Sexy. Passionate. Fierce. 

That’s how romance author Cd Brennan describes Padraig O’Neale, the hero in her latest novel In Touch. Released September 1, 2015 by Amazon Digital, In Touch introduces us to the rough and tumble world of professional rugby.

I personally know bupkis about rugby–other than it uses an odd looking football-ish thing and involves something called a scrum–but after reading Brennan’s book blurb, I’m more than willing to learn.

Let me know what you think…

Irish rugby star, Padraig O’Neale, has fecked up his life and is one angry man. When caught using a banned substance for his back pain, Padraig is excused from both his provincial club and the Irish International team. Right before World Cup selection.

Out of choices, his agent convinces Padraig to play for a small American club in Michigan. Just until things settle down. But when Coach asks the team physical therapist, Gillian Sommersby, to help the newest Blues player with his issues, Padraig finds himself trying every wacky treatment out there from stinky salves to music to yoga.

Like her therapies, the therapist herself is a bit…odd. The cute college grad in Converse and glasses doesn’t seem all that impressed with Padraig’s celebrity status, nor gives a shite about his excuses. As it turns out, she might be exactly what he needs…

Available in print or for e-readers.

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And because I never buy a book without first rifling through the pages, here’s a tantalizing tidbit to tempt you:

Gillian unzipped her bag where she’d placed it on the table and grabbed a small jar of ointment. “I’ll use one of my special treatments on—”

“I’m not interested.” Padraig took a step back.

“I can show you some exercises specifically for the lower back, and if you apply this cream twice a day, you’ll notice a change within a week.”

His fist clenched at his side. “I told you I’m not interested in your help. I have a routine that my physio back home gave me. That’s working.”

“You’re not in pain?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Nope.”

But she could tell he was lying by the way his eyes had darted to the corner of the room and back before he’d answered. The way they shone, all glassy. The way he walked with stiffness in his step. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. Not anymore.

“Take your shirt off, please, and lie on the table with your head at the far side. I’m sure you are familiar with massage. Head goes down in the center.”

Padraig was staring at her as if she’d grown two heads. Maybe she had a ketchup stain on her tank top. She held the shirt out but saw nothing. Huh.

At his almost imperceptible nod, her courage grew. Just like any client. “Lie here on your stomach.”

He did as instructed and settled his head onto his overlapped hands. She lifted his hips to lower his track pants so they rode low on his bum. Sweet mercy. His ass was divine. Rounder and juicier than a summer cantaloupe.

But she was a professional, and he, a client. And a jock. A deep breath in and out. Gillian uncapped the jar and rubbed her palms with the ointment.

“What the hell is that smell?”

“None of your worry. It works really well. Hasn’t anyone told you the smellier the concoction, the better the results?”

“Just like Rory. You are all mad,” came muffled through the table.

“Crazy knows crazy. Now shush.”

She started at his lower lumbar and moved her hands in sweeping motions up his back, around his side, under his armpits, and finally over his shoulders. She began again at his lower back and kneaded and rolled along his spine, then outward, circling her palms over knotted muscles. Hitching his pants lower, she delved under his boxer band, massaging the top of his bum, smoothing the muscle out and away from his spine.

As normally happened once she was in rhythm, the time ticked by. After a few repetitions along his torso, she stopped to check on him.

He appeared to be asleep. The endorphins released by the massage weighted him to the table, as happened with most of her clients when they fell into a peaceful lethargy. So quiet, she couldn’t hear him breathe. Wide back, broad shoulders, dark, tousled hair. A man any woman would want. Except for Gillian. He was no Lloyd Dobler.

She should really be getting him up and out the door so he could catch his lift from Del, but she couldn’t get herself to do it. So she took a seat on one of the chairs along the wall. Leaning her elbow on her knee and resting her jaw in her hand, she watched him sleep. A dark, manly brow that had finally relaxed. Black, thick lashes. Strong nose and a top lip that came to a defined point.

He was gorgeous, really.

She was so mesmerized that when his eyes blinked open, she screamed. Just like in a horror movie when the corpse comes to life. She had scrambled halfway up her chair when he let out a laugh.

Her hand over her racing heart, she didn’t see the humor, but then, he’d only opened his eyes, which didn’t normally elicit such a dramatic response. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move, first to sitting where he waited a few beats, then onto his feet.

As he was pulling his shirt over his head, Del barged through the door. “Everything all right here?”

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About the Author

Having traveled and lived all over the world, Cd Brennan now enjoys reliving her glory days by writing about them. Feisty heroines with wanderlust or sexy rugby heroes who breathe passion for more than just the sport.

Aussie/Yankee twined, Cd is now settled in Michigan with a rugby player of her own and two wee sons who are still adapting to the snow. A full-time editor and mum, her and her hubby still dream of starting up a buffalo farm. And maybe some chickens and pigs, too. She loves rugby, traveling, and all things from the 80s.

Doesn’t watch TV so don’t chat to her about that, but she loves to hear from readers about anything else! Perhaps some cooking suggestions? She’s desperate in the kitchen! Find her on loads of your favorite places.

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