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mushrooms and onions on the side.”
    “What you’d like and what you’ll get may be two different things.” He stopped tinkering with the generator long enough to devour the rest of his toast. Then he downed his hot chocolate in several long gulps. “Thanks. I guess this will hold me until dinnertime.”
    “I should hope so.” Ciara picked up the tray and headed for the sink. “Because that’s all you’re getting, unless you make it yourself.”
    Minutes later, Jace looked up to see her heading toward the bedroom. When the door closed he turned his attention to the generator. He really needed to get this thing in good working order as quickly as possible. He was desperate to restore enough power to use his laptop computer. He’d promised to check in with his wire service as soon as he arrived in the United States. By now they’d be wondering where hewas, and why he wasn’t bothering to contact them. He didn’t want his crew thinking he’d completely deserted them.
    But the truth was, he suddenly couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for world news. It never seemed to change. When peace came to one area of the world, war inevitably broke out in another. He supposed the world would always be divided between men of goodwill, and men of ill will with a lust for power and domination.
    He sat back to study the rusted wires in his hands. But his thoughts kept drifting to the woman in the other room. He’d told her more about himself than he’d intended. Maybe it was because she was so easy to talk to. She had a way of listening. Really listening—not just faking it. And she had a way of asking questions without being intrusive.
    He grinned as he started scraping away rust before splicing several frayed wires. Next he’d be trying to convince himself that Ciara Wilde was just like any girl next door. Still, despite the movie star face and fabulous body, there was a freshness about her that was disarming.
    Usually he could tell, after just a few minutes with someone, whether or not he wanted to know them better. In Ciara’s case, he sensed there was a whole lot more inside than the woman she showed to her public. Maybe, just maybe, he’d reserve judgment. It could be that his first impression had been colored by fatigue.
    Or it might turn out that she was “Hollywood,” after all. In which case, he’d be only too happy to send her packing as soon as the weather allowed.

Four
    I n her bedroom, Ciara opened the notebook and removed a sheaf of dog-eared papers. Since she had the luxury of several hours before dinner, she’d decided to use the time constructively. She pulled a chair close to the window for light, then set several candles on the nightstand. Tucking her knees under her, she began to scan the first page, making corrections as she read.
    She’d been working on this screenplay for the better part of a year. At first it had seemed an impossible dream. With her demanding schedule, how could she ever hope to find the time to craft a script that was both bright and interesting, with characters who had depth and soul? But little by little it had begun to take shape. She wrote everywhere. Between scenes on the sound stage. During long evenings on location, while the rest of the cast and crew partied. She even wrote on weekends, whenever Brendan was engaged in his own movie projects.
    Now that she’d completed several drafts, she had become even more critical. She’d read enough scripts in her time to know that her characters were coming along nicely. The dialogue flowed smoothly. The settingwas exactly the way she wanted it. But some of the action scenes still seemed contrived.
    She paused, pen between her teeth. Action. That was it. That was what was all wrong. She’d been influenced by the sort of action Brendan faced in his movies. Sound effects and computer-generated explosions. Now she found herself thinking about the things Jace had lived through. She’d never before met anyone like Jace Lockhart,