The son of the Krampus, he’s over a hundred years old, but doesn’t look a day over 30.
A lawyer by day, he’s devoted his life to bringing Santa Claus to task for firing his father. Unbeknownst to him, the exciting woman he picks up the night before is the only daughter of Saint Nicholas.
“I am Emeric.”
“Not what I would have expected,” Nadire responded, mentally tumbling the name around as if she could search its depths on her own. Sadly, that particular skill didn’t pass to her.
“Oh?”
“Emeric is a rather stuffy name,” she said without thought, then blanched at demeaning the handsome stranger.
But he took it all with a laugh, taking a savoring draught before turning to her. “Pompous?”
“No, more for a man who prefers books and libraries to…” Nadire waved her hand over the man’s strapping chest. It wasn’t at that barrel stage yet, but taut and honed so the shoulders strained against the off the rack shirt. Man like him deserved to have his shirts tailored to caress every muscle on his body.
Emeric glanced down at his chest as if there were a spot of mustard upon the breast pocket. “What? You think me the sport type?”
If rugby and gymnastics had a flexible, muscle-bound baby. Which was not an answer she could ever voice. Emeric’s voice dropped, his ice-blue eyes biting into hers. “Well, I happen to be quite sporting. And I will pick up a book or two when the mood strikes.”
Excerpt from Son of Krampus
Ellen Mint 