to be able to relate to you sexually in order to play the love scenes properly. And, babe, that outfit just doesn’t do it for me. Now do you understand?”

Ivy felt her mouth start to fall open. She snapped it shut. Shock swept through her, rendering her momentarily speechless. When she did find her voice, it came out sounding strangled.

“Unless I’m working, I’ll wear whatever I want to wear, babe, and I’ll wear it for my pleasure, not yours.” She was only slightly gratified to note a flush seep over his perfect cheekbones. She pressed on, her voice growing stronger with her increasing irritation. “But I do have one question for you. What if the script called for you to murder me? Would you then need to relate to me on some violent level in order to play the part properly?”

Eric Terrell stared at her for a full minute, during which Ivy was uncomfortably aware of the complete silence that surrounded them. Then he laughed softly. “Okay,” he relented, “so that’s how it’s going to be.” His eyes continued to hold hers, and something in them made her shiver. “I guess I was wrong about you.”

“What do you mean?”

He smiled, and his gaze dropped leisurely over her body. “I just figured you’d want to portray your character as realistically as possible.” He leaned toward her and said conspiratorially, “Even maintain certain relationships off camera in order for them to strike a realistic chord on camera. Now I know you know what I’m talking about.”

There was no mistaking the sensual intent in his eyes. Ivy’s heart began to pound and she was certain he would hear it thumping in her chest. Instead of feeling flattered by his obvious interest, she felt vaguely panicky and a little cheapened, as if he thought she was an easy lay because of her prior relationships. She’d always known some people would judge her based on her past, but she hadn’t thought anyone would be so blatant about it, so insulting. She tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter; Eric Terrell was a guy who made a practice of sleeping with his costars, so he probably judged everyone else by his own low standards. As she struggled to formulate a response, a smooth voice cut in from behind her.

“Hey, pal, lighten up. The rest of us have worked with you long enough to know you’re just kidding, but I think you’re making our leading lady a little uncomfortable.” Garrett’s voice was easy, but his eyes were hard.

Ivy stopped breathing as the two men stared at each other for a long minute. Garrett’s stance was relaxed, and to anyone who watched, the three of them might appear to be having a friendly conversation, but Ivy sensed the tension that coiled inside him.

Finally, Eric snickered. “Yeah, right.” He swung his gaze back to Ivy. “No offense. I was just kidding.” He leaned toward her, and for a moment Ivy thought he was going to say something in her ear. Instead, he sniffed delicately several times.

Ivy recoiled. He was smelling her!

“Just do me a favor and don’t wear any scented cosmetics or perfumes, okay?” He stepped back and smiled humorlessly at her, making no effort to keep his voice down. “The smell of that shit makes my stomach turn. Don’t make it too difficult for me to act like I actually want to do you.”

Without another word, he walked away. Almost immediately, the stifled conversation resumed around them. Ivy fought for composure, determined not let the others see her mortification. That he’d actually implied she wasn’t attractive enough to turn him on, either on-screen or off, was humiliating enough, but to have done it in front of the other cast members was just unbelievable. She didn’t dare look at Garrett. Suppressing a groan, she drained her margarita glass in one lengthy swallow, shuddering at the strong alcohol.

“He’s right about one thing.” Garrett’s voice was pitched low, for her ears alone.

Ivy lowered her glass and reluctantly faced him. His light-brown eyes were the same shade as the aged tequila warming her belly and causing a pleasant glow to spread outward from her center. For just a second she had a crazy belief that if she could just sink into the endless depths of those eyes, she would find the peace and inner strength she so desperately needed right then.

She forced herself to smile at him. No way would she let him know just how seriously Golden Boy had pissed her off. For all she knew, Garrett had handpicked Eric Terrell for the part. She understood enough about the inner workings of Hollywood to realize that if Garrett complained about her to Finn MacDougall, just one call to the producer and she would be on the next plane back to New York.

“Oh, yeah?” she asked. “What’s he right about?”

Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t for him to lean in toward her until his face was scant millimeters from her jaw. He breathed deeply, inhaling her scent. When he pulled back, a smile curved his mouth. “You don’t need any perfumes. You smell…great…just the way you are.”

Ivy stared at him, unable to form a coherent response. He was close enough that she could see the amazing striation of golds and browns in his irises, see the stubble of whiskers that shadowed his lean jaw and the small scar that bisected his upper lip and made her ache to trace her fingertip across it.

His mouth fascinated her. It was a hedonistic mouth, capable of doing wicked things. She could imagine his lips against hers, working magic before working their way down the length of her body. Heat unfurled low in her belly. She stared at his mouth, mesmerized. His gaze fastened on her lips, and as if time itself had slowed, he bent his head fractionally toward hers.

Ivy felt her breath escape on a sigh. She was barely aware of the other cast members congregated around the pool. Her limbs loosened, and warmth slid along her veins. He was going to kiss her, right there in front of everybody, and she didn’t even care. Her eyes drifted shut.

“It’s been a long day,” he said abruptly, his voice rough. “Look at you, falling asleep on your feet.”

Ivy’s eyes flew open to find he’d pulled back slightly. His expression as he regarded her was unreadable. Hot shame flooded her face. She glanced around swiftly, but if anyone else had guessed how close she’d just come to attaching herself to Garrett Stokes’s face, they gave no indication.

She exhaled on a shaky breath and forced herself to smile. “You’re right.” She pushed a hand through her hair, unable to meet his eyes. She was pathetic. What must he think of her? She needed to get out of there immediately, before she did something really laughable. As if a public confrontation with Eric Terrell hadn’t been stupid enough, she’d nearly kissed a complete stranger. “I’m going to call it a night.”

“Yes, ma’am. I think that’s a good idea,” he murmured, and took the margarita glass from her trembling fingers. “Shall I walk you to your room?”

For one wild, crazy second, she was sure his words were code for Can I spend the night doing decadent, indecent things to you? In the next instant, she dismissed the thought, as alluring as it was. She’d misread his intent to kiss her, so she was no doubt imagining the suggestion in his voice, too.

“No, thanks,” she replied. “I know the way.”

Was it just wishful thinking, or did he actually look disappointed?

“Okay, then. Sleep well,” he said.

Yeah, right. Like there was any chance of that happening.

With as much composure as she could muster, she walked toward the house. Once inside, she practically sprinted up the staircase. Inside her room, she shed the borrowed T-shirt and bottoms, balled them up and hurled them into a far corner. She had no idea what she was going to wear tomorrow, but she’d be damned if she’d put those hideous clothes back on her body.

Then, clad in nothing but her panties, she shut the light off and edged under the cool bedsheets, leaving her midriff uncovered. A warm breeze wafted in through the open windows and caressed her skin, taunting her. With a groan, she turned on her side, dragged the covers up over her shoulders and determinedly closed her eyes.

“Sleep well.” Ha. She’d be lucky if she got any sleep, especially when all she could think about were hazel eyes and a pair of lips so temptingly sinful that she still ached at their loss.

IT WAS ALMOST TWO O’CLOCK in the morning when Ivy finally gave up any pretense of sleeping. Aside from the margarita she’d had earlier that night, she hadn’t eaten anything since she’d left New York, and she was starving.

But it wasn’t her stomach that kept her awake. It was the absolute stillness surrounding the hacienda. She’d lived in New York City the past five years, and the constant hum of traffic and wail of sirens had become comforting background noises that helped lull her to sleep. Even the streets of Montreal, which were quiet in comparison with New York City’s, had had their buzz. Out here, however, in the remote mountains of Mexico, the silence was almost unbearable.

An image of Garrett drifted through her mind. Was he asleep? Had he thought of her after she’d left the pool area? Had he seen how much she’d wanted him?

With a despairing huff, she threw aside the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The room suddenly felt overly warm, suffocating. Even the ceiling fan circulating the air did little to cool her heated flesh. She was restless with need. She couldn’t get his image out of her head, and the Technicolor fantasies she’d had about him earlier had only made her more hot and bothered. It was crazy, but the guy completely distracted her. Made her think about doing things she hadn’t done with any man in a long time. Too long, in fact.

She enjoyed sex. She wanted sex. Good sex. She had the distinct feeling that sex with Garrett Stokes wouldn’t just be good but totally off-the-charts amazing.

Sitting up, she scooped her hair off her neck, wishing she’d turned on the air-conditioning before getting into bed. She’d figured open windows would be more comfortable than the climate control, but she’d been wrong. A sheen of sweat covered her skin.

She switched on the bedside lamp and then padded across the room to flip on the air-conditioning. Crossing to the casement windows, she pulled them closed and thought longingly of the swimming pool and its cool, blue depths. The pool seemed the perfect antidote to her current ailment, and at this hour she was unlikely to encounter anybody.

Grateful that she’d packed her bathing suits in the smaller suitcase, she donned a simple one-piece suit and a terry-cloth robe. After retrieving a bottle of water from the small fridge, she crept down the hallway, past the closed doors of the other rooms. She wondered which room belonged to Garrett. The last thing she needed was to run into him.

She hastily suppressed a snort of laughter at the thought. Given her frustrated state, she’d probably attack him. As soon as she stepped outside, she drew in a thankful breath, inhaling the heady fragrance of hibiscus and mango blossoms. The humidity had dissipated somewhat and the temperature was cooler than it had been in her bedroom.

Despite the fact that silence had kept her awake, she realized the night was far from quiet. She stood for a moment on the walkway and listened. The sound of crickets was everywhere, interspersed with the occasional hoot of a night owl and the distant scream of something Ivy didn’t want to think about. Fireflies dotted the darkness, their blinking lights like a reflection of the overhead stars. Tilting her head back, she studied them. She had never seen stars like this in New York City. They were brilliant, and so abundant, as if some careless hand had strewn billions of diamonds across the sky.

She followed the tiled pathway through the central courtyard and around the side of the hacienda to the pool area. The patio lights had been turned off, but the lights in the pool were on, softly illuminating the water.

Ivy let her robe drop to the ground, then stood at the edge of the deep end and dove cleanly into the water. She stroked underwater to the shallow end and came up with a satisfied gasp—only to find herself staring at a pair of masculine legs.

Naked masculine legs.

Swiping water out of her eyes, she followed their length upward and saw with shock that they were attached to a very naked Eric Terrell. He held a drink in one hand and swayed as he leered down at her.

Where had he come from? Glancing around the pool area, she spotted a robe draped over a chaise partially concealed behind a cluster of potted palms. Damn. Why hadn’t she looked more closely?

“Ivy James,” he said, his voice slurred, “so nice to see you again.”

Ivy quickly averted her gaze, although she’d gotten enough of an eyeful to realize he was probably too inebriated to do much more than leer.

“Eric,” she replied in a strangled voice. She pushed herself back into the water and glided to another wall of the pool. “I wasn’t expecting anyone out here at this time of night. Um, where are your clothes?”

He laughed as if delighted she’d noticed. “Well, I guess I wasn’t expectin’ to see anyone out here, either.” He strolled over to where she clung to the side of the pool. “But now that you’re here…be a shame to let this go to waste.” He waggled his hips suggestively, as if unaware that his body wasn’t quite up to the task he envisioned it for.

Ivy laughed uncertainly. Inwardly, she cursed. How had she managed to get herself into such an awkward situation? The guy had no business coming on to her in such a crude way, but, damn it, he was Eric-Freaking-Terrell. She couldn’t just tell him where to stick it. Not if she expected to keep her job.

“Ah, thanks, but I’ll have to pass.”

When it seemed he might actually lean down and offer her a hand, Ivy pushed herself back into the water and swam to the far side of the pool. Unfortunately, the only way back to the hacienda was past him. Once again she realized that in his intoxicated state, he wasn’t actually a threat, but neither did she want to play games. She couldn’t imagine anything more undignified than being chased around a swimming pool by a naked, drunken Eric Terrell.

He took a hefty swig of his drink as he considered her. “Well, then,” he finally said, moving with the studied precision of somebody who’d consumed way too much alcohol. “I’m just going to have to come in there and change your mind.”

A masculine voice cleared itself behind Eric, startling him so that he staggered and sloshed the contents of his glass over his hand. “Goddamn it, Stokes, don’t you know better ’n to sneak up behind someone like that?”

Garrett Stokes materialized from the shadows, his eyes going straight to Ivy. Even from this distance, she could read the question there. You okay? She gave a barely perceptible nod.

He carried a towel in one hand, and now he thrust it at Eric. “Hey, man, cover up. There’s a lady present.”

“I can see that,” Eric said, scowling at Garrett. “You’re interruptin’ my efforts to get to know her better.”

“Say good-night, champ. Ivy’s here to meet me, so you’ll have to find yourself another girl.” He pressed the towel into Eric’s chest until the other man had no choice but to take it.

Eric stared first at Garrett, then at Ivy. “That right? You’re together?”

“That’s right.”

“Shit.”

Garrett walked around the pool to Ivy, reached down and offered her a hand. She gasped as he hauled her effortlessly out of the water, but she wasn’t prepared when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tucked her against his side, heedless that she was dripping water all over him. “C’mon, babe, let’s get you out of that wet suit.”

He shot her a meaningful look, and Ivy’s acting skills kicked into gear. “The sooner, the better,” she said in a sultry tone, and stood on tiptoe to plant a moist kiss against his jaw. She felt him stiffen, but he recovered swiftly.

“I already ran you a bath,” he replied, and drew her along with him as he circled the pool. “Eric, have a good night.”

Eric had wrapped the towel around his hips, and now he raised his glass in a mock salute. “G’night, kids. Be good,” he said, the words slurred. “And if you can’t be good, be careful.”

Ivy and Garrett made their way back toward the hacienda, but he didn’t withdraw his arm from around her shoulders.

“Cold?” he asked.

She shook her head, too dismayed by this turn of events to answer. He was too close. Too completely irresistible. Her heightened senses absorbed everything. The warmth from his body seeped through the wet fabric of her bathing suit as his thumb soothed a circular pattern on her bare shoulder. He probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it. He smelled incredible, of clean soap and citrus.

They entered the dim interior of the hacienda, and at the foot of the winding stairs, she pulled him to a stop. “I’ll be okay from here.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon walk you to your door.”

There’d be no arguing with him—she could see that from the implacable expression in his eyes. She nodded and tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “Sure. Okay.”

He released her, and they slowly climbed the stairs.

“Thanks for—for intervening the way you did,” she said when they reached the top. “Did you know we were out there, or was it just luck?”

One black eyebrow arched upward, and Ivy realized that nothing this guy did was a result of luck.

“I saw you walk out to the pool,” he said, confirming her suspicion. “Somebody should have warned you that Eric’s a night owl. If we were in a city, he’d be at a club, surrounded by women happy to give him all the attention he wanted. Even here, there’re usually a few girls hanging around the pool in the hope he’ll make a late-night appearance.”

They’d arrived at her room, and she faced him, uncertain what to do. Would he expect her to invite him in? Or would he simply say goodbye? He was so close that one small step would bring her smack up against the hard planes of his muscled chest. Every nerve in her body tingled with awareness, and she forgot to breathe as their eyes locked.

His shimmered, hot and bright, and an answering heat unfurled low in her center. It spread outward until every cell in her body urged her to step forward and press herself wantonly against him. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such an immediate, raw reaction to a man.

“Well, I’m confident I could have handled him if he’d gotten frisky,” she responded, forcing herself to think rationally, “but I’m glad I didn’t have to. It would have made working with him so awkward.”

“He probably won’t even recall it in the morning,” Garrett assured her. His eyes lingered on her face, then dropped slowly to her breasts. His voice roughened. “You’re cold. You should go in.”

Following his gaze, Ivy saw her nipples were hard nubs beneath the thin material of her bathing suit. But only she knew it had nothing to do with the damp fabric and everything to do with his proximity. Just the fact that his eyes were on her was enough for her body to tighten, and her nipples ripened even more.

“I forgot,” she said in a husky voice, “that my room key is in the pocket of my robe.”

Which she’d left at the pool.

Garrett reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, but before she could see what he intended to do, he turned away from her, shielding the wallet from her view. What might she have seen? A photo? A condom, maybe? Be Prepared.

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