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Abby Deane has no problems piloting a small plane to her new job--until she lands and realizes she has traveled back in time to Regency England. She's fascinated by everything around her, especially the seductive Myles Hardy. If she can't get back to her own time, she might as well enjoy the potent sensuality simmering beneath ...
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Abby Deane has no problems piloting a small plane to her new job--until she lands and realizes she has traveled back in time to Regency England. She's fascinated by everything around her, especially the seductive Myles Hardy. If she can't get back to her own time, she might as well enjoy the potent sensuality simmering beneath that rock-hard body. . .
Myles Hardy can't take his eyes off the mysterious and alluring woman who's suddenly appeared in front of him. Miss Abby Deane talks of the future, but it is pleasuring her here and now that most intrigues him. And her bag of sensual delights holds the key to revealing her most secret desires and forbidden fantasies. . .
Praise for Celia May Hart and her novels. . .
"Must-read historical erotica."-Just Erotic Romance Reviews
"Plenty of heat to hold the winter chill at bay: --Romantic Times
Celia Hart discovered erotica while at university and spent long, lonely hours in the library writing out her desires. She discovered Anais Nin, Erica Jong, John Cleland, the Earl of Rochester, and John Donne. Her first ever sex manual was Richard Burton's translation of The Perfumed Garden. Her collection has since expanded. It certainly keeps her married life interesting!
Her new home. Away from the pointless distractions of men, men who were so commitment phobic, wanting only a quick shag. Thank heavens for modern invention. She owned a potpourri of devices designed to please her. Who needed a man in the twenty-first century?
Ever since she'd given up on the heartbreakers, her life seemed less off-kilter. She hoped this new job would rebalance her life. The toys'd definitely help.
With a grin, she checked her instruments and glanced ahead, squinting in the sunlight even though she wore dark sunglasses. Puffy cumulonimbus blocked her vision of the private airstrip ahead.
Circling, she slowed the Beech Bonanza into its gliding speed. She guided the plane into its descent, checking the altimeter until she broke clear of the cloud cover.
She blinked. The airstrip had vanished. She glanced to the left and the right. Had she flown over the strip? Nope, nothing.
Just below the cloud cover, she circled, searching.
What the-A runway didn't just disappear.
This one had. All she saw were mown hayfields and green fields of grazing sheep.
The engine cut out, sputtering. She checked the fuel gauges. Not even close to empty. She throttled back on the engine and gave it power again, to no avail.
Her forehead tightened. She took a deep breath. No need to panic. She knew how to make an emergency landing. She'd practiced it before.
She leveled the wings, aiming for a mown hayfield. She lowered the landing gear. At least she wasn't far from the hotel. If she managed to land in one piece, she'd walk over. If not, someone from the hotel would see her go down and come to her aid.
Checking her seat belts, Abby glided in. The plane touched down, not skewing, but bouncing over the dirt ridges and truncated hay stalks.
The plane rolled to a stop. Abby sagged in her seat. Her seat belts relaxed their grip. A bone-deep ache radiated through her, a counterpoint to her thundering heart. Without further thought, she evacuated the plane. She stood at a safe distance, but the plane rested, still and silent.
She returned to the plane, reaching for her toolbox. She touched the right-hand engine and snatched her fingers back. Cold. That wasn't right.
Abby sighed. Both engines felt like they hadn't run at all. Weird. She'd never experienced anything like this before. She'd have to contact a mechanic to repair her plane.
She unloaded her luggage, hoisting the wheeled bags over the rich black dirt to the field's edge. Through a small gap in the tall hedge surrounding the field (presumably hiding the spoils of hay from the adjacent grazing animals) Abby spotted a dirt track.
That should take me to the main road, she thought.
Two bags, one laptop, a large purse, and a long tube holding her copies of the hotel plans. She sat on the biggest bag to wait for assistance to arrive.
Half an hour later, Abby came into sight of the hotel, her future home. Her future home with useless staff to fire. It didn't matter that her boss had agreed to keep the original household staff. Someone must have seen her plane in distress. Why hadn't anyone come to her aid?
And this drive ... Gravel made a nice crunch under a car's tires, but dragging heavy wheeled bags over it for a quarter mile was not so much fun. The other quarter mile had been nothing but dirt.
That had to be fixed. Hotel guests may not be inclined to travel to a boutique hotel all on dirt road. She thought of flying stones scratching a BMW's paint job and shuddered.
No, that had to be rectified at once. Well, once she'd hired new staff.
She noted the shuttered windows on the house and at once forgave the staff. Keeping the windows closed preserved the restoration's freshness. That's why they didn't see her go down, and her landing had been practically silent.
Speaking of silence ... a breeze brought the sound of baaing sheep, the rustle of leaves from the giant trees lining the drive. No sound of civilization reached her ears. Not the dull roar of the M3 highway, which was only a couple of miles off.
Abby shrugged, shifting the tube strap on her shoulder. Maybe the house blocked the sound. She reached the grand front entrance. Two giant oaken doors, formidable and highly polished. Abby nodded in approval. The staff were doing superb work. Such attention to detail.
Leaving her luggage at the foot of the broad stone steps, she slung her purse over her shoulder. She ascended and rang the bell, an old-fashioned pulley. Another nice touch. With the hotel's official opening, those doors would stay wide open and welcoming.
She leaned backward, surveying the facade, approving of the sparkling windows and pollutant-free bricks.
A creak warned of the opening door. They polished the doors but didn't oil the hinges? Abby repressed a sigh of irritation. So much to be done.
The door opened a crack.
Some welcome. Abby huffed. "Are you going to let me in?"
A deep baritone voice answered: "Who are you?"
"Your former boss if you don't let me in," Abby snapped.
The pause from his end only maddened her further. "A woman?" She hauled the door open, ready to give him a piece of her mind, and stopped dead. Her jaw sank and she closed her mouth with a snap.
Before her stood a gobsmackingly handsome man. She registered that much before his odd attire caught her attention. Perhaps it was the dark vee of chest hair poking out from his crumpled white shirt. Or the supertight breeches that let her know, despite the buttoned-up flap, that he was a well endowed guy. Very well endowed.
She cleared her throat. "Definitely your former boss. You're fired."
"Fired?" The man might look gorgeous but apparently he lacked in the brains department. "I do not work for you."
That gave her pause. Was this Lord David Winterton's son? She modulated her tone. "If you are not on my staff, who are you?"
He smiled, a broad smile that must have broken many a heart. Abby steeled herself. Not hers. "I'm just passing through."
Her eyes narrowed. "Trespassing? And my staff let you?"
"There's nobody here but me." He surveyed her, wholly uninclined to leave her property. His eyelids lowering, his stern gaze turned his brown eyes into angry dark specks. "You don't look like the sort who possesses staff."
Abby's blood boiled. "You bastard." She pushed past him and into the house. Where was her staff?
In the middle of the large hall, she stopped, her sneakers squeaking on the marble tile floor. She frowned, surveying the space. "Something isn't right ..."
The idiot man came up behind her. "I'm glad you're acknowledging that at last."
Abby ignored him, looking at the tiled floor. "For some reason, I thought this was linoleum in the pictures, but it's real marble."
Abby made a slow turn. "It's in awfully good condition for an ancient floor."
"Ancient." He sounded doubtful.
Along the wall stood a delicate side table. The piece belonged in a museum, not a busy hotel hallway. On it, a single gold tray contained a scatter of ivory cards. Her breath caught in her throat. "That-that's not supposed to be there."
She reviewed the hallway. Had she gotten it all backward? "Where's the reception desk?"
"Madam, you are not making any sense." Abby turned and saw his tense stance, his arms akimbo. "This is not a hotel."
She frowned right back at him. "It is. I'm the manager."
"You?" His rich voice held a note of derision. "A woman?"
"Oh my God." Abby drew herself to her full height, a full foot shorter than he. "Just get over yourself. This is the twenty-first century!"
"It's 1807," he said, his voice quiet. His brown eyes pierced her.
She tried to ignore the discomfort. "Don't be ridiculous." She put distance between them, looking for a telephone. If this guy got dangerous ... "I don't have time to mess about in some fantasy role-play."
"It's not a fantasy," he insisted. Truly, it was a shame someone so good-looking was also so deluded.
"Look, mister." Abby folded her arms and glared at him. "It's time you took a hike. You're trespassing on private property. Do you want me to call the police?"
The man didn't move. "You're a hard woman."
She'd heard worse.
With no phone in sight, Abby fished out her mobile, hitting speed dial. "I warned you." She ignored his sudden, ashen expression. If he did a runner, so be it. She put the mobile to her ear. Hearing nothing, she frowned. "Hmm, must've lost the signal."
"What ... what is that?" His stilted voice broke into her musing.
So he hadn't run. "Can you give the old-fashioned thing a rest, please?"
He sighed, throwing up his hands. He stalked off into another room and returned with a newspaper. "It's a couple of months old, but look." He thrust it at her.
She picked it up. "So the date is 1807. It's a nice printing job. It's amazing what computers can do these days." She tossed it back at him.
He caught it one-handed. "You're not making sense."
Abby sighed. "You're still here? Let me find a landline ..." She wandered off. According to her blueprints, they'd turned this room into an office.
A small sitting room, definitely feminine, greeted her. "But ..." What was going on? How could all the work she'd seen in photographs be undone? Had she fallen victim to some kind of scam?
She looked up. No ornate ceiling rose, no electric light. Only a few sconces with candles attached to the wall.
Abby trudged back into the hallway. "I-I don't understand ..." Her intruder crouched by her bags. Bags she'd left outside. Her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to figure out how to open these trunks."
"That's my private property." Abby advanced, pausing when he stood his ground.
"I merely sought to discover your identity. You need your family."
"I need you to leave this house." Abby sucked in her breath. This house where nothing seemed right. "Why have all the renovations been undone? What's happened?"
"Madam, I am sorry for your insanity, but it seems you've regained your senses for the moment. I can see you know there is something not quite right with you. Who are your family? Where do you live?"
"I'm supposed to live here," Abby replied dully. "This is supposed to be my new home." She took a deep breath. "Is it really 1807?"
"I showed you The Times," he replied.
The breath whooshed out of her. "I'm not insane. Look in my bag. You'll see that this is 2007."
Crouching, he grinned up at her. "You are an extremely stubborn woman. Although, I will admit you do have unusual items in your possession." His voice sounded strangled. "I'm almost inclined to believe you. That ... thing ... you spoke into." "My mobile?" She tossed it to him, still keeping her distance, and he examined it. "What is it made of?"
"Plastic and metal, mostly. Are you going to open my bag or what?"
He shot her an annoyed glance. "How do you open this thing?"
Abby knelt beside him, at once aware that this stranger was no skinny geek. He was built. The muscles practically popped from his thighs. He seemed so ... so big.
"It's a zipper," she told him, demonstrating its function by opening the bag partway. "I think it was invented in the twentieth century."
He grunted, tugging on the other zipper. He flipped back the lid. White shirts lay in neat stacks, in between which lay flat navy blue shoes and impeccably rolled black trouser socks.
"Don't even think of rifling through my underwear."
"Wouldn't dream of it, my dear," he murmured, lifting and setting aside her shirts with precision. His lips curved. "Well, well, well ..."
Abby wanted to curl up and die. She shut her eyes, sinking back on her heels. Why hadn't she stopped him? Because she thought he had her other bag. Oh, no no no no. What a way to get started with her staff-or whoever this person was.
"I recognize this," he said. She cracked open one eye to see him squeezing a large synthetic dildo. "Not made of this stuff though. Wood or ivory, yes." He cocked his head. "Do the other items serve similar purposes?"
Her cheeks burned and she nodded, not daring to look at the extensive array of toys she'd brought with which to amuse herself.
That was the understatement of the year.
"Never seen the like of these before."
"Just ... just put them back," Abby gasped with a weak wave at her bags.
He chuckled. "Well, now that we've discovered that at least your luggage is from the future-"
"You are a very stubborn man." Her words didn't have their usual force.
"-I believe you may stay."
"So very kind of you," she muttered, tossing her shirts back into the bag and zipping it up. Standing, she hauled the bag upright.
He rose also. "Perhaps it's time we introduced ourselves, given that we lack a common acquaintance to do it for us. Very well, twenty-first-century woman. Do they have names in the future? Mrs.? Miss?"
Abby gave him her best level glare. "Ms."
"Mzz?" His forehead creased.
"Ms. Abigail Deane," she told him, choosing to ignore his puzzled expression. "And you are?"
"Mr. Hardy, Myles Hardy. At your service." He sketched a brief bow. "Now, what are we going to do with you?"
She had no idea. I don't belong in 1807. What's going to happen to me? She eyed Myles Hardy. Can I actually rely on him?
"No need to look so scared," Myles soothed, stepping forward. He paused at her involuntary retreat. "There's nobody in this house except you and me."
"That's meant to reassure me?" she braved. She eyed her handbag on the floor. If she could just get her hands on that can of mace ...
"It gives us time to figure it all out. How you got here; how we can send you back."
"What is this 'we' business?"
"I was about to add 'and help you fit in here,' but if you don't need my help ..." He backed off.
Abby loosed a huffy breath. "Look, thank you, but how can I trust you?"
"You can't." His broad mischievous grin did something unexpected in her belly. She banked down the surge of attraction. Not again, and certainly not now. "If you wish to manage on your own ..."
"No, no," Abby said hastily. "I'm sorry. I'm used to shifting for myself."
"Must be some future." Myles grunted as he picked up her other bag. He set off down the hallway. "What is in the cylinder?"
"Blueprints." Abby slung the cylinder strap over her shoulder, followed by her large handbag.
"House plans," she translated. What else didn't they have in this time?
Myles glanced over his shoulder, pausing for a moment. "You don't say," he drawled. "They might be most amusing to examine."
"Hardly amusing." She fired her patented glare at his back.
He caught her glaring, and his boyish grin widened. So much for cowing him. "Forgive me, but how often does someone get a look into the future?"
"Two hundred years into the future. Maybe I shouldn't. If you invented things before your time ..." She dragged her suitcase after her, following Myles to the foot of the stairs.
He ascended the staircase.
Abby looked up. The dark mahogany wood stairs rose from the hallway floor, splitting at a landing to run along the walls on either side of her. "I don't suppose elevators have been invented yet."
He grinned, stopping to look back down at her. "No. Leave your trunk. I will carry it for you."
"No. I can manage." She gritted her teeth. She could rest on the stairs.
Myles sprawled on her bed. Abby eyed him out of the corner of her eye. Was he trying to show off his body? If so, she was too wrung out to notice the way his open shirt revealed a sun-browned chest or the way his breeches clung to his calves, his thighs, his ... his groin.
No, really. She didn't notice a thing.
Not. A. Thing.
She dumped her bag. Her muscles ached with lifting her weighty suitcase up the stairs. She hadn't wanted to scar a single inch of the wood.
Myles patted the mattress. "Come, sit down. You look all in."
She was. Abby settled on the edge of the mattress, looking over her shoulder at him. "Is this your room or mine?"
He chuckled, a rich lighthearted sound. "It could be ours."
Abby snorted. "Ha! In your dreams."
"I am not familiar with that phrase, but I think I understand." He rolled off the other side of the bed. "I'm sure this has all been a great strain on you. Indeed, it is much to take in. Rest. I'll find some clothes more suitable than your current attire."
Excerpted from One More Time by Celia May Hart Copyright © 2007 by Celia May Hart. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Posted August 5, 2012
This book was disapointing. The story was not really believable and the ending left me hanging. There really was no ending. Would like to delete this from my nookWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 9, 2008
Pilot Abby Deane flies her small plane to the hideaway hotel she has just been hired to manage. However, when she lands, Abby finds something quite unsettling. Somehow she ahs traveled back from the twenty-first century to regency England.---------------- Myles Hardy meets Abby and acts as her host to the early nineteenth century. He finds her story about being from the future improbable yet besides her luggage and clothing, Abby has some terrific sex toys that he plans to use with her. As they enjoy their encounter with nights filled of all types of sexual positions and activities enhanced by her gizmos, they fall in love. However, they know she belongs to the future so they search for a lost statue that will allow her to return home something she does not want to do.------------ This torrid time travel romantic fantasy stars two wonderful lead characters, a horde of profligate aristocrats (she¿d make a fortune selling her toys to this crowd), and a Greek god seeking passion. The story line is fast-paced even during the heat of passion and yet filled with twists. Loaded with heat, ONE MORE TIME is an erotic tale with plenty of heat.--------- Harriet KlausnerWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted February 19, 2011
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Posted October 19, 2008
No text was provided for this review.