Author:
Rebecca Heflin
Publisher: Soul Mate Publishing
Length: 227 pages
Sub-Genres:
contemperary
BLURB:
When tough battle-scarred
photojournalist-turned-wildlife-photographer Lacey Sommers travels to Costa
Rica in a last-ditch effort to save her job, she meets beach-bum-gorgeous Luke
Hancock, an outdoor guide, environmentalist and expert on economics and
sustainability, who’s been hired by her magazine to serve as her pilot and
wilderness guide for the duration of her stay.
It’s clear from the outset there is a powerful physical attraction between the two, but strong personalities, pre-conceived notions, an unexpected and contentious family connection, and the scars from a tragic death and a terrifying event threaten to keep them apart.
Will Lacey shed the mantle of Kevlar she’s worn for so long and allow Luke inside her heart? Or will her ostensible strength be her downfall?
It’s clear from the outset there is a powerful physical attraction between the two, but strong personalities, pre-conceived notions, an unexpected and contentious family connection, and the scars from a tragic death and a terrifying event threaten to keep them apart.
Will Lacey shed the mantle of Kevlar she’s worn for so long and allow Luke inside her heart? Or will her ostensible strength be her downfall?
EXCERPT:
Fucking frogs, Lacey thought. I can’t believe I’ve been
reduced to shooting frogs. “I hate frogs,” she muttered, drawing unwelcome
attention from the man seated next to her.
The
Cessna Grand Caravan banked, tipping the wings so that the ground looked as if
it were rising up to meet it. Lacey gazed out of the window at the lush green
landscape of Costa Rica, her home for the next two months, or longer, if she
couldn’t get the shots she needed.
The
airport resembled something out of a B-movie. As the plane bumped onto the
runway she expected to see a couple of aged Hummers emerge from the jungle
filled with AK-47-toting drug runners. Meager though the airport was, boasting
only a small terminal consisting of a row of benches covered by a tin-roofed
overhang, it wasn’t the worst airport she’d seen.
She
stepped off the plane and into the heavy, humid air. If it was this hot in
November, July must be a killer. Hitching her equipment bag up on her shoulder,
she watched as a couple of men unloaded the rest of the luggage, tossing it
carelessly onto the pockmarked tarmac, confirming her decision not to check her
equipment bag. Spotting her army-green duffle, she walked over to pick it up.
“Lacey
Sommers?”
“That’s
me.” Lacey didn’t look toward the voice as she bent to pick up the bag and toss
the bulk over her other shoulder. A hand slid beneath the strap and she turned
to glare with disdain at the offending appendage. The hand was large, square,
and calloused. Capable. Powerful.
“I’ll
get that.”
She
was rarely caught by surprise, but this was one of those times. She gazed
directly into a pair of aqua-green eyes as clear and deep as the waters off the
Costa Rican coast and suppressed an unexpected frisson of desire.
“Why?”
was all she could think to say, her eyes narrowing behind her sunglasses.
“Well,
because I have two free hands, and because it’s the polite thing to do.”
A
half smile accentuated the dimple in the man’s chin. His windblown, honey-blond
locks were highlighted by nature’s hand. Her sister would kill for those
highlights.
“I’m
Luke Hancock. I’ll be your pilot, your driver, your guide, and—” He took the
duffle from her as if it were packed with feathers and tossed it onto his
shoulder. “—your bellman during your stay in Costa Rica.”
He
stood a good head taller than her five-foot-ten inches and had all the markings
of a beach bum: tanned; sun-kissed hair; board shorts; faded Oakley T-shirt;
flip-flops; diver’s watch; even the cliché ratty hemp friendship bracelet. Just
another overgrown boy, like most of the men she’d encountered in her adult
life, the kind of men who made a profession out of avoiding responsibility.
“I’m
quite capable of carrying my own bag.” She planted her feet in a belligerent
stance, one hand on the strap of her equipment bag, her other lifted to her
forehead blocking the sun.
“I’ve
no doubt you are . . . capable, I mean.” Luke didn’t know what he’d been
expecting, but this was definitely not it. The name Lacey Sommers, and all it
implied, didn’t fit the woman standing in front of him. There was certainly
nothing frilly about her. Tall, tanned, and muscular, she couldn’t be accused
of being girlie, but neither was she the care-worn, jaded photographer he’d
envisioned. A knot of desire formed in his stomach.
Dressed
in an army-green camisole, khaki cargo shorts, and a pair of worn hiking
sandals, she appeared quite capable . . . of many things. The color of her
eyes, hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, piqued his curiosity.
Her
only adornments were a heart-shaped garnet that hung from an antique-gold chain
and an enormous Breitling watch strapped to her left wrist. He recognized the
expensive brand as one he often saw on his ex-father-in-law’s wrist. No
engagement or wedding ring, but there must be a rich boyfriend in the picture.
A girl didn’t buy those things on a staff photographer’s salary.
“Let’s
get one thing straight, Mr. Hancock, I’m no helpless female. I don’t need
pampering.”
She
lifted that Breitling-adorned hand to tuck a golden strand of hair behind her
ear. The simple movement caused a firm bicep to ripple beneath the smooth
bronze of her skin. That’s when he noticed the vicious white scar that ran
across her neck; jagged at the edges, yet straight and about three inches long,
very near the carotid artery.
Her
short wavy hair curled tantalizingly around her throat as if to caress the
scar. He swallowed hard, wondering how such a lovely neck had been so brutally
desecrated.
Dragging
his gaze from the scar, he said, “That’s good,” before striding off toward his
Jeep without waiting for her. “I’m not the pampering type.”
******
After
a perilous ride through the jungle in the open-air, doorless Jeep, fording
flooded streams, and bouncing over muddy potholes that could have swallowed
compact cars, Lacey’s right side was covered in water, mud, and who knows what
else. Not to mention, her neck felt like she’d been riding a bucking bronco.
She
began to wonder if her editor were secretly trying to get rid of her when they
finally arrived at the gates of a resort tucked among strangler figs and Kapok
trees, still dripping from a recent rain. The sign, adorned with an enormous
Blue Morpho butterfly, read MARIPOSA LODGE.
Built
on a thousand acres of pristine tropical lowland rain forest three hundred
fifty feet above the point where the Gulfo Dulce and the Pacific Ocean
collided, the eco-resort offered visitors a peaceful retreat; something she
hadn’t had in she couldn’t remember when. But she wasn’t there to relax. She
was there to save her career. If she screwed this up, she’d be relegated to
shooting screaming kids on Santa’s lap.
The
last conversation with her editor still rankled. When she’d gone in for her
assignment, she’d been hoping for the story on gorilla poaching in the Congo.
She should have known better after the previous incident in Africa, but she’d
never expected this.
Not
one to toot her own horn, she hadn’t hesitated to trumpet away under the
circumstances. None of her arguments had worked on him.
“Look,
Lacey, you’re the best photographer around, but I can’t have a repeat of
Tanzania.” Simon shook his head, his bushy eyebrows drawn together in a
unibrow.
“But
frogs! Christ. It’s humiliating.” There was no way she was telling Simon
about her fear of frogs, that the slimy little things gave her the willies.
“Damn
sight less humiliating than a meltdown.” His voice became placating. “Listen,
go down to Costa Rica, get some great shots of the poison dart frogs and any
other wildlife you come across and we’ll see. Should be a nice, easy assignment
for you. Maybe you can even squeeze in a little R & R while you’re there.”
“Come
on, Simon, please—”
“Damn
it, Lacey, this is it. You either do this, or . . . you’re out. I’m sorry.”
He’d held his palms up in resignation.
Luke’s
big hand jostled her shoulder, snapping her back to the present.
“Hey,
Sommers, we’re here.”
No
sense brooding over her situation anymore. It is what it is. She’d get
the best damn pictures of frogs the magazine had ever seen and then she’d go
back to the high-risk assignments she preferred.
******
“Buenos
dias, José. Como estâ usted?” Luke asked one of the resort’s
friendly employees as he and Lacey stepped into the lobby’s relatively dim
interior.
“Pura
vida, Luke.”
“Bueno.
José, this is Lacey Sommers. She’ll be staying with you for several weeks.”
Turning to Lacey, he said, “José will take it from here. We have an early start
tomorrow so get some sleep. I’ll meet you here at five-thirty a.m. And don’t
worry, you’ll be awake.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a slight smile.
She’d
taken off her sunglasses, and he saw for the first time her eyes were an indigo
blue of infinite depth, rimmed by lashes so thick they looked like they
belonged in one of those cosmetic ads. He stared into her eyes longer than he’d
intended. Christ, he thought as he dragged a hand through his hair, like
the Bahamas’ great blue holes, a man could get lost in those depths.
Lacey
shifted from one foot to the other. Luke’s intense stare made her uneasy. She
returned his gaze with a bravado she didn’t actually feel. He stood within
inches of her and although he wasn’t touching her, the sensation was just as
disconcerting as if he had been. The heat rolled off him in waves, carrying the
clean, salty scent of the beach.
“Right.”
She narrowed her eyes, something she did whenever it seemed like someone was
trying to pull something over on her. How did he know she would be awake at
that hour?
“See
you.” Without a backward glance, Luke strode out to his Jeep with the easy gait
of an athlete.
She
had to admit, he had a nice ass, even in those baggy board shorts. “Uh, José,
can I have coffee in the morning?”
“Claro,
of course,” José said with a bright smile, watching her watch Luke.
Busted. Damn. “Uh, thanks. At that hour it will be the only thing
standing between me and unconsciousness.”
******
Lacey
surveyed her new living quarters. Her thatched-roof bungalow could only be
described as rustically opulent. Built of bamboo and mangrove, both sustainable
hardwoods, the interior gleamed as if it were polished copper. The
floor-to-ceiling screened walls offered a hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the
turquoise water below.
Mosquito
netting draped two queen beds, while ceiling fans whirred in the heavy air.
Despite its openness, once occupants crossed over the threshold of their
bungalow, they had total privacy. That same privacy extended to the wraparound
deck.
Nestled
in the middle of a private nature reserve, the resort could boast one of the
top spots among the world’s eco-resorts, but it wasn’t for the faint of heart.
There was no TV, telephone, radio, Internet, air conditioning, or blow dryer.
Electricity could be hit or miss, with the lodge depending on solar panels and
a biodiesel-powered generator.
Hence,
the box containing her laptop computer, a satellite phone for Internet access,
and a solar-charged power station, had already been delivered to her room. All
the necessary accoutrements to upload her photos and send them to her editor in
New York.
She
unpacked the box and set up her work station on a modest-sized bamboo desk that
faced the expansive deck, which boasted a private outdoor shower, hammock, and
lounge chairs. She stepped outside, the cooling breeze a respite from the heat.
The spectacular view of the ocean could prove a little distracting if she
weren’t careful.
“Speaking
of distractions,” she mused aloud. Luke Hancock could prove more than a little
distracting. He could prove to be downright dangerous, especially for her. Why
did she seem to be always drawn to the sexy heartbreakers, the ones who were
all form and no substance? Despite her feigned disinterest, being near him set
her heart racing and scattered coherent thought.
“Keep
your mind on your work, Sommers,” she chided. “Get it done and get out of
here.”
A
cool shower and dinner in her bungalow sounded like the perfect way to wind
down. Unless you liked to party with iguanas, the nightlife around here looked
to be nonexistent, which was probably a good thing since she had to be up at
the butt-crack of dawn.
The
shower, like the ocean side of the bungalow, was screened, giving the occupant
a view of the rain forest.
“Jesus!”
As she reached for her towel she nearly lost her footing on the slick stone
floor. A squirrel monkey watched her with grave curiosity.
“What
the hell?”
The
tiny monkey, whose head markings resembled Eddie Munster, continued to stare at
her with no sense of shame. “Pervert.” Wrapping the thick towel around her, she
stepped out of the shower and sighed. “This is going to be a long assignment.”
******
On
time as usual, Tony pulled into the narrow dirt driveway adjacent to the
beachfront house, right behind the Jeep.
Luke
smiled. He could always count on Tony.
Best
friends since Luke’s family started spending their winters in the cozy house at
the tip of the Osa Peninsula, he and Tony were thick as thieves.
For
years, he and Tony had spent their days swimming the uninhabited beaches of the
Peninsula and running the palm swamps and virgin forests with Luke’s twin
sister, Lisa, tagging along.
A
deep welcoming bark from Luke’s new resident greeted the men as they strode
toward the house.
“Hey,
amigo.” Tony wore his perpetual grin. Dark skinned, not only from his
Hispanic and Boruca heritage but also from his time spent in the tropical sun,
Tony’s toothy grin sparkled stark white in contrast. Hair, black as pitch with
eyes to match and a stocky muscular body, Tony was a hit with the women. Not
that Tony noticed. He only had eyes for his wife of five years, Alejandra, or
Allie, as she liked to be called.
“Hola.”
Luke clapped Tony on the back.
The
two ambled toward the kitchen door, the dog’s barks becoming more insistent.
“Stand
back. She explodes with the power of Walter Payton off the line.” Luke opened
the door and eighty pounds of squirming, barking, whining, yellow fur bolted a
good fifty yards, then circled back to the men.
Luke
knelt down and gave the lab an affectionate tussle, allowing her time to calm
down before she greeted Tony. By the time it was Tony’s turn, her pent-up
energy had been reduced to mere shivers of delight as her whole body wagged in
opposition to her tail.
“Hola,
señorita Sandy.”
Sandy’s
tongue lolled as her face split into a big doggie grin. Tony bent over to grab
her silky ears and give her rump a warm pat.
Luke
was already in the kitchen at the fridge. “Want a beer?”
“Sure.”
After
taking the first satisfyingly frosty swig, the men stepped out onto the deck to
relax in the lounge chairs, Sandy by their side. At a signal from Luke, Sandy
laid down, her head on her paws.
“How’s
our new client?” Tony asked.
Luke
hesitated, then at Tony’s questioning glance, he felt a sly grin spread across
his face.
“That
good, huh?” Tony shot him a questioning look. “Are you going to bang every
female client who hires us?”
“No,
not every female client, just the sexy single ones,” he said between
pulls on his beer.
“With
your track record, some could accuse us of running an escort service instead of
a guiding service.”
Luke
shrugged. “One of the perks of the job.”
“You
ever going to settle down?”
“Been
there, done that. Don’t see any reason to do it again.” His chest tightened as
he thought about her, his rash mistake, never to be repeated. Caroline
Clarkson. They’d married shortly after being college sweethearts at the
University of California Santa Barbara. A cool, tall blonde who’d secretly
harbored materialistic tendencies. Just one of the many reasons why Caroline
was his ex-wife.
“So,
she’s sexy and single?” Tony asked, bringing him back to the present.
“Oh,
she’s sexy. And she appears to be single. No ring of any kind.” Luke frowned,
remembering the necklace and watch. He took another pull on his beer before
continuing. “She’s what I imagine Lisa would be like if she were still here.
Tall, athletic, fresh. Nothing artificial about her.”
“Yeah,
I miss Lisa.”
A
masculine silence descended, the kind of silence that acknowledged shared
emotions without the need to speak of them.
A
day didn’t go by that Luke didn’t think about Lisa, miss her. Like with a
phantom limb, he often had the sensation that she was still there, still a part
of him, her body moving through the forests in tandem with his.
“But
our client’s got a chip on her shoulder.” Luke broke the silence. “You know the
type: stubborn, independent, doesn’t want or need any help.”
A
beat passed in silence.
“Just
like Lisa.” The men spoke in unison and, grinning, tapped their beer bottles
together in a toast.
BUY LINKS:
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Rebecca Heflin has dreamed of writing romantic fiction since
she was fifteen and her older sister snuck a copy of Kathleen Woodiwiss’ Shanna to her and told her to read it. Rebecca
writes women’s fiction and contemporary romance. When not passionately pursuing
her dream, Rebecca is busy with her day-job as a practicing attorney. She and
her mountain-climbing husband live at sea level in sunny Florida.
Twitter: @rebeccaheflin
