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.

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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.

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