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
