Tavish MacCraig, thirty-three-year-old Highlander, forsook his medical and military career, after being a POW for 6 months in Afghanistan, to run his family’s internationally renowned art gallery in London, The Blue Dot. Despite being surrounded by wealth and beauty, Tavish’s days are bleak, his nights, living nightmares, and his heart, an empty shell. But when he meets Irish painter Laetitia Galen, a powerful and sizzling attraction ignites between them.
Laetitia, who fled hell on earth when she was sixteen, now works as a well-paid housekeeper in a forsaken country manor in Warwickshire and sells her paintings in an obscure gallery. To preserve her new life and recently found peace, she resists Tavish and The Blue Dot's fantastic offer of an exclusive contract.
Laetitia becomes Tavish’s obsession; Tavish, Laetitia’s unattainable dream.
Meanwhile, a man with a burning grudge plots his long-awaited revenge, which could destroy them all over again.
The unusual sound of a motor rumble coming from the security system broke Laetitia’s concentration, making her frown at the new stencil.
On the camera she saw a car, its license plate unknown, coming down the lane toward the house.
Damn! I forgot to close the gates and turn on the alarm. Again!
Her carving knife clattered on the ground of the studio as she ran out. Pulling off her gloves, she entered the house by the kitchen and hurried to the hall.
A man was crossing her pebbled driveway and entering the front garden.
Laetitia knew that there were things in life that took their attraction from intricate symmetry, delicate structure, and innocent nature: rare orchids, unbroken seashells, and icy snowflakes; and those that were irresistible for their great power, refusal to be tamed, and dangerous potential: active volcanoes, huge waves, and craggy precipices.
And there were things that were simply too immense, too savage, or too intense to be contained in a single image or explained in mere words, even if there were a thousand of them.
The tall, powerfully built giant of a man walking toward her door belonged in the latter category, she was sure.
Wearing a tailored charcoal three-piece-suit, a baby-pink shirt, and a dark-gray tie, he was frighteningly male, terrifyingly beautiful, and vitally imposing.
His skin was an exquisite shade of the lightest coppery-gold. His mane was made of the darkest midnight-black silky locks, which shimmered under the soft sun. Wind-blown strands brushing against his forehead and wraparound glasses did nothing to diminish the sharpness of the man.
Who are you? By his firm strides, he wasn’t lost, which in her suspicious mind was not a good thing.
A funny flutter began in her stomach when he climbed the three steps to the double doors. His forehead creased for a moment, his ink-black brows going down, as if he was carefully weighing his next move.
Laetitia didn’t move but held her breath, waiting for him to leave, as she did whenever people came probing for information—when and if they came.
She didn’t know if she was afraid or excited, when, using one of the old iron lion knockers, he banged twice and called, “Ms. Galen?”
Even muffled by the old oak-carved doors and thick brick walls, his voice was a deep baritone, rich and sensual. It seemed to wash over her like warm rain on a summer night.
Damn. He knows me. She frowned and walked stealthily to the front door.
Cleopatra entwined around her calf, purring as if approving of the man outside.
Laetitia debated with herself: she had been careful ever since she had left Ireland in the dark of night, and she’d never had contact with such masculine power, yet there was her matured, innate sense saying that the danger he posed was not the one she feared.
Cleopatra tilted her head at her and lazily walked back to the kitchen, giving her a last look, encouraging her to open the door.
“Traitor,” she whispered, yet agreeing with her in some measure. She wanted an opportunity for a bit of unruly emotions to let her unthawed heart beat again.
He knocked again and called louder, “Ms. Galen.”
There was a quiet command in his deep voice. It compelled her.
Laetitia opened her door. “May I help you?”
Cristiane Serruya is Brazilian and lives in Rio de Janeiro, with her husband, two teenage daughters, and Loki, her Shetland sheepdog. She has studied in England, France, Italy, and Switzerland and graduated in Law, with a Master’s in Business Law, and a BA in Fine Arts. In 2012, she published her first romance, and is proud of the awards her novels have received.
She still works as a lawyer, but writing has become an essential part of her life, and a fulfilling adventure, as it allows her to make friends all over the world.
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Cristiane Serruya will be awarding a $10 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.