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
