I am so excited about this book, because it's my most romantic so far. Romantic and deeply erotic.
This stunning cover art from Fiona Jayde exactly expresses how Tannis is a victim of Time, falling through the decades to be with her lover, Brendan, who died a hundred years ago.
When Tannis Romilly first sees an iconic painting by Irish nationalist artist Brendan Pearse, she’s stunned that the naked woman in the picture looks exactly like her, even down to the intricate Celtic tattoo on her breast. Seeking answers, she travels to Castle Tullamore, an ancient Irish stronghold steeped in magic, where the artist lived and worked a hundred years ago. Inexplicably, she is whisked back in time and meets him face to face.
Brendan doesn’t know what to make of this otherworldly woman who seems to have come out of nowhere to be his model. But he knows she’s exactly the woman he needs for his Irish Freedom trilogy. At the risk of endangering his master work, and against all his own rules, he knows he can never hope to capture her essence on canvas without first possessing her body in the flesh.
But their time together will be heart-breakingly brief, because Tannis knows Brendan died tragically young, and there’s nothing she can do to change history.
Drawn by the lover from the past, Tannis keeps risking her world in the 21st century to travel back into the past, to Castle Tullamore in 1910, to meet with her long-ago lover. And to pose for a now-famous painting that will become an inspiration to the patriots who fought for Ireland's freedom, the freedom that came to pass in 1922, ten years after Brendan died.
Tannis knows there's no hope for their future together, or even a past together, but she knows she has to help him complete the painting, or there may be no future for Ireland.
Read an excerpt from Timelost Lover
The old detachment of modeling came back to her with ease, reminding her of the days she’d been comfortable standing naked in front of a dozen or more students, some working with a life model for the first time. She smiled at the memory of the first-year men in particular, scarcely more than boys, studiously avoiding her eyes—even more her private parts—pretending to be blasé about it all. Then actually achieving that nonchalance.
And here, now—though when was now?—she stood posing for one of Ireland’s greatest artists. Who would believe it? Well, no one, of course, because one part of her mind still held a modicum of disbelief, no matter how much her senses told her it was happening. The legendary Brendan Pearse using her for his classic work. His eye assessing everything he saw and transmitting the image to his hand to create the marks that represented her lines and highlights and shadows. He was clearly lost in that element of creation, no more aware of her as a woman than she was of—
He looked up at the very moment her eyes were resting on his face.
And everything shifted for her.
They held each other’s look for a million nanoseconds. His hand stopped for perhaps two beats of the heart, and then he resumed his work with no obvious change in pace or demeanor.
Tannis, however, had felt the swing of her own feelings from inward to outward, right to left, turned upside down. Suddenly very, very self-aware.
Aware of him as a man. Aware of her own nakedness.
No longer a model, a detached professional. Every square millimeter of her flesh felt exposed to this fully dressed man, this icon, this stranger. Alone with him in this isolated room, she felt almost shy of him.
Never in her life, either as a model or a lover, had she felt so on display, flaunting herself and her sexuality. She ached to cover her body.
She would be in a blatantly exposed position. Full frontal nudity, to use that modern term than he would never hear in his life.
How much longer could she bear it? Every second she stood here exposing herself tore at her nerve endings. Her composure was in shreds, her heart pounding in trepidation of what might happen next.
The only thin bright spot was that Brendan himself seemed oblivious to her sexually, unaware of her anguish. His lips tight, his eyes hard, he continued to pour his energy into the sketch before him.
She grabbed hold of her composure and forced herself to remain standing naked before him.
Sweet Saint Brigid. What the hell had just happened? All he’d done was catch her eye, and some unseen energy had sent a shock straight into his libido. He no longer saw his vision of Ireland’s tragedy and courage, but simply and totally a flesh and blood woman of unbelievable erotic potency.
A woman whose sheer sexuality flowed from every pore in her flesh.
He must have been blind. Blinded by the idea of her as his Celtic spirit, blinded by his artist’s vision, to the point where he had failed to see her as a person.
At what point had the primitive male kicked aside the artist?
He willed his nerves to settle down, his unruly ardor to back off. If he could just keep his mind on the project and away from imagining— Never mind.
“All right, turn around for me.” He put iron and detachment into his voice. She rearranged herself to display her back. Gripping the sketchbook as though it could protect him from her, he began to recreate the elegant curve of her back, the dip at the base of her spine—
Stop thinking, damn it. Just draw.
copyright Susanna Stone 2014; all rights reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing Inc.