Her remarkable eyes, almond-shaped, heavily lashed, were an iridescent blue as restless in shade as opals. Small-boned, with a coltish grace and an unruly riot of black hair so fine it seemed to snap blue, Catherine usually resembled a disreputable urchin because of her indifference to dress. No angel, little Catherine!Ĭatherine was a minx. She glowered at the angelically serene young creature who had her head stuffed under satin point d'esprit pillows. Tap, tap, tap, the nursemaid's broad foot briskly connected with the floor. Alice shifted her unaccustomed weapon and her considerable weight at the same time. Special thanks to Claudia Wall, Sergei Timachea, and Anne Lorcy. To my beloved wingmate, Jon, and fledgling, Jenni. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U. For information address the Denise Marcil Literary Agency, 316 West 82nd Street, New York, New York 10024ĪVON TRADEMARK REG. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.Ĭopyright e 1984 by Christine Monson Published by arrangement with the author Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 84-90894Īll rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U. This work has never before appeared in book form.

STORMFIRE is an original publication of Avon Books. Passion rose in fiery waves, pouring over the edge of the world, a descent into the inferno, bodies locked in a fusion of molten desire.

Frighteningly, he needed her now, though she had denied him in rage and pride as he had her.Īs the knife clattered to the deck, a fleck of crimson over the Irishman's heart smeared against her breast as he swept her into his arms and crushed his mouth down upon her cold lips, kissing her as if the tempest raging about them were centered in his soul. This strange, brooding man had become part of her. She thrust the knife forward, but at the last moment looked into eyes that reflected the storm.

Stormfire monson