Pagan's Paradise

By Susan Connell

Hard working photographer Joanna McCall is in need of a major life makeover since her unreliable, high society boyfriend publicly dumped her. When an international children's charity asks her to photograph underprivileged Central American kids, she eagerly signs on. While expecting a walk on the wild side, she gets her nose bloodied and her camera stolen within hours of her arrival. The surprising event makes her more determined than ever to see the project through. She can do this - but her rescuer, undercover agent Jack Stratford is not so sure. He secretly knows a revolution's about to explode onto the streets of San Rafael and he wants the gutsy redhead safely out of the country ASAP. He has work to do and she's a distraction he can't afford. Joanna insists she can handle herself, but when an earthquake, a loony Elvis impersonator and a stint in jail become part of her adventures in paradise, Jack manages to help every time. She's falling hard and fast for this hero-to-the-rescue. And when did Joanna stop being a problem and start being the woman of Jack's dreams? As Jack and Joanna grow closer so does the revolution. (This is a stand-alone follow up book to TROUBLE IN PARADISE)

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Nov 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781614171560

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Pagan's Paradise

by

Susan Connell

Published by: ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-156-0

Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 1995, 2011 by Susan Connell. All rights reserved.

Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

Thank You.

This book is dedicated to the

person who gave me my sense

of adventure—GEORGE T. SEAMAN.

2/14/20 – 9/10/09

Thanks, Dad.

Chapter 1

He was looking at her again.

Joanna McCall looked back through her camera lens, noting with guilty pleasure the sexy way he'd twisted his tall, broad-shouldered body in her direction. His strong, symmetrical features, his chiseled lips, and his thick, dark hair made the American across the Plaza de San Remo a portrait photographer's dream. But his pale blue eyes and the way he quietly raked the crowd with them were what truly captured her attention.

Those eyes were watching her now with growing interest as he began rolling up his shirt-sleeves in the muggy night air. Each inch of his well-muscled forearm was revealed ever so slowly, his casual moves bordering on a carefully orchestrated seduction. Joanna swallowed. A private seduction in a very public place.

The excitement tingling through her, she told herself, had nothing to do with sexual attraction and everything to do with heightened professional interest. Besides, she'd seen his type before; he was flirting with every pretty girl on that platform. Clearing her throat, she braced her elbow against the stuccoed column and steadied her camera. When his stare didn't waver, she hesitated a second, wiping perspiration from her brow while she made her decision. Why not? she murmured. Accepting his bold stare as part of the price for a photo, she zoomed in, then tightened her focus on his face.

Come on, Mr. Wonderful, smile for me, she said, knowing he couldn't hear her above the strumming guitars, the steady drumbeats, and the shouts of the dancers.

A corner of his mouth suddenly rose, creasing one side of his face with a dimple. Instinct had her squeezing the shutter the same moment he winked at her. Jerking the camera away from her face, she slipped behind the column and pressed her backside against the rough finish. Groaning, she slapped a hand to her forehead and stared at the camera dangling against her breasts. Her first night in San Rafael, her first opportunity to immerse herself in its unique flavor, and she'd spent the time focusing her lens and her attention on an American. A highborn, hold-your-breath-handsome American hobnobbing with government officials, flirting with their pretty daughters, and, according to that wink, highly amused with the attention she was giving him. She thought she'd learned her lesson about men like him.

Obviously not.

Flaring her nostrils, she lifted her head, narrowed her eyes toward the covered alleyway, and tried not to think about all the worthwhile photos she'd missed because of him. Well, she was not wasting any more shots on him.

Joanna smoothed the sides of her carrot-red ponytail, then leaned around the column to make certain he wasn't coming her way. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him, in silhouette, talking with two military officers.

Like everyone else the American talked to, the officers appeared mesmerized by him. From the moment she'd found him with her lens, she'd been mesmerized too. She took a step closer. More than the American body language that set him apart from the others, he carried himself with bone-deep, blue-blooded confidence. His aura of self-assurance seemed to captivate the officers rather than intimidate them. And the easy way he laughed and made them laugh continued to charm everyone near him. She rolled her eyes. So what!

Joanna made a move to turn away, when something made her stop. A ripple of awareness eased into her consciousness. She studied the American for several more minutes before she caught on to his routine. What passed for a drifting gaze when he was working up a smile or a thoughtful response was a simple surveillance technique he had honed to an art form. From the pickpockets to the Guardia Civil, the American missed nothing in his scattered sweeps around the Our Lady of the Flamingos Festival.

Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Joanna strained forward and narrowed her gaze again. She'd seen smooth operators before but never one so accomplished. Maybe his intent was a little more complicated than checking out every pretty girl there. She looked quickly around the plaza. Whom or what was he looking for? Whatever he was up to didn't matter to her, she decided. She hadn't come to San Rafael to gawk at Americans. Especially the winking, aristocratic type.

Adjusting the stretchy neckline of her peasant dress, she ran her hands over her hips, then reached for her camera.

She prided herself on being able to change out a memory card in the dark. Now was as good a time as any to practice that trick because the card was nearing full capacity. If she hurried, she could slip in an empty one and shoot the dancers twirling around the plaza. That way the evening wouldn't be a total waste.

Deftly removing the plastic piece from the camera, she continued looking at the American. She bit back a smile as she slipped the tiny card into its waiting sleeve. What, she wondered, did he pride himself on doing deftly in the dark?

Keeping an eye on him, she allowed her imagination full range as she located another card in her hip bag. Steamy images concerning deep kisses and deep-voiced whispers had her breathing through her mouth. Suddenly she was all thumbs, fumbling with the card like an amateur. When she realized what was happening, she put a stop to it with a self-deprecating frown. She had better things to do than to fantasize about a blue-eyed stranger.

She raised the camera just in time to hear the dancers giving a chorused shout as they hurried by her and out of the plaza. As the last swishing skirt brushed her arm, she let out an exasperated sigh. There went her chance to photograph the colorful group with the feathered headdresses.

Damn, she muttered, knowing she deserved to miss them after what she'd been doing for the last half hour. Indulging herself with throwaway shots of an indecently attractive man because he had simply smiled at her. It bordered on sacrilege when she'd flown two thousand miles for the purpose of photographing underprivileged children.

Leaning against the column, she thought about the photo project for Lemon Aid that had brought her to the tiny Central American country. The children's relief organization had also hired her to photograph scenes of everyday life in San Rafael. She was sure that the military officers and politicians clustered near the microphone were not what Lemon Aid had in mind. Besides, the only time she'd seen any honest emotion on their faces was when they were talking with the American, and she had no intention of bringing back those photos to Lemon Aid.

As the microphone's squeal began lacing itself through the first speech, Joanna wandered through the crowd fringing the plaza. Once she stopped looking at the American, she set herself to the pleasurable task of selecting festival scenes for her photo project. Food vendors tending their sizzling braziers, souvenir carts stacked with colorful religious statues, and, in a whimsical moment, a cat sleeping soundly in a flower box tempted her and won. She passed on the lovers sharing caresses and stealing kisses, but the children, their mouths and hands filled with cotton candy and their eyes filled with greedy wonder, were the easiest and most inviting subjects of all.

Oh, yes, she murmured to herself.

Satisfaction swelled in her chest; these were the kinds of scenes she'd longed for years to capture. And the kinds of people too. Real people. Simple, honest, hardworking people. The type Lemon Aid wanted for their brochure.

Her gaze drifted toward the platform where the American had been. He was gone. She fought the inclination to look around for him and instead took a photo of an elderly peasant lifting a glass of wine to honor his wife. The eloquent gesture made her smile. At last she was in the right place at the right time doing what she was meant to do. Her evening was on track. She laughed to herself as she strolled around the plaza. Her life was on track as well.

Suddenly the music began again along with the familiar shouts of the dancers. She wasn't missing those smiling faces and colorful headdresses this time. She moved into a covered alleyway to give the dancers plenty of room for their entrance. The music grew louder as the crowds welcomed them back with a deafening roar. Joanna had just lifted her camera, when a hand came out of the dark and closed around one of her wrists. Another hand grabbed her camera strap and tugged. She tugged back, and all hell broke loose. Ham-like hands were groping her in the dark, hitting her arms and jerking on her camera strap.

Not my camera, you—

An explosion of multicolored stars lit the darkened passageway as one of the muggers whacked her in the face, then whipped the strap from around her neck. Grabbing for the camera, she slugged back but missed her target. The next blow she took knocked her sprawling to the cobblestones. Pain pulsed in the center of her face, but her will to retaliate overrode everything. No one was going to mess with her new life or anything in it. Pushing up on one knee, she grabbed for a pant leg, but the two men were already sprinting away and down the alley.

Bring back that Nikon, you bastards!

As she pushed up on her other knee she felt a pair of hands closing on her shoulders. Oh, no, you don't, she said even as she was being lifted off the cobblestones and pulled against a man's thighs. She struggled as he closed his arms around her waist, then stooped down and drew her harder against him. God help her, whoever this was, he wasn't letting go. Panic filled her in the dark alleyway; this couldn't be happening again.

It's over. They're gone, he said, his breath warm on her cheek.

Joanna fought the mixed messages of protection and restraint that his towering form and relentless embrace were giving her. She had wanted a challenging adventure on this trip, but she hadn't counted on getting it so soon. Let go of me, she said with a growl, thumping her fists awkwardly against his arms and striking his watch. Her blows bounced harmlessly off gold, glass, and his hard muscles. For one awful moment she felt hysterical laughter convulsing in her chest. What was wrong with her? She was almost enjoying the masculine press of his body against hers.

They're gone, he said again, his voice more determined this time as he caught her wrists in one of his hands and held them against her breasts. He gave her a gentle shake. Calm down, Red. I'm not here to hurt you. You're safe now.

Unspent anger roller-coasted through her again. I don't want to calm down, she said, trying and failing to pull herself from his grip. I want my Nikon back! As she wriggled against him she lifted her chin in the direction of the boulevard at the far end of the alley. They ran down there. Let... me... go. She gritted her teeth. Please, just–.

I will not, he said evenly.

She turned in his arms to get a look at the man. She could barely make out his features in the dim shaft of light, but she recognized those pale blue eyes immediately. And that hold-your-breath-handsome face. The American's face. Tiny hairs stood up on the back of her neck. She realized she'd given him the wrong voice. His was a deep voice to be sure, resonant and masculine, but gentled by a cultured southern accent. He was from Georgia, she guessed, or the Carolinas.

You, she whispered as he let go of her hands. She instinctively curled them around one of his biceps. All evening long she'd tracked him with her camera, unable or unwilling to ignore his magnetic pull. Now she was in his arms, staring into those improbable eyes and listening to the rich cadence of his words while her heart thundered. Her lips parted and her mouth went dry. If he were any better-looking, she'd go blind, if she didn't die of acute embarrassment first. Closing her eyes, she gave a low but satisfying grunt of frustration.

Stratford. Jack Stratford, he said, sliding her dress back onto her shoulder. If he had to look at those gorgeous, perky, milky-white breasts of hers for another moment, he'd be dealing with a distinct discomfort of his own for the rest of the night.

Now, don't go passing out on me, he said before she reopened her eyes. Lifting her chin on his fingertips, he glanced at her still straight nose, then sent a silent thank-you prayer toward heaven before raising his gaze to her wide-set eyes again. He couldn't make out their color in the bad light, but he knew God hadn't graced this redhead with such an extraordinary face and body then blown the package on an obscure eye color. He smiled, more to himself than to her. He was betting on sea green with gold flecks, but that revelation would have to wait.

Looks like you took a direct hit. Easy there, darlin'. Scoot back against the wall. That's it. Now try to relax and catch your breath, he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at her nose with it.

Ouch! Stinging pain snapped Joanna back to her senses. Taking the handkerchief from him, she looked away as she held it to her nose. She wasn't about to tell him that the self-consciousness she was experiencing at meeting him after taking those photos was almost as bad as the pain. She winced. And then there was the issue of the stolen camera. When she thought of all the work she had ahead of her—minus her most reliable piece of equipment—she groaned again. It was an expensive camera, but most important, it was her sentimental favorite.

Are you okay?

No, I am most definitely not okay. They stole my Nikon. My good Nikon, she wailed, slapping the paving stones, then wincing with the pain shooting up the palm of her hand.

She glanced at the raw red skin, then bit off an unladylike curse.

Your good Nikon? Standing, he searched for her shoes, then tucked the red leather flats in the crook of his arm. Now, is that like your good pair of scissors? His joke caught her off guard, as he had meant it to, and she gave in to halfhearted laughter. The reassuring sound proved to him that she hadn't been seriously hurt in the attack.

Whoa. There it goes again, Jack said, guiding her handkerchief-filled hand back to her bleeding nose. She leaned forward, sending that naughty neckline sliding partway down her arm. One naked shoulder glowed invitingly in the dim light, the other, Jack managed to notice, remained covered. He flicked his gaze to her face and found the first look of uncertainty beneath her thick lashes. Bloodied nose or not, she was still the gutsiest woman he'd ever laid eyes on. And undeniably beautiful. He shook his head. He wasn't going to think about the romantic possibilities inherent in their encounter. Nothing was going to come of this meeting because, as with most things in life, timing was everything. And after what he'd heard around the speaker's platform tonight, he had barely enough time to get this lovely tourist out of San Rafael before the bullets started flying.

He shook his head, tsking sympathetically as the crowd in the plaza cheered the dancers. Those travel brochures never prepare you for these situations, do they?

She shook her head.

Try not to think about it. Once you're out of here, you'll be able to put this all behind you. He bent down to give her a reassuring pat. What's your name, Red?

She started to speak but stopped when the dancers began rushing from the plaza again. Jack moved closer and stretched out one arm to prevent her from being trampled during the spirited exit.

Joanna McCall, she said, turning her head to watch the last of the dancers rush by. A pink feather from a dancer's costume floated to the cobblestones beside her. She lifted her hand, then let it fall into her lap. My camera. Her whispered words were meant to convey a mix of dramatic desperation and self-pity so overdone, it bordered on comedy.

Biting back a laugh, he shook his head instead. Well, Joanna, you can't stay here. When the procession to the cathedral starts, this tunnel is going to be filled with people. Can you stand up? He watched as her chin began trembling under the balled handkerchief she had pressed to her nose. He checked his watch in the dim light. Five minutes until the religious procession was scheduled to begin. Go ahead, darlin'. Cry and get it over with, he said, thinking about the irony of his words. Indeed, bad timing. He looked at the inviting way her softly flowing dress caressed her slim hips and shapely legs and sighed. He'd have her on the plane to Miami before he had a chance to see her without his handkerchief pressed to her bloody nose. He ought to have a good cry over this mess himself.

Cry? she whispered in disbelief as she threw down the handkerchief. My camera's been stolen and you expect me to cry? Bracing her hand against the wall, she pulled her shoes away from him. I don't think so, Mr. Stratford. I intend to file a police report, then see what can be done to get my Nikon back, she said, her voice suddenly strong as she stood up and pushed away from the wall. Without warning she cringed, then toppled against his chest.

Call me Jack, he said as he looked down at the disheveled woman filling his arms.

Jack... I stood up too fast.

She was clinging to his shirt and belt buckle as if she would fall off the earth if she dared let go of them. Widening his stance, he took more of her weight against him. Poor kid. Maybe she was a little more the worse for wear than he'd thought. Shifting slightly in his embrace, she rubbed her cheek against his chest. Oh, Jack, she said, her whispered words ending on a sigh.

But it wasn't just any kind of sigh. It was a pain-free, promise-filled kind of sigh. Narrowing his eyes, he pursed his lips and considered the potential implications in a sigh like that. That's it. Relax, he said, gliding his hand up her arm. Every satiny inch he touched was arousingly and marvelously female. For one cockeyed moment a world of sensual possibilities began opening to him.

She sighed again; he swallowed.

It wasn't easy being a gentleman when her curvy warmth and soft sighs were singing out to the core of his manhood. But he'd try—even if it killed him. Peeling her fingers from his buckle, he started to lift her into his arms. She suddenly stiffened and pulled away.

I—I'm all right now. See? My nose stopped bleeding, she said, reaching for the wall. Dropping her shoes to the ground, she slipped her feet into them as the drums and horns started up in the plaza. She cupped her hands to her mouth and raised her voice above the music. "Thank you. You've been very kind to help me, but