Karen Foley - Overnight Sensation

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…”

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

by

MILLS & BOON ®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Karen Foleyis 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.

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.