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