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“You’re sort of a jerk, you know that?”
He clenched his determined jaw. “It doesn’t matter as long as I get what I want.” He strode purposefully toward her plane.
Hmm. Now Sophia was beginning to understand why that blond babe, usually at his elbow, looked so uptight ninety percent of the time. However, she certainly got the push-pull attraction of Gibb Martin. While part of her wanted to throttle him, another part wanted to kiss him. He was, after all, tall, with handsome good looks and a hot body.
All the more reason not to fly him to Key West.
So why had she agreed?
About the Author
LORI WILDE is a New York Times bestselling author and has written more than forty books. She’s been nominated for a RITA® Award and four RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Awards. Her books have been excerpted in Cosmopolitan, Redbook and Quick & Simple. Lori teaches writing online through Ed2go. She’s also an RN trained in forensics and she volunteers at a women’s shelter. Visit her website at www.loriwilde.com.
Crash Landing
Lori Wilde
MILLS & BOON
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To all my readers, past, present and future.
Thank you so very much for reading.
Without you, I’m nothing.
1
THE CRAZY AMERICAN WAS still in a business suit?
Sophia Cruz lounged in the hammock outside the exclusive retreat in the Costa Rican volcanic mountain range of Cordillera of Tilarán.
Bosque de Los Dioses, or Forest of the Gods, was accessible only by bush plane and it lay twenty-five miles north of Monteverde, the nearest village and Sophia’s hometown. The resort was hush-hush, a place where the rich, famous and high-powered came for a secret hideaway.
Sophia herself was neither rich, famous, high-powered nor looking to escape anything. She’d been born and raised in these mountains and it was her home. Over the years, she’d seen many outsiders come and go, but she’d never seen one as intensely stressed-out as the sandy-haired man wearing a gray silk Armani suit in the muggy summer weather.
Two weeks.
He’d been at Bosque de Los Dioses for two weeks and she had never once seen him in blue jeans or shorts or sandals or even a short-sleeved shirt. Always the suit and tie and expensive leather shoes as if he was in a New York City boardroom instead of a tropical paradise.
Why?
The question fascinated her. He fascinated her.
She dipped the brim of her well-worn straw cowgirl hat, the band decorated with a purple orchid that she’d plucked from a nearby vine. And pushed her heart-shaped pink sunglasses up on her nose to study him through the rose-tinged lenses.
Hombre guapo.
He paced the length of the veranda of the luxury tree house bungalow nestled in the tops of the Flame of the Forest and Ron-Ron trees, a cell phone pressed to his ear. The sunlight reflected off the thick platinum link chain bracelet at his broad wrist. The bracelet was like the rest of him, polished, sleek but underneath the shiny exterior undeniably masculine.
Although she had not asked, he was clearly a wealthy businessman, brash, entitled and constantly in motion. Who else rushed, rushed, rushed to get to the same place everyone else was going?
“Eventually, no matter where you are from, you end up in the graveyard,” her father often said. “Might as well take your time getting there and enjoy the view.”
That was the Costa Rican way—slow and easy and grateful for what you had. Then again, no other country had views like this. Perhaps it was easier to be philosophical when surrounded by so much beauty.
And speaking of views…
This one was as delicious as el casado.
No, maybe not el casado since it meant “married” in Spanish because the meal was the perfect marriage of beans, rice, fried plantains, salad and some kind of meat. Traditionally, it was the noon meal and had been named for the fact it was the usual food wives packed for their husbands to brown bag to work. This man looked as far from an attentive husband as he could get and the thought of him brown bagging anything made her chuckle.
Sunlight glinted off his golden hair cut short in a neat style that flattered his features—firm chin, but not big-jawed. If it hadn’t been for the broken nose he might have been too pretty and Sophia had to admit she had a thing for blonds. Growing up around so many dark-haired men had given her a sharp appreciation for flaxen locks.
Mmm. She licked her lips.
His name, according to the credit card he’d used to pay for his flight, was Gibb Martin. He was close to six feet tall and moved with the sleek grace of a jaguar, lean and athletic, as if his skin could barely contain his excessive masculine energy. She imagined running her hands over his biceps and her palms tingled.
Although she couldn’t see them from here, Sophia knew he possessed piercing, no-nonsense gray eyes, that when they were directed at her, made her feel as if he could see straight into her soul.
Sophia shivered.
He’d caught her with those eyes the day she’d flown him in from the Libera Airport. He’d thanked her for the flight, shook her hand and held it for just a moment too long. Her heart had skipped a beat and she couldn’t help feeling that it was a watershed moment.
Or maybe that had all been in her imagination.
He’d had a woman with him after all. A tall, skinny blonde with pouty lips, pixie haircut and breasts the size of pillows, quite a contrast to Sophia’s own short stature, well rounded hips, waist-length black hair and rather modest endowments. When she was a teenager, her brothers had teasingly called her Tortita, the Spanish word for pancake. Luckily, she’d sprouted a bit since then, but not much.
The blonde had not seemed happy. She’d complained about everything—the smallness of the plane, the sticky humidity and the fact that the cookies and crackers that Sophia kept onboard for guests were not gluten-free. Then again, in the blonde’s defense, the American had barely looked up from his laptop computer the entire flight and she ended up feeling sorry for her.
Two weeks had passed and the blonde still wasn’t happy. She came out on the balcony, hands sunk onto her hips, rocking a red G-string bikini so small it could have doubled as a pair of shoelaces.
Frump. Compared to a woman like that, Sophia was a dumpy dowager in cutoff blue jeans and a white crop top.