Enter the dazzling world of Karen Marie Moning, whose acclaimed Highlander novels have captivated readers, spanning the continents and the centuries, bringing ancient Scotland vividly to life.
In a new novel brimming with time-travel adventure and sensual heat, the nationally bestselling author of The Dark Highlander delivers a love story that will hold you in thrall—and a hero you will most certainly never forget. Do not touch him. Do not be tempted. Do not be seduced. With his long, black hair and dark, mesmerizing eyes, Adam Black is Trouble with a capital T. Immortal, arrogant, and intensely sensual, he is the consummate seducer, free to roam across time and continents in pursuit of his insatiable desires.
That is, until a curse strips him of his immortality and makes him invisible, a cruel fate for so irresistible a man. From the moment she lays eyes on this stunning male, Gabby is certain of one thing: He could be her undoing. Thus begins a long, dangerous seduction. Because despite his powerful strength and unquenchable hungers, Adam refuses to take a woman by force. Now, no matter how hard Gabby tries to avoid him, Adam is everywhere, invisible to all but her—perched atop her office cubicle in too-tight jeans, whispering softly from behind the stacks of the law library, stealing her breath away with his knowing smile…all the while tempting her with the promise of unimaginable pleasure in his arms.
But soon danger will intrude on this sensual dance. Unless they can thwart the conspiracy that threatens both mortal and Faery realms…and give them a shot at a destiny few mortals ever know: glorious, wondrous, endless love. From the Hardcover edition. He is all that is shamelessly erotic in a man.
In her sexiest Highlander novel yet, New York Times bestselling author Karen Moning stirs up a sizzling brew of ancient mystery and modern passion as she brings together a devilishly handsome Celtic warrior trapped in time. Age-old secrets haunt them. Deadly danger and irresistible desire shadow their every move. And all that separates them is a mere thirteen hundred years.
Jessi St. James has got to get a life. Too many hours studying ancient artifacts has given the hardworking archaeology student a bad case of sex on the brain. So she figures she must be dreaming when she spies a gorgeous half-naked man staring out at her from inside the silvery glass of an ancient mirror. But when a split-second decision saves her from a terrifying attempt on her life, Jessi suddenly finds herself confronting six and a half feet of smoldering, insatiable alpha male.
Heir to the arcane magic of his Druid ancestors, eleven centuries ago Cian MacKeltar was trapped inside the Dark Glass, one of four coveted Unseelie Hallows, objects of unspeakable power. Mesmerized, she opened a closet, trailing her fingers over fine hand-tailored clothing, inhaling the subtle, undeniably sexual scent of the man.
Exquisite Italian shoes and boots lined the floor. She began conjuring a fantasy image of him. He would be tall she was not having short babies! He would be intelligent, speak several languages, so he could purr Gaelic love words in her ear , but not too polished, a little rough around the edges. Forget to shave, things like that. He would be a little introverted and sweet. He would like short, curvy women whose noses were in books so much that they forgot to pluck their brows and comb their hair and put on makeup.
Women whose shoes didn't always match. As if, the voice of reason rudely popped her fantasy bubble. The guy downstairs said you weren't his usual type. Now get out of here, Zanders. And it still might not have been too late, she still might have escaped had she not moved closer to that sinful bed, peeking curiously and with no small amount of fascination at the silky scarves knotted about bedposts the size of small tree trunks. Corn-fed-Kansas Chloe was shocked. Never-gone-all-the-waywith-a-man Chloe was Shakily averting her gaze, and backing away on legs that wobbled, she nearly overlooked the corner of the book poking out from beneath his bed.
But Chloe never missed a book. An ancient one at that. Moments later, skirt twisted around her hips, purse abandoned on a chair, suit jacket tossed on the floor, she'd dug out his stash: seven medieval volumes.
All of which had been recently reported stolen by various collectors. Good God--she was in the lair of the nefarious Gaulish Ghost! And it was no wonder he had so many artifacts: He stole whatever he wanted.
On her hands and knees, rooting about beneath his bed for more evidence of his heinous crimes, Chloe Zanders' opinion of the man had taken a sharp turn for the worse. Condom wrapper. How many people lived here? Magnum, the wrapper advertised smugly, for the Extra-Large Man.
Chloe blinked. I might be persuaded to oblige. She froze, her brain stuttering over the fight or flight dilemma. At five foot three, fight wasn't the most promising option.
Unfortunately, her brain failed to process the fact that she was still under the bed when it downloaded the surge of adrenaline necessary to flee, so she succeeded only in cracking the back of her head against the solid wood frame.
Woozy, seeing stars, she began to hiccup--a mortifying thing that always happened to her when she got nervous, as if simply being nervous weren't bad enough. She didn't have to back out from under the bed to know she was in very, very deep shit. She tried for a big scream, but an inconvenient hiccup turned it into an imploded screech that left her gasping. Ruthlessly, he tugged her from beneath his bed.
Frantically, she grabbed her skirt with both hands, trying to keep it from bunching up around her waist as she slid inexorably backward. Last thing she wanted to do was make an appearance bare bottom first. Her panty line showed under this particular skirt which was one reason she didn't wear it often, coupled with the fact that she'd gained a little weight and it was snug , so she'd worn hose with no panties.
Not something she did frequently. Figured she'd have to do it today. When she was clear of the bed, he dropped her ankle. She lay on her tummy on the carpet, hiccupping and trying desperately to gather her wits. He was behind her, she could feel him staring at her.
In silence. In terrible, awful, disconcerting silence. Swallowing a hiccup, unable to summon the nerve to look behind her, she said brightly, in her breathiest ditz voice, "Je ne parle pas anglais. Parlez-vous francais? Still silence behind her. She was going to have to look at him. Gingerly rising to her hands and knees, she smoothed her skirt, pushed herself into a sitting position, then managed to stand on trembling legs.
Still too distraught to face the man, she focused on an empty glass and plate atop a table beside the bed and, determined to convince him she was Maid Service, pointed at it, chirping, "Dirtee dish-es.
Vous aimez I wash, oui? Heavy, ponderous silence. A rustling sound. What was he doing? Taking deep breaths, she slowly turned.
And all the blood drained from her face. She noticed two things at once, one absolutely irrelevant, the other terribly significant: He was the most breathtakingly gorgeous man she'd ever seen in her life, and he was holding her purse in one hand, slipping the battery out of her cell phone with the other. He dropped the battery on the floor and crushed it beneath his boot.
Oh, blast it--she should have tried Greek! She was too stunned to catch it; it bounced off her and dropped to the floor. Bloody hell. I met your employer a quarter hour past. He said you awaited me here. I would never have guessed he meant in my bed. Mesmerizing eyes. They locked with hers and she couldn't look away. The mild amusement did not touch his eyes. Oh, God, she thought, staring wide-eyed.
Her life was quite probably in danger and all she could do was stare. The man was beautiful. Impossibly so. Terrifyingly so. She'd never seen a man like him before. He was her every darkest fantasy sprung to life. Scottish blood was stamped all over his chiseled features. Clad in black trousers, black boots, a cream fisherman's sweater, and a buttery-soft leather coat, he had silky black-asmidnight hair that was pulled back at his nape from a savagely masculine face.
Firm, sensual lips, the lower one much fuller than the upper, proud, aristocratic nose, dark, slanted brows, bone-structure a model would die for. A perfectly sculpted dusting of a beard shadowed his perfect jaw. Six foot four, at least, she'd guess. Powerfully built. The grace of an animal.
The exotic golden eyes of a tiger. She suddenly felt like so much fresh meat. Her hiccups vanished instantly. Sheer terror could do that. Better than a spoonful of sugar or a paper bag anytime.
She glanced down too. The look he gave her made the fine hair on the nape of her neck stand on end. His gaze drifted meaningfully to the tomes again. You mean the books. So you like books," she said lightly. Again he said nothing, merely held her with that intense golden gaze. God, the man was stunning! Made her feel like Run off to exotic lands. Stroll about topless on a terrace overlooking the sea. Live beyond the law. Pet his artifacts when she wasn't petting him. And whence they came," he added gently.
Gentle from him was dangerous. She knew it instinctively. Gentle from this man meant he was about to do something she really really wasn't going to like. And he did. Crowding her with his powerful body, he backed her toward the bed and gave her a light push that sent her sprawling backward across it. With the grace of a tiger he followed her down, pinning her to the mattress beneath him.
I don't care. It's okay with me if you have them. I have absolutely no desire to go to the police or anything like that. I don't even like the police. Police and me have never gotten along. They gave me a ticket once for going forty-eight in a forty-five zone; how could I possibly like them after that?
It doesn't matter one whit to me if you steal half The Met's medieval collection, I mean, really, they have six thousand pieces, so who's going to notice a few missing? I am an excellent secret-keeper," she practically screeched. Muni's the word. And you can take that to the-His lips took the rest of her words along with her breath. Oh, yeah. Rene Russo here. Those sensual lips closed over hers, brushing lightly, tasting. But not taking. And for an absolutely insane moment, she wanted him to take.
Wanted him to crush her mouth in a hard, starving, bruising kiss and help her find that red-hot button of love that had never once hit lukewarm. The man rilled a woman's head with fantasies she would have sworn she didn't have. Her traitorous lips parted beneath his. Fear, she told herself, it was just that fear could translate swiftly into arousal. She'd heard about people facing certain death suddenly getting a sexual charge that just wouldn't quit. So bizarrely, intensely aroused, she didn't even notice that he was knotting a scarf around her wrist, until he swept it tight, and it was too late and she was tied to his bed.
His sinful, decadent bed. Moving with inhuman grace and suddenness, he deftly knotted her other wrist to the far post. She opened her mouth to scream, but he caught it with one powerful hand. Lying atop her, staring dead into her eyes, he said quietly, carefully, enunciating each word, "If you scream, I will be forced to gag you.
I prefer not to, lass. It bears considering that no one can hear you up here anyway. What will it be? He must have seen something in her eyes, because he raised himself slightly. Which meant, she concluded with a huge flood of relief, that he wasn't going to rape her.
A rapist would have shifted a few inches to the right, not raised his hips. But you'll suffer no harm at my hands. Mind you, however, one scream, one loud noise, and you're gagged. She knew he meant it. She could either be bound, or bound and gagged. She shook her head, then nodded, befuddled by whether she was supposed to say yes or no. No one can hear you up here anyway. God, that was probably true. On the penthouse level walls were thick, there was no one above, and the elite were given wide berth unless they requested something.
She could probably scream her head off, and no one would come. Then, in one swift, graceful move, he pushed away from the bed and stalked from the bedroom, dosing the door behind him, leaving her alone, tied by silken scarves to the sinful bed of the Gaulish Ghost.
Dageus cursed softly in five languages, recalling his earlier thought, palming himself roughly through his trews. It didn't help. Indeed, made it worse.
Happy for any attention. Scowling, he went to stand before the wall of windows, gazing sightlessly out over the city. He'd handled that badly. He'd frightened her. But he'd not been able to offer her soothing words, for he'd had to get away from her, quickly, lest he give his blood what it had been howling for. Though he told himself he'd pressed his lips to hers only to distract her while he bound her, he'd kissed her because he'd needed to, because he'd quite simply not been able not to.
It had been a brief, sweet taste without tongue, for had he crossed that barrier, he'd have been lost. Lying atop her had been sheer agony, feeling the darkness rustle and flex within him, knowing tooping her would drive it back.
Feeling cold and hungry, trying desperately to be human and kind. He'd gone to The Cloisters, pleased with how firmly he'd put all thoughts of the Scots lass from his mind. There, he'd discovered the parcel was en route to him, while he was en route to it. The cocurator had, with much fawning and gushing, assured him Chloe Zanders would be waiting for him, as someone named Bill had already returned, having left her at his address.
But the lass hadn't been downstairs and Security had, with much winking and grinning, told him that his "delivery" awaited him upstairs. Not finding the woman from the museum in the anteroom, he'd glanced about the living room, then heard noises upstairs. He'd loped swiftly up the stairs and walked into his bedroom, only to discover the loveliest pair of legs he'd ever seen, poking out from beneath his bed.
Succulent thighs he wanted to nip with his teeth, slender ankles, pretty little feet dad in delicate high heels. Beautiful feminine legs. Those two things in close proximity had a tendency to divert all the blood from his brain. The legs had looked alarmingly familiar and he'd assured himself he was imagining things. Then he'd plucked her out by an ankle and confirmed the identity of the lass attached to those heavenly legs, and his blood had simmered to a boil.
Staring down at her shapely backside as she'd lain unmoving on her tummy, a legion of fantasies riding him hard, it had taken him several moments to realize what she was lying amid. The "borrowed" books. The last thing he needed was the twenty-first century's law enforcers hunting him down. He had much to do, and too little time in which to do it. He couldn't afford complications. He wasn't ready to leave Manhattan just yet. There were two final texts he needed to check.
By Amergin--he'd nearly been done! A few days at most. He didn't need this! Why now? He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. Repeated it several times. He'd had no choice, he assured himself. He had been wise to immediately restrain her. For the next few days, until he finished, he was simply going to have to hold her captive. Though he could use magic, a memory spell to make her forget what she'd seen, he wasn't willing to risk it. Not only were memory spells tricky and oft damaging things, taking more memory than intended, he used magic only if there was no human way to handle the situation.
He knew what it cost him each time. Tiny spells to obtain the texts he needed were one thing. No magic. The lass would have to endure a short time of comfortable captivity while he finished translating the final tomes, then he would leave, and release her somewhere along the way. Along the way to where? Do you finally accept that you're going to have to return? He sighed. The past few months had confirmed what he'd suspected; there were only two places he might find the information he needed: in Ireland's and Scotland's museums, or in the MacKeltar library.
And the MacKeltar library was by far the best bet. He'd been avoiding it at all cost, for it was fraught with myriad and varied perils. Not only did the land of his ancestors make the darkness inside him stronger, he dreaded facing his twin brother. Admitting that he'd lied.
Admitting what he was. Arguing bitterly with his da, Silvan, seeing the anger and disappointment in his eyes had been bad enough, Dageus wasn't certain he'd ever be ready to face his twin brother--the brother who'd never broken a vow in his life. Since the eve he'd broken his oath and turned dark, Dageus had not once worn the colors of his clan, though a scrap of wellworn Keltar plaid was tucked beneath his pillow. Some evenings, after he'd seen whichever woman it was into a cab though he tooped many, he shared his bed with none , he would dose his hand around it, shut his eyes and pretend he was in the Highlands again.
A simple man, naught more. All he wanted was to find a way to fix the problem, to get rid of the dark ones himself. Then he would regain his honor. Then he could proudly face his brother and reclaim his heritage. If you wait much longer, that nagging voice warned, you may no longer care to reclaim it.
You may no longer even understand what it means. He forced his thoughts away from such an unpleasant bent, and they drifted with alarming intensity straight back to the lass tied to his bed. Tied vulnerably and helplessly to his bed. Dangerous thought, that. Seemed all he ever had anymore were dangerous thoughts. Raking a hand through his hair, he forced his attention to the text she'd left on the coffee table, refusing to dwell on the disconcerting fact that a part of him had taken one look at the lass in such proximity to his bed and said simply: Mine.
As if from the moment he'd seen her, that he would claim her had been as certain as the morrow's dawn. Several hours later, Chloe's volatile emotions had run the gamut. She'd pretty much exhausted fear, plunged with effusive glee, for a time, into outrage at her captor, and was now thoroughly disgusted at herself for her impetuous curiosity.
Curious as a wee kitten, you are, but a cat has nine lives, Chloe, Grandda used to say. You have but one. Beware where it leads you. You can say that again, she thought, listening intently to see if she could hear the thief moving around out there.
His penthouse had one of those music systems that was piped into every room and, after an initial painfully loud blast of a bass-heavy song that sounded suspiciously like that Nine Inch Nail's song that had been banned from airplay a few years ago, he'd put on classical music.
She'd been treated to a medley of violin concertos for the past few hours. If it was intended to soothe her, it was failing. It didn't help that her nose itched and the only way she could scratch it was to bury her face in his pillows and bob her head. She wondered how much time would have to pass before Bill and Tom would start to wonder where she'd gotten off to. Surely they would come looking for her, wouldn't they? Though both would say, "but Chloe never deviates from routine," neither would question or accuse Dageus MacKeltar.
After all, who in their right mind would believe the man anything but a wealthy art collector? If asked, her captor would simply say, "No, she dropped it off and left, and I have no idea where she went.
No one would ever imagine him a kidnapper and a thief. She was the only one who knew differently, and only because she'd gotten all foolishly infatuated with his artifacts and gone snooping through his bedroom.
No, although Tom might send Bill around this afternoon, or more likely tomorrow, asking when Chloe had left, it would end there. In a day or two, she imagined Tom would really start to worry, call her at home, stop by, even report her missing to the police, but there were oodles of unexplained disappearances in New York all the time.
Deep shit, indeed. With a sigh, she puffed a ticklish strand of hair out of her face and did the nose-in-pillow thing again. He smelled good, the dirty rotten scoundrel. Womanizing, bullying, amoral, larcenous, vilest-of-the-vile, debaucher of innocent texts. She inhaled, then caught herself. She was not going to appreciate his scent. She was not going to appreciate a darned thing about him.
Sighing, she wriggled her way up the bed until she was leaning, in a mostly upright position, against the headboard. She was tied to a strange man's bed. A criminal to boot. A little play, no give. The man knew how to tie knots. Why hadn't he hurt her? And since he hadn't, just what did he plan to do with her?
The facts were pretty simple and quite horrifying; she'd managed to stumble into the lair of an expert, slick, thoroughly top-notch thief. Not a petty thief or a bank robber, but a master thief who broke into impossible places and stole fabulous treasures. This was not small-time stuff. There weren't thousands riding on her silence, but millions. She shivered. That dismal thought could send her straight into hysterics, or at the least, a potentially terminal bout of hiccups.
Desperate for a distraction, she wriggled as far to the edge of the bed as the bonds permitted, and peered down at the stolen texts. She sighed longingly, aching to touch. Though not originals--any originals worth having were securely tucked away in the Royal Irish Academy or Trinity College Library--they were superb latemedieval copies.
One of them had fallen open, revealing a lovely page of Irish majuscule script, the capital letters gloriously embellished with the intricate interlacing knotwork for which the Celts were renowned. All of them about the earliest days of fere, or Ireland.
Rich in legend and magic, and endlessly disputed by scholars. Why did he want them? Was he selling them to fund his fabulous lifestyle? Chloe knew there were private collectors who didn't give a damn where the item came from, so long as they could own it. There was always a market for stolen artifacts. But, she puzzled, he had only Celtic artifacts.
And she knew for a fact that most of the collections he'd raided for those texts boasted far more valuable items from many different cultures. Items he'd not taken.
Which meant, for whatever reason, that he was highly selective and not motivated solely by the value of the artifact. She shook her head, befuddled. It didn't make any sense. What thief wasn't motivated by the value of the artifact? What thief stole a lesser-valued text and left dozens of more valuable items untouched once he'd gone to the trouble of breaching security? And how was he managing to breach security?
The collections he'd robbed had some of the most sophisticated anti-theft systems in the world, requiring sheer genius to penetrate. The door suddenly opened, and she scrunched hastily away from the edge of the bed, donning her most innocent expression. Not only was the dastardly man not killing her, he was going to feed her? I was preparing food for myself and it occurred to me that mayhap you were hungry. Was she hungry? She was completely freaked out.
She was going to have to use the bathroom soon. Her nose itched furiously and her skirt was getting all bunched up again. And in the midst of it all, yes, she was hungry. Only after he left did it occur to her that maybe that was how he was going to get rid of her--by poisoning her! A salad tossed with nuts and cranberries. A plate of Scottish cheeses, shortbread and marmalade. Sparkling wine in Baccarat goblets. Death by scrumptious Scots cuisine and fine crystal? Dageus placed the final dish on the bed and looked at her.
His entire body tightened. Christ, she was fantasy come to life on his bed, sitting back against the headboard, her wrists tied to the posts. She was all soft curves, her skirt riding up her sweet thighs, teasing him with forbidden glimpses, a snug sweater hugging full, round breasts, hair tousled about her face, her eyes wide and stormy.
He had no doubt that she was a maiden. Her response to his brief kiss had told him that much. He'd never had a lass like her in his bed. Not even in his own century, where proper lasses had given the Keltar brothers wide berth. Rumors about "those pagan sorcerers" had been abundant in the Highlands. Though experienced women, married women, and maids had eagerly sought their beds, even they'd eschewed more permanent ties.
They're drawn to danger, but of no mind to live with it, Drustan had once said with a bitter smile. They like to stroke the beast's silky pelt, feel his power and wildness, but make no mistake, brother--they'll never, never trust the beast around children. Well,'twas too late.
She was with the beast whether she liked it or not. If only she'd stayed on the street, she'd have been safe from him. He'd have left her alone.
He'd have done the honorable thing and erased her from his mind. And if by chance he'd encountered her again, he'd have turned coldly about and walked the other way.
But'twas too late for honor. She hadn't stayed on the street like a good lass. She was here in his bed. And he was a man, and not an honorable one at that. And when you leave her?
I'll leave her so weel pleasured she'll no' rue it. Some other bumbling fool would hurt her. I'll awaken her in ways she'll never forget. I'll give her fantasies that will heat her dreams for the rest of her life. And that was the end of that argument, so far as he was concerned.
He needed. The darkness in him grew wild without a woman. He no longer had the option of entertaining Katie, or any other women, in his home. But seduction, not conquest, was the main course on the table this eve. He would give her this night, mayhap the morrow, but anon,'twould be conquest. She'd clamped her knees together anyway. Wise lass, he thought darkly, but'twill do you no good in the end.
None will press me, you know that. I give you my word. Then she seemed to change her mind, shrugged, and said, "How can I believe that?
I'm sitting in the middle of all this stolen stuff and you've tied me up. I can't help but worry about how you plan to deal with me. So, how do you? I'll make your life a living hell. I'll make your legendary banshee seem demure and soft-spoken by comparison. Though Visigoth is a bit far- fetched, I'm hardly doing anything so epic as the sacking of Rome.
And you needn't fash yourself, lass. I will definitely recommend this book to romance, romance lovers. Your Rating:. Your Comment:. Read Online Download. Great book, The Dark Highlander pdf is enough to raise the goose bumps alone.
Add a review Your Rating: Your Comment:. Claimed by the Highlander by Julianne MacLean.
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