When Irish Eyes are smiling will Eithne be able to resist or will she fall into those dreamy eyes?
Eithne Riordan curses Saint Patrick and all her Irish heritage, even spitting on them. That is until she meets up with the leprechaun who tempts, teases and oh so pleases her. Suddenly she's disoriented, in a strange place—and nude and shivering and only several inches tall. She finds her way to the home of a leprechaun who has the power to judge her for her arrogance.
Tall and muscular, with green eyes and red-gold hair, the leprechaun offers a bargain. He will shorten her punishment to one night if she will give him either her body for his physical release or her soul to ease his loneliness. If she gives him her body, she may never be satisfied with the love of a man. If she gives him her soul, her life will be barren. She will become a ghost when she dies. She opts to give him her body.
Will a night of incredible passion with a handsome leprechaun ruin her chances for love with a mortal man?
As Eithne stumbled through the door, he set down his tools and rose to his feet, removing a long brown leather apron as he stood. The backlighting of the fireplace kept his features indistinct until he stepped forward.
"Céad míle fáilte romhat!" he said. "A hundred thousand welcomes to you!" Eithne's breath caught in her chest. Never in her life had she been in the presence of such sheer masculine beauty.
Thick red-gold hair swept back in a ponytail from the pale gold rectangle of his face. Bottle-green eyes regarded her with cool hauteur. A long patrician nose rested between two high, carved cheekbones. A wide mouth with a sensuous lower lip curved in hard disdain.
The column of his throat disappeared into a loose, cream-colored, silken shirt with flowing sleeves that brought to mind princes and pirates. Snug pants of brown leather clung to his narrow hips and long legs like a second skin. Knee-high black boots sported heavy buckles of what appeared to be gold at the ankles.
An other-worldly quality clung to him, evidencing itself in the wildness of expression in his eyes, the perfect arc of his cheek and the inhuman grace of the movement when he held out his hand.
"Welcome, pretty one." The dark music in his low, accentless voice enthralled her as no symphony ever had or could. Foreboding coursed through her, and she turned to run back through the doorway. The roses writhed across the opening like the tendrils of some strange beast. Eithne cried out in frustration and swung back to the man.
"You'll not escape my hospitality that easily, mo chroí, my heart."
"You're not real." Eithne clutched at straws.
"Ah. You doubt your senses. Come, touch me, little mortal. Or perhaps it would be more telling if I touched you?"
The thought of him touching her sent fire racing through her veins. "Who are you?"
"Come now. You mean to say you don't know me? You knew our kind well enough to spit on our name earlier.'
"No, that's not possible."
He laughed, and the sound rang through Eithne's bones like a deep, tolling bell. "So determined." He held out his long-fingered hand. "Come, lady. We must find you something to wear. I confess I find your present state of attire far too tempting."