He was siw feet, four inches of pure, unadulterated male. He wore nothing but a leather tunic, spoke in an ancient tongue, and he was standing in Professor Meredith Foster's living room. The medieval historian told herself he was part of a practical joke, but with his wide gold belt, callused hands, and the rabbit roasting in her fireplace, the brawny stranger seemed so... authentic.

Suddenly Meredith was mesmerized by his bronzed, muscular form, and her body surrendered to the fantasy that Geirolf Ericsson really was a Viking from a thousand years ago, sent only to pleasur eher. But as she tried to teach him to eat spaghetti and use a computer, she realized he knew an awful lot about the tenth century -- and so little about the twentieth. And as he helped her fulfill her grandfather's dream of re-creating a Viking ship, he awakened her to dreams of her own. Until she wondered if the hand of fate had thrust her into the loving arme of The Last Viking.