hunger, war, and the mean streets of New York
saw and did too many things during the war to extinguish the ugliness
that lies in his heart. But a chance to work with some of the most
magnificent paintings brings him close to the world he still
loves…and an extraordinary woman who sees his true heart.
world. When she hires Kieran Donnelly to catalogue her father’s
paintings, he offers her a glimpse at life outside her exquisite
home…and a chance for a future.
“There are many different ways to see, Mr. Donnelly.” She tilted her head toward the fire and drew in a breath that swelled her soft breasts.
Kieran’s throat went dry.
“I can hear the crackling of those flames, smell the wood smoke as it chases away the early morning damp.” Her fingers reached out unerringly to stroke the mantel. “I can touch this stone, feel it warm and smooth under my hands.”
Kieran’s gut clenched. Dear God, how would those hands feel stroking him into a flame of desire?
“And I can sense emotions, Mr. Donnelly. It’s…an atmosphere, I suppose. A mood. I can tell when someone is happy…or sorrowful…angry…or in pain.” A sudden mischievous smile lit her face. “I can see things in my own way.”
“What way is that?” He heard his own voice, hoarse with mounting desire.
She hesitated only a split second before extending one hand. “Let me show you.”
Kieran moved forward until he stood mere inches from her. Her hair smelled sweet, like apple blossoms. Her skin glowed like new milk. Her eyes were darker than he’d expected, like sapphires they were. Deep, gem-like.
She reached out a tentative hand, and her fingers landed lightly upon a statue of an eagle in flight. She stroked the bird’s head, and Kieran’s skin prickled.
“My father told me this is an eagle.” Her voice poured soft and liquid through him. “He has a strong, proud head”—her hands slid down—“and sharp eyes.” Her lips quirked into a wry smile. “The better to spot his dinner.”
Kieran’s throat tightened. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from those long, elegant fingers, the shell-pink perfection of her nails.
“His beak has a tiny hook at the very tip of it. Makes it easier to tear at his prey. Yet his throat and breast are vulnerable.” A gentle, almost tender sweep downward. She stopped at the bird’s feet. “His claws are lethally sharp.”
|Cynthia Owens, Author|
I believe I was destined to be interested in history. One of my distant ancestors, Thomas Aubert, reportedly sailed up the St. Lawrence River to discover Canada some 26 years before Jacques Cartier's 1534 voyage. Another relative was a 17thCentury "King's Girl," one of a group of young unmarried girls sent to New France (now the province of Quebec) as brides for the habitants (settlers) there. My passion for reading made me long to write books like the ones I enjoyed, and I tried penning sequels to my favorite Nancy Drew mysteries. Later, fancying myself a female version of Andrew Lloyd Weber, I drafted a musical set in Paris during WWII.
usually include an Irish setting, hero or heroine, and sometimes all three!
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