THE FESTIVAL OF THE FLOWERS:
THE COURTESAN & THE SCHOLAR
Happy Release Day to my friend Denise Golinowski. I'm reading my copy now and this is a wonderful magical romance. Denise kindly gave me an excerpt to post. Enjoy!
Temptation is her profession, seduction in her blood, but when a courtesan falls in love with an impoverished scholar, can she risk her heart and his life?
For a courtesan with siren’s blood, drawing men to her bed is as natural as breathing, but Lisara Hammett refuses to feel anything beyond the physical. A generations-old curse dooms the women of her bloodline to lose any man they love.
Reyst Andulon does not believe in superstition nor magical creatures—but he does believe he is not good enough for Lady Lisara. Lisara begs to differ, but must risk the pain of her family curse or lose Reyst forever.
“Festival greetings, Lady Lisara,” he said. He looked around. “Have you lost your escort?”
Even though she got no impressions from him, somehow she always felt steadier when he was near. Lisara pushed away the distraction and nodded. “Festival greetings, Scholar Andulon and yes, I seem to have done so. Or to be more correct, they have lost me.”
Another crowd of revelers pressed by so close Reyst was pushed forward. He braced his hands against the tree to either side of her head to avoid crushing her. Any other man would have used the opportunity to press himself against her, excusing the familiarity as unavoidable.
The scent of cloves and evergreens swept over her. She flattened her palms against the tree trunk to keep from reaching out to touch that brocade-covered expanse of chest. Strangely, without the prompting of her gift, the desire felt more erotic. She dug her nails into the bark.
“Apologies,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “There are more people at the festival than I remembered.” He turned back to smile down at her.
Bareheaded, he looked less severe, though the harsh lines of his face would never be described as classically handsome. Lisara preferred a man who looked like a man and not a boy, his strength and experience writ large in the lines of his face and the movement of his body. In the dappled sunlight coming through the branches overhead, his mahogany-colored hair glinted with auburn highlights. Without thinking, she reached up to brush back the careless lock of hair that always fell across his eyes, wishing she did not have on her gloves.
At the widening of his eyes and his quick intake of breath, she snatched back her hand, curling her fingers around the memory. “My apologies,” she said. “That was inappropriate.”
Available from The Wild Rose Press
Visit Denise herehttp://gaiasong.livejournal.com/