He was six feet, four of pure, unadulterated male. He wore nothing but a
leather tunic, spoke an ancient tongue, and he was standing in Professor
Foster Meredith'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 the twentieth. 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