Good morning, everyone! Let's see, it was last winter when Immortal Trust came out, and it's well past time for another installment. You've been waiting patiently--and not so patiently for some--but here it is!

The Curse of the Templars, Book IV

In the wake of an Italian mobster’s death, the archangels charge Immortal Templar Knight Caradoc of Asterleigh with protecting a necklace that contains Christ’s tears. He vows to bring the relic home, never imagining he’ll have to battle Isabelle Speranza, the only woman he’s ever loved and whom he left in a futile attempt to protect her heart.  Discovering she’s his fated seraph changes everything.  For the dark lord Azazel is hunting the Templar mates.

Isabelle lost her heart to Caradoc in a whirlwind affair abroad, only to be abandoned in the middle of the night.  When she encounters Caradoc in Sicily three years later, her buried anger fuels desire that won’t be denied.  Yet a dark shadow threatens their reunion.  Azazel has discovered her greatest weakness, and her dreams promise unspeakable horrors if she fails to procure the sacred necklace. 

As danger stalks her, Isabelle reveals an unbelievable secret.  To save them both, Caradoc must accept her truths, even if it means turning from everything he’s sworn to uphold.

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Bliss rocketed through her body, lighting her up from the inside out.  This was what she’d wanted, what she’d craved, for nearly three years.  Caradoc holding her, kissing her, telling her all the words he’d once whispered with just the touch of his tongue.

Apologies flowed between them, words she no longer cared about and yet somehow inherently understood.  Urgency replaced the gentleness of his mouth.  The slow, sensual stroke of his tongue became demanding.  Possessive.

Isabelle surrendered with a muffled cry, and they came together with startling ferocity.  He hauled her close, eroding every last bit of her rational thought with the press of his strong, hard body.  Heat filtered through their clothing, warming her skin and warding away the lingering chill in her veins.

Too long she’d known this only in memory.  Too long she’d relied on distant sensations to nurse her soul-deep yearning.  But now it was real.  Caradoc was here.  Kissing her as if nothing had changed between them and they were once more locked away in a cottage in England, lovers who couldn’t get enough of one another.

The slide of his hand along the length of her spine stirred her heartbeat into an erratic rhythm.  Each staccato pulse shot zings of ecstasy to every nerve ending she possessed until they all stood on end and her body trembled with sensory overload.  His powerful arms surrounded her.  His mouth dominated.  His broad chest offered shelter from every catastrophe she could imagine.

She couldn’t get enough.  Hungered for every bit of raw emotion that Caradoc had once exposed her to.  Craved the feel of his skin sliding against hers, the sensation of taking him into her body and knowing him only as a lover could.  She squirmed against the building ache within her womb and gave in to a soft moan.

The sound, however, jolted her back to reality, and the harsh realism sent her crashing through ecstasy to land in a bruised heap on the cold hard truth.  This wasn’t the man who made her believe in dreams and fairytales.  This was the man who’d sworn his love then left her to wake up confused and alone.

Isabelle shoved out of his embrace.  “I’m not doing this,” she rasped. Not in a hundred years.  Make that a hundred centuries.

She straightened her skirt then bent over to pick up her purse that had landed on the floor some time earlier.  Slinging it over her shoulder, she bolted for the door.

“Isabelle, wait!”  Caradoc caught up with her in four determined strides.  His fingers wrapped around her wrist.  “I did not mean for that to happen.”

“Of course not!”  She gave her arm a fierce jerk at the same time she opened the door.  “You didn’t mean it before, why should you now?”


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"Victorians used the term 'limbs' as a euphenism for legs, which were thought to be so sexually exciting to a man, even a glimpse of a table leg could incite him to sexual frenzy. Table skirts were invented to prevent any unnatural unions between men and furniture."
(History Channel International)



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