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He wore nothing but a leather tunic, spoke in an ancient tongue . . . and he was standing in Professor Meredith Foster's living room.
The medieval historian told herself he was part of a practical joke, but with his wide gold belt, callused hands, and the rabbit roasting in her fireplace, the brawny stranger seemed so . . . authentic.
Suddenly Meredith was mesmerized by his bronzed, muscular form, and her body surrendered to the fantasy that Geirolf Ericsson really was a Viking from a thousand years ago, sent only to pleasure her. But as she tried to teach him to eat spaghetti and use a computer, she realized he knew an awful lot about the tenth century—and so little about this one. And as he helped her fulfill her grandfather's dream of re-creating a Viking ship, he awakened her to dreams of her own. Until she wondered if the hand of fate had thrust her into the loving arms of . . . The Last Viking
