Author: Gwyn Cready
Series: Sirens of the Scottish, #2
Pubdate: October 6th, 2015
From the “master of time travel romance”, award-winning author Gwyn Cready continues her steamy Sirens of the Scottish Borderlands series.
She needs a man—but only for a night
What do you get when you imbibe centuries-old whiskey—besides a hangover the size of the Highlands? If you’re twenty-first century ad exec Gerard Innes, you get swept back to 18th-century Edinburgh and into the bed of a gorgeous, fiery redhead. Gerard has only a foggy idea what he and the lady have been up to…but what he does remember draws him into the most dangerous and exhilarating campaign of his life.
Be careful what you wish for…
Serafina Seonag Fallon’s scoundrel of a fiancé has left her with nothing, and she’s determined to turn the tables. If she can come up with a ringer, she can claim the cargo he stole from her. But the dashing man she summons from the future demands more than a night, and Serafina finds it easier to command the seas under her feet than the crashing waves he unleashes in her heart.
Note from Gwyn Cready:
One of my favorite scenes to write is the scene where the hero and heroine first meet. It’s one of the most important scenes in a romance novel, and it sets the tone for the rest of the book. In this scene, Gerard, an ad man from the twenty-first century, wakes up after going to bed with a woman he met at an agency party. He wanders into what he thinks is the living room of his expensive hotel suite but is actually the sitting room of an eighteenth-century inn and meets a very confused Scot, who Gerard assumes is the boyfriend of the woman in his bed.
This was a fun scene to write. The Scot is actually the hero from the first book of the Sirens of the Borderlands series, Just in Time for a Highlander, and he has very protective, brotherly feelings for Serafina, the woman Gerard has woken up next to in 1706.
Gerard raced back into the bedroom, threw the lock, and bounded to the bed. “Your ship came in,” he said, shaking the arm clutching the pillow. “Unfortunately, it’s the Titanic. You have about five seconds to get your lifeboat in the bathroom and lock the door.”
“Mmphf,” came the voice, muzzy with sleep.
“Serafina, are you in there?” the Scot demanded, rattling the knob.
“Och.” The arm twitched. “Who is making all that bloody noise?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t been introduced to Paul MacBunyon?” Gerard yanked the covers off the bed.
He froze. The woman was not plump, blond, or Cinderella. She was a flaming redhead with pale legs that, in his foggy eyes, stretched out like two glorious lengths of beach beneath the azure sky of his Ermenegildo Zegna shirt.
And he had never seen her before.
The woman swallowed a screech, banked herself against the headboard, and whispered fiercely, “Who the hell are you?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he said. “This is my bed.”
Her chin dropped. “It is not!”
“Serafina!” The knob jiggled harder.
“You may keep the shirt,” Gerard said, “but if you could assist in the return of the rest of my clothes before Sasquatch breaks down the door, I’d be very grateful.” He tossed the covers aside.
She flung her hands across her eyes. “Mother naked, ye are!”
“Pot, kettle: black, black.” He scrabbled across the bed and peered over the side, catching another inspir ing whiff of that juniper-rosemary combo. A heap of gray filled his heart with joy and he fished his trousers off the floor.
“Get out!” she demanded.
“That’s a fine thank-you.” He jumped up and jerked the trousers on.
The door rattled harder. The man was using his shoulder now.
“What exactly would I be thanking ye for?”
“Last night.” He gave her a look that would trans late even into her overwrought Robert Burns Scottish.
She braced her shoulders. “I did not!”
He brought his hand before her nose. “That’s your perfume, is it not?”
He shrugged. “I’m rarely wrong when it comes to that kind of thing.”
“What a repellent quality.”
“Look, I don’t know what brand of crazy you and your boyfriend have going on, but you probably should keep the weird cosplay to yourselves.” The next crash nearly brought the door off its hinges. “Do what you like, but I’m adjourning to the bathroom to hop on the phone to the concierge. I’ll tell you what else: they are not going to like the TripAdvisor review coming out of this.”
She drew herself even farther into the headboard. “Are you mad?”
“Mad. Blind. Shirtless. You name it. And definitely off whiskey.” He reached for the bathroom door but found only wall. “What the…?”
A splintering explosion of wood, and MacBunyon burst into the room. “You,” he said, pointing to the woman, an eerie calmness about him. “Out here.”
Gerard heaved a heavy sigh and moved between MacBunyon and the bed. The time for finesse was over. He lifted his fists. “Why don’t you start with me, big guy?”
About the Author:
Gwyn Cready is a writer of contemporary, Scottish, and time travel romance. She’s been called “the master of time travel romance” and is the winner of the RITA Award, the most prestigious award given in romance writing. She has been profiled in Real Simple and USA Today, among others. Before becoming a novelist, she spent 25 years in brand management. She has two grown children and lives with her husband on a hill overlooking the magical kingdom of Pittsburgh.
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