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
