2014, ISBN: 9780440241997

Collins. Good. 142 x 224mm. Paperback. 1989. 352 pages. dj worn.<br>The Casteel family saga continues for Heav en's daughter Annie. When her parents are tragically killed in a … mais…

Collins. Good. 142 x 224mm. Paperback. 1989. 352 pages. dj worn.<br>The Casteel family saga continues for Heav en's daughter Annie. When her parents are tragically killed in a car accident Annie is taken to Farthinggale Manor, a place she ha s always dreamt of visiting. But on her arrival Annie quickly rea lizes it is a cold and dark place, still hiding many family secre ts.SEASON OF DARKNESSHeaven's daughter Annie, a sweet and loving young woman,has known the sort of happy home that always seemed o ut of her mother's reach. But a terrible, tragic car accident cha nges all that.When her mysterious great-grandfather' Tony Tattert on takes her to Farthinggale Manor, he promises to look after all her needs. But Annie pines for her lost family, most especially for Luke, her half-brother, the loving confidant of her childhood . Soon she becomes lost in the despair of the decaying mansion.Th en Annie discovers the secret cottage owned by Tony'sbrother Troy , and the mystery deepens... Editorial Reviews Review Praise fo r Virginia Andrews:Beautifully written, macabre and thoroughly na sty... it is evocative of the nasty fairy tales like Little Red R iding Hood and The Babes in the Wood, with a bit of Victorian Got hic thrown in. ... What does shine through is her ability to see the world through a child's eyes' Daily ExpressMakes horror irres istible' Glasgow Sunday MailA gruesome saga... the storyline is c ompelling, many millions have no wish to put this down' Ms London There is strength in her books - the bizarre plots matched with t he pathos of the entrapped' The Times --This text refers to an ou t of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. ® Repr inted by permission. All rights reserved. Prologue For as long a s I could remember, the only person I could share my deepest secr ets with was Luke Casteel, Jr. It was as if I were truly alive on ly when he was with me, and in my secret putaway heart, I knew he felt the same way, even though he had never dared say anything a bout it. I wanted to look at him, look into his soft dark sapphir e eyes forever and ever and tell him what I really felt, but the words were forbidden. He was my half brother. But there was one way I could look continually at him and he at me without either o f us being self-conscious about it or feeling someone would disco ver our secret, and that was whenever I painted him. He was alway s a willing subject: With the easel between us and my world of ar t serving as a window, I could stare closely at his perfectly sha ped, high-cheeked, bronze face and I could capture the way those unruly, jet-black strands of hair always fell over his forehead. Luke had my aunt Fanny's hair, but my father's deep blue eyes an d perfect nose. There was strength in the lines of his mouth and in his sharp, smooth jawline. I couldn't help seeing the clear re semblances to my father, and even to myself. He had the same tall , lean build Daddy had and kept his shoulders back the same way. The resemblances always saddened me because they reminded me that Luke wasn't simply my half brother, he was my illegitimate half brother, born out of a passionate indiscretion between Daddy and my aunt Fanny, my mother's sister, something we all understood wa s best kept unmentioned. We tried to leave it behind us, stuffed away in the shadows, even though we both knew people whispered a nd gossiped about us in Winnerrow. Although my family was the mos t prominent in Winnerrow, we were a very odd family indeed. Luke, Jr. lived with his mother, who had been married twice: once to a man much older who had died, and once to a man much younger, who had divorced her. Everyone in Winnerrow remembered the court he aring over who would win custody of Mommy's and Aunt Fanny's half brother Drake, after their father Luke and his new wife Stacie w ere killed in a car accident. Drake was only about five at the ti me. The argument was settled out of court, with Mommy getting cus tody and Aunt Fanny getting a lot of money. Drake hated to hear a bout it, and more than once got into a fight at school when some boy teased him about being bought and paid for. Mother said Drake had her father's temper anyway. He was handsome, muscular, and v ery athletic, as well as very bright and determined. Now he was a student getting his M.B.A. at Harvard Business College. Even tho ugh he was really my uncle, I always thought of him as a big brot her. Mommy and Daddy raised him as they would raise a son. Most everyone in Winnerrow knew about Mommy, how she was born and rais ed in the Willies, how her mother had died giving birth to her, h ow she had lived in a shack most of her young life, and then gone off to live with her mother's rich family, the Tattertons. She lived at Farthinggale Manor, or Farthy, as she often called it wh enever I could get her to talk about it, which wasn't very often. But Luke and I talked about it. Farthinggale Manor...it loomed high in our imaginations...this magical, yet sinister place, a c astle filled with a thousand secrets, some of which we just knew had to do with us. It was still the home of the mysterious Tony T atterton, the man who had married my great-grandmother and who st ill ran the great Tatterton Toy empire, now only loosely associat ed with our Willies Toy factory. For reasons Mother would not dis cuss, she refused to have anything to do with him, even though he never failed to send us all birthday and Christmas cards. He had sent me dolls from everywhere in the world every birthday for as long as I could remember. At least she let me keep them...precio us little Chinese dolls that had long, straight black hair, and d olls from Holland and Norway and Ireland with colorful costumes a nd beautiful, sparkling faces. Luke and I wanted to know more ab out Tony Tatterton and Farthy. Even Drake was very curious, altho ugh he didn't talk about it half as much as Luke and I did. If on ly our home, Hasbrouck House, was as open and revealing about the family's past as it was on holidays when Mommy and Daddy's frien ds and their families wandered freely through it. There were so m any lingering questions. What finally had brought my parents back here from the rich, lavish world of Farthinggale Manor? Why did my mother want so much to return to Winnerrow where she had been considered lower than everyone because she was a Casteel from the Willies? Even when she had been a teacher here, she hadn't been fully accepted by the rich, snobby townspeople. So many secrets haunted the shadows around us, hanging in the corners of our mind s like old cobwebs. For as long as I could remember, I felt somet hing was supposed to be told to me about myself, but no one had t old it: not my mother, not my father, and not my uncle Drake. I s ensed it in the silences that sometimes fell between my parents a nd between them and me, especially between my mother and me. I w ished I could come to a clear, clean canvas and lift my paintbrus h and pull the truth out of the blank white sheet before me. Mayb e that was why I had always been obsessed with my painting. Hardl y a day passed when I didn't paint something. It was as much a pa rt of me as...as breathing. One: Family Secrets Oh no! Drake ex claimed, coming up behind me without my realizing it because I wa s so involved in my painting. Not another picture of Farthinggale Manor with Luke, Jr. gaping out a window at the rolling clouds. Drake rolled his eyes and pretended to go into a faint. Luke sat up quickly and brushed the strands of hair off his forehead. Whe never anything embarrassed or unnerved him, he always went to his hair. I turned slowly, intending to scowl at Drake the way Miss Marbleton, Luke's and my English teacher, would every time anyone misbehaved or spoke out of turn; but Drake wore his impish smile , and his coal-black eyes glimmered like two dew-covered stones. I couldn't make myself angry at a face like that. He was so hands ome, but no matter how often he shaved, he had a dark cloud in hi s complexion. My mother was always running her hand over his chee ks affectionately and telling him to shave away the porcupine qui lls. Drake, I said softly, practically pleading with him not to say anything more that might embarrass Luke and me. Well, it's t rue, Annie, isn't it? Drake persisted. You must have done a half dozen pictures like this with Luke inside of Farthy or walking ab out the grounds. And Luke wasn't ever there! He raised his voice to clearly remind us that he had been. I tilted my head to the si de the way my mother did when something suddenly occurred to her. Was Drake jealous of my using Luke as an artistic subject? It ne ver occurred to me to ask him to pose because he rarely sat still long enough for me to paint his likeness. My pictures of Farthy are never the same, I cried defensively. How can they be? I'm wo rking only from my own imagination and the little tidbits I've be en able to pick up here and there from Daddy and Mommy. You woul d think anyone would realize that, Luke remarked, his eyes remain ing fixed on his English literature textbook. Drake widened his s mile. What, has the great Buddha spoken? Drake's eyes danced wit h glee. Whenever he could get Luke to rise to one of his taunts, he was happy. Drake, please. I'm losing my mood, I pleaded, and an artist has to seize the moment and hold it the way you would h old a baby bird...softly, but firmly. I didn't mean to sound so p retentious, but there was nothing I hated more than Luke and Drak e getting into an argument. My beseeching eyes and pleas worked. Drake's face softened. He turned back to me, his posture relaxed . Mother always said Drake strode through Winnerrow with a Castee l's pride. Because he was six feet two with broad shoulders, a na rrow waist, and muscular arms, that wasn't hard to imagine. I'm sorry. I just thought I could wrench Plato here away for a while. We need a ninth man for softball over at the school, he added. Luke looked up from his textbook, genuinely surprised at the invi tation, his eyes small and inquiring. Was Drake sincere? Since he had come home for his spring break, he had spent almost all his time with his older friends. Well, I... Luke looked to me. I had to study for this unit test, Luke explained quickly, and I thoug ht while Annie was painting me... Sure, sure, I understand, Eins tein. Einstein, Drake repeated, gesturing toward Luke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. It's not all books, you know, he said, spi nning to face him again. This time his face was serious. A lot of it has to do with getting to know people, getting them to like y ou, respect you. That's the secret of success. More executives ar e coming off the playing fields than out of the classrooms, he le ctured, waving his long, right forefinger. Luke said nothing in r esponse. He ran his fingers through his hair and fixed that stoic al, yet piercing, analytical gaze on Drake, something Drake could n't stand. Ah...why I am wasting my breath? Drake turned to my p ainting again. I told you that Farthy was gray, not blue, he cor rected softly. You were only five at the time you were there and you said yourself, you were hardly there. Maybe you forgot, Luke said, quickly coming to my defense. You don't forget the color of a building as big as that! Drake exclaimed, pulling in the cor ners of his mouth. No matter how young you are at the time or how short you stay. Well, you once told us there were two outside p ools and then Logan finally corrected that, telling us there was only one outside, but one indoors, Luke continued. When it came to Farthy, both he and I were as exacting as we could be, cherish ing whatever small details and truths we knew. So little had been given to us about it. Is that so, Sherlock Holmes? Drake replie d, his eyes growing smaller, colder. He didn't like being correct ed, especially by Luke. Well, I never said there were two outside pools; I just said there were two pools. You just don't listen w hen I tell you something. It amazes me you're doing so well in sc hool. What'd ya do, cheat? Drake, please! I exclaimed, grasping his wrist and squeezing softly. Well, he doesn't listen. Unless it's you who does the talking, he added, smiling, content because he had struck a sensitive spot. Luke blushed, his blue eyes swin ging my way briefly before he turned away, his face turning sad. I looked beyond him, just over the first rise in the Willies at a wisp of a cloud that the wind had molded into the shape of a te ar. Suddenly I felt like crying myself and it wasn't only because of the conflict between Drake and Luke. It wasn't the first time this melancholy mood had come over me like a dark cloud passing over the sun. What I did realize was that the sad feelings often stimulated my desire to paint. Painting brought me relief, a sens e of balance and peace. I was creating the world I wanted, the wo rld I saw with inner eyes. I could make it forever spring or make winter dazzling and beautiful. I felt like a magician, conjuring something special in my mind and then bringing it to life on the empty canvas. While I was sketching in my latest image of Farthy , I felt my heart grow lighter and the world around me grow warme r and warmer, as if I were lifting a shadow off myself. Now becau se Drake had really interrupted the mood, my sadness returned. I realized Drake and Luke were both staring at me, their faces tro ubled by my gray expression. I fought back the urge to cry, and s miled through the shadow over my face. Maybe each of my painting s of Farthinggale Manor are different because it changes, I final ly said in a voice barely above a whisper. Luke's eyes widened an d a smile rippled across his soft lips. He knew what that tone in my voice meant. We were about to play the fantasy game, to let o ur imaginations wander recklessly about and be unafraid to say wh at other seventeen- and eighteen-year-old teenagers would find si lly. But the game was more than that. When we played it, we coul d say things to each other that we were afraid to say otherwise. I could be his princess and he my prince. We could tell each othe r what we felt in our hearts, pretending it wasn't us but imagina ry people who were speaking. Neither of us blushed or looked away . Drake shook his head. He, too, knew what was coming. Oh no, he said, you two don't still do this. He covered his face in mock e mbarrassment. I ignored him, stepped away and continued. Maybe Farthy is like the seasons -- gray and dismal in the winter and b right blue and warm in the summer. I was lookin, Collins, 1989, 2.5, Candlewick. Very Good. 5.13 x 0.58 x 7.63 inches. Paperback. 2012. 208 pages. <br>The New York Times best-selling series An easy se ll to girls looking for a friendship story with more than a touch of make-believe. -- Kirkus Reviews When Emily Windsnap discover s an old diamond ring during a class hunt for trinkets, how is sh e supposed to know that the ring is half the key to unlocking an ancient curse by Neptune himself? Now, with the ring stuck firmly on her hand, Emily finds herself under a new curse: in just a fe w days, she'll cease to be half-human and half-mermaid and must s ay good-bye to one parent forever. Can she possibly find the othe r missing ring that will break all the curses? Is there anyone wh o can help her -- before it's too late? Editorial Reviews Revie w This quick read is light and charming but also heartfelt. -VOYA Should be an easy sell to girls looking for a friendship story with more than a touch of make believe. -Kirkus Reviews Kessler combines the whimsy of life as a mermaid with the problems of an average middle-schooler...Plenty of dialogue and Ledwidge's soft, dreamlike line drawings add textual and visual interest, making for a zippy story in an attractive package. -School Library Journ al What will most delight readers are the details of undersea li fe, from course work in hair brushing to 'scale polish' for decor ating tails. -Booklist Liz Kessler and book mention in article C BC Plans Online Venture with Girl Scouts -PW Children's Bookshelf I'm a fan of Emily Windsnap. She's smart, she's spunky, she can be brave, but mostly she's just an ordinary teenaged girl that j ust happens to have a tail. -AmoxCalli blog A complex story with deepening questions about love and its meanings, anger and its c onsequences, redemption and hope for the future...couched in a lu shly detailed story about underwater life that should capture the attention and hearts of girls who love adventurous, romantic tal es encased in charming fantasy elements. -Kidsreads.com About th e Author Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved . It's midnight, and as light as day. A full moon shines down on the ocean, making the waves dance as they skirt the edges of the tiny island, lapping on jagged rocks and stony beaches. A chariot glides through the sea, tracing a circle around the island. Soli d gold and adorned with jewels on ­every side, the chariot is pul led by dolphins, each decorated with a row of diamonds and pearls along its back and head. Inside the chariot sits the king of all the oceans: Neptune, grander than ever, a chain of sparkling jew els around his neck, his gold crown glinting above his white hair , his trident by his side. His green eyes shine in the moonlight as he looks across at the island. He is waiting for his bride to appear from the castle that stands above the rocks, half hidden b y mist, its dark windows gleaming in the bright night sky. Go aro und again! he demands, his voice booming like thunder. His words send ripples bouncing away from the chariot. The dolphins draw an other circle around the island. And then she is there, smiling as she steps ­toward the water's edge, her eyes meeting his, their gaze so fierce it almost brings the space between them to life. A bridge between their two worlds. A small flock of starlings appr oaches the water as she does, circling the air above her head li ke a feathered crown. Twisting her head to smile up at them, she holds out a hand. Instantly, one of the birds breaks o? from the circle and flies down ­toward her open palm. Hovering almost moti on-less in the air, it drops something from its claw into her pal m. A diamond ring. As the woman closes her hand around the ring, the starling rejoins the other birds and they fly away into the n ight, slinking across the sky like a giant writhing snake. I give you this diamond to represent my love, as great as the earth its elf, as firm as the ground on which I stand. The woman flicks bac k shiny black hair as she reaches out ­toward the chariot to plac e the ring on Neptune's finger. A twist of the trident, and a dol phin swims forward. As it bows down to Neptune, it reveals a pear l ring, perfectly balanced on its brow. Neptune takes the ring. H olding it out in his palm, he speaks softly. And with this pearl, I o?er you the sea, my world, as boundless and everlasting as my love for you. He slides the ring onto her finger. This is a most enchanted moment. A full moon at midnight on the spring equinox. This will not happen for another five hundred years. It is almos t as rare as our love. She smiles at him, her white dress wet at the bottom where she stands in the sea by his chariot. Holding hi s trident in the air, Neptune continues. These rings may only eve r be worn by two folk in love -- one from the sea, one from land -- or by a child of such a pair. As long as they are so worn, no one can remove them. No one can even touch them, the woman says. Neptune laughs. No one can even touch them, he says. Then he hold s his other hand up, palm facing the woman. She does the same and their arms form an arch, the rings touching as they clasp hands. A hundred stars crackle in the sky above them, bursting into col or like fireworks. When the rings touch like this, Neptune contin ues, they will undo any act born of hatred or anger. Only love sh all reign, he says. Only love, she repeats. Then he spreads his a rms out in front of him. At this moment, night and day are equal, and now, so too are earth and sea. For as long as we wear these rings, the symbols of our marriage, there will always be peace an d harmony between the two worlds. With a final wave of his triden t, Neptune reaches out to help the woman into the chariot. Hand i n hand, they sit close together, her long dress flowing to one si de of the chariot, his jewel-encrusted tail lying over the other side. The dolphins lift the reins and the chariot glides silently o?, taking its royal owners away to begin their married life tog ether. Emily! I won't tell you again. I opened an eye to see Mom pulling back the curtain across the porthole in my bedroom. Outs ide, an oval moon hung low in a navy sky. Almost full, I thought automatically. We'd been learning about the moon's cycle at schoo l. It's still night, I complained as I pulled the quilt over my face and snuggled back into my pillow. It's half past seven, Mom replied, perching on the edge of my bed. She folded the quilt bac k and kissed my forehead. Come on, sweet pea, she said. You'll be late for school. As she got up, she added under her breath, Not that you'd miss much if you were. They ­haven't exactly taught yo u anything useful at that place so far. She'd left the room befor e I had a chance to reply. I let out a heavy sigh as I lay in bed , looking up at the ceiling. Mom seemed to be ­really down lately . That was the third time she'd grumbled about something in the l ast week. Personally, I ­couldn't see what there was to complain about. We were living on a beautiful secret island: Mom, Dad, and me, all together on an elegant old wooden ship half sunk in the golden sand and sparkling water that surround the whole island. M erfolk and humans, together in peace. I realize that last part ­i sn't necessarily a requirement in ­everyone's ideal living situat ion, but it comes in handy when your mom's a human, your dad's a merman, and you're half-and-half. I pulled my bathing suit on an d joined Mom at the breakfast table. ., Candlewick, 2012, 3, Pocket Books. Very Good. 4.13 x 1 x 6.75 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2014. 432 pages. <br>From New York Times bestselling author Mary Alice Monroe, the heartwarming first installment in the Lowcountry Summ er trilogy, a poignant series following three half-sisters and th eir grandmother. Three granddaughters. Three months. One summer house. In this enchanting trilogy set on Sullivan's Island, Sou th Carolina, New York Times bestselling author Mary Alice Monroe captures the complex relationships between Dora, Carson, and Harp er, three half-sisters scattered across the country-and a grandmo ther determined to help them rediscover their family bonds. For years, Carson Muir has drifted, never really settling, certain o nly that a life without the ocean is a life half lived. Adrift an d penniless in California, Carson is the first to return to Sea B reeze, wondering where things went wrong...until the sea she love s brings her a minor miracle. Her astonishing bond with a dolphin helps Carson renew her relationships with her sisters and face t he haunting memories of her ill-fated father. As the rhythms of t he island open her heart, Carson begins to imagine the next steps toward her future. In this heartwarming novel, three sisters d iscover the true treasures Sea Breeze offers as surprising truths are revealed, mistakes forgiven, and precious connections made t hat will endure long beyond one summer. Editorial Reviews Revie w Mary Alice Monroe has taken the rich waters of the Atlantic Coa st as her own field of dreams. In The Summer Girls,she sings a so ng of praise to the bottle-nosed dolphins that bring so much joy to the men and women who gaze at the creeks and rivers of the low country each evening. Like all her books, The Summer Girls is a call to arms. -- New York Times bestselling author Pat Conroy Th e Summer Girls is more than just a beautifully written, moving po rtrayal of three sisters finding themselves and each other after years of separation. It's also an important book that deals head- on with significant issues so skillfully woven into the narrative that I often stopped to consider the import of what I'd just rea d. If you're a dedicated environmentalist, this book is a must-re ad. If you're just someone who enjoys a good story, you'll get th at, too, and much more. -- New York Times bestselling author Cass andra King The Summer Girls conveys sound environmental messages through a captivating story of how the ocean and a charismatic d olphin reunite sisters in the alluring ecological setting of the Lowcountry of South Carolina. The story resonates on a personal l evel and, moreover, delivers a powerful reminder of the importanc e of protecting dolphins and the environment in which they live. -- Patricia Fair, Director, Marine Mammal Program, NOAA Monroe's resplendent storytelling shines even brighter . . . [with] start ling insights into the intimate connection between nature and the human heart. -- New York Times bestselling author Patti Callahan Henry In the bestselling tradition of Kathryn Stockett's The He lp, Mary Alice Monroe skillfully weaves together issues of class, women's rights, and domestic abuse set in the tumultuous South d uring the 1970s. . . . Beautifully wrought, and rich with keen in sight . . . an unforgettable tale of marriage, resilience, and on e woman's private strength. ? Bookreporter Magical! Mary Alice M onroe's writing is always sensitive and true, and as inspiring as the natural wonder about which she writes. This luminous tale-se t in the South Carolina Lowcountry that we both love so deeply-wa s hard to put down. -- Dorothea Benton Frank Monroe brings authe nticity and a sense of wonder to the plight of the endangered sea turtles and their miraculous capacity for survival. ? Publishers Weekly Monroe utilizes her signature combination of informative storytelling wrapped in the relatable sagas of her protagonists. ? Charleston City Paper An exquisite, many-layered novel of an unsolved mystery, an obsession, a reconciliation, and a little ro mance.... Treats readers to lush descriptions of nature. ? Bookli st An author of power and depth. ? RT Reviews A consummate stor yteller. ? The Best Reviews A master storyteller. ? Southeastern Charm magazine A strong, warm voice that brings the South to li fe. ? Powell's Book Review Mary Alice Monroe has written another novel that is helping to redefine the beauty and magic of the Ca rolina Lowcountry. Every book she has written has felt like a hom ecoming to me and...she has succeeded in making the marshes and r ivers of the Lowcountry her literary home.... Haunting. -- New Yo rk Times bestselling author Pat Conroy Monroe makes her characte rs so believable, the reader can almost hear them breathing. ? Bo oklist Mary Alice Monroe has become one of the premier voices co ntemporary women's fiction today. Her lyrical, emotional, and gri pping stories make for superb reading experiences. ? RT Book Revi ews A soaring, passionate story of loneliness and pain and the s imple ability of love to heal and transcend both. Mary Alice Monr oe's voice is as strong and true as the great birds of prey of wh om she writes. -- Anne Rivers Siddons Mary Alice Monroe writes f rom her heart to the hearts of her readers. ? Charleston Post & C ourier Such a wonderful, exciting new read! Very well written an d addicting! Looking forward to the next book in the series. Mary Alice--hurry up! -- Books Unlimited Mary Alice writes the most readable books with important environmental story lines, but The Summer Girlsmight be my favorite. It's about family, finding your self, getting through bad issues that could weigh you down, and e njoying the ride with the warm embrace of family. And there's a w ild dolphin who helps heal the pain but finds his own. This book has everything--sense of place, family, strong characters, romanc e,a love of dolphins and more. This is BETTER than a beach read; this is a great book club book to discuss! Can't wait for the nex t in the trilogy. thanks, Mary Alice! -- First Reads How wonderf ul it is to be able to dig into a summer novel and not only get s o much pleasure from the awesome story, but to learn, learn, lear n...[S]he brings new awareness to those of us who need enlighteni ng. -- Maurice on Books [A] beautifully written and thought prov oking work of fiction. Mary Alice Monroe once again delivers on h er promise to write books that explore the beauty in nature and t he complexity of human relationships as she delves into the human psyche. -- Linda Hitchcock of Booktrib About the Author Mary Al ice Monroe is the New York Times bestselling author of twenty-sev en books, including the bestselling The Beach House series. Monro e also writes children's picture books, and a new middle grade fi ction series called The Islanders. She is a member of the South C arolina Academy of Authors' Hall of Fame, and her books have rece ived numerous awards, including the South Carolina Center for the Book Award for Writing; the South Carolina Award for Literary Ex cellence; the SW Florida Author of Distinction Award; the RT Life time Achievement Award; the International Book Award for Green Fi ction; the Henry Bergh Children's Book Award; and her novel, A Lo wcountry Christmas, won the prestigious Southern Prize for Fictio n. The Beach House is a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie, starring And ie MacDowell. Several of her novels have been optioned for film. She is the cocreator and cohost of the weekly web show and podcas t Friends & Fiction. Monroe is also an active conservationist and serves on several boards. She lives on the South Carolina coast, which is a source of inspiration for many of her books. ., Pocket Books, 2014, 3, Dell. Very Good. 4.2 x 1 x 6.79 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2008. 464 pages. <br>Against the seductive backdrop of Regency England, New York Times bestselling author Mary Balogh sweeps us into the sensual, enthralling world of four teachers at an elite academy for young ladies. As headmistress of Miss Martin's School for G irls in Bath, Claudia Martin long ago resigned herself to a life without love. Until Joseph, Marquess of Attingsborough, arrives u nannounced and tempts her to toss away a lifetime of propriety fo r an affair that can only lead to ruin, embarking on a plan of se duction that leaves them both yearning for more. But Claudia know s she has no place in Joseph's aristocratic world. And now that w orld is about to be rocked by scanda....An arranged marriage, a s ecret that will shock the ton, and a man from Claudia's past cons pire to drive the lovers apart. But Joseph is determined to make Claudia his at any cost-even if that means breaking every rule fo r a love that is everything he has ever wanted.... Editorial Rev iews Review With her signature exquisite sense of characterizati on and subtle wit, Balogh brings her sweetly sensual, thoroughly romantic Simply quartet to a truly triumphant conclusion.-Booklis t About the Author Mary Balough is the New York Times bestsellin g author of the acclaimed Slightly novels: Slightly Married, Slig htly Wicked, Slightly Scandalous, Slightly Tempted, Slightly Sinf ul, and Slightly Dangerous, as well as the romances No Man's Mist ress, More than a Mistress,and One Night for Love. She is also th e author of Simply Magic, Simply Love,and Simply Unforgettable, t he first three books in her dazzling quartet of novels set at Mis s Martin's School for Girls. A former teacher herself, she grew u p in Wales and now lives in Canada. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by perm ission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Claudia Martin had alre ady had a hard day at school. First Mademoiselle Pierre, one of the nonresident teachers, had sent a messenger just before breakf ast with the news that she was indisposed with a migraine headach e and would be unable to come to school, and Claudia, as both own er and headmistress, had been obliged to conduct most of the Fren ch and music classes in addition to her own subjects. French was no great problem; music was more of a challenge. Worse, the accou nt books, which she had intended to bring up to date during her s pare classes today, remained undone, with days fast running out i n which to get accomplished all the myriad tasks that needed doin g. Then just before the noonday meal, when classes were over for the morning and discipline was at its slackest, Paula Hern had d ecided that she objected to the way Molly Wiggins looked at her a nd voiced her displeasure publicly and eloquently. And since Paul a's father was a successful businessman and as rich as Croesus an d she put on airs accordingly while Molly was the youngest-and mo st timid-of the charity girls and did not even know who her fathe r was, then of course Agnes Ryde had felt obliged to jump into th e fray in vigorous defense of the downtrodden, her Cockney accent returning with ear-jarring clarity. Claudia had been forced to d eal with the matter and extract more-or-less sincere apologies fr om all sides and mete out suitable punishments to all except the more-or-less innocent Molly. Then, an hour later, just when Miss Walton had been about to step outdoors with the junior class en route to Bath Abbey, where she had intended to give an informal l esson in art and architecture, the heavens had opened in a downpo ur to end downpours and there had been all the fuss of finding th e girls somewhere else to go within the school and something else to do. Not that that had been Claudia's problem, but she had bee n made annoyingly aware of the girls' loud disappointment beyond her classroom door as she struggled to teach French irregular ver bs. She had finally gone out there to inform them that if they ha d any complaint about the untimely arrival of the rain, then they must take it up privately with God during their evening prayers, but in the meantime they would be silent until Miss Walton had c losed a classroom door behind them. Then, just after classes wer e finished for the afternoon and the girls had gone upstairs to c omb their hair and wash their hands ready for tea, something had gone wrong with the doorknob on one of the dormitories and eight of the girls, trapped inside until Mr. Keeble, the elderly school porter, had creaked his way up there to release them before mend ing the knob, had screeched and giggled and rattled the door. Mis s Thompson had dealt with the crisis by reading them a lecture on patience and decorum, though circumstances had forced her to spe ak in a voice that could be heard from within-and therefore throu gh much of the rest of the school too, including Claudia's office . It had not been the best of days, as Claudia had just been rem arking-without contradiction-to Eleanor Thompson and Lila Walton over tea in her private sitting room a short while after the pris oners had been freed. She could do with far fewer such days. And yet now! Now, to cap everything off and make an already trying day more so, there was a marquess awaiting her pleasure in the vi sitors' parlor downstairs. A marquess, for the love of all that was wonderful! That was what the silver-edged visiting card she held between two fingers said-the Marquess of Attingsborough. The porter had just delivered it into her hands, looking sour and di sapproving as he did so-a not unusual expression for him, especia lly when any male who was not a teacher invaded his domain. A ma rquess, she said, looking up from the card to frown at her fellow teachers. Whatever can he want? Did he say, Mr. Keeble? He did not say and I did not ask, miss, the porter replied. But if you w as to ask me, he is up to no good. He smiled at me. Ha! A cardin al sin indeed, Claudia said dryly while Eleanor laughed. Perhaps , Lila suggested, he has a daughter he wishes to place at the sch ool. A marquess? Claudia raised her eyebrows and Lila looked sui tably quelled. Perhaps, Claudia, Eleanor said, a twinkle in her eye, he has two daughters. Claudia snorted and then sighed, took one more sip of her tea, and got reluctantly to her feet. I sup pose I had better go and see what he wants, she said. It will be more productive than sitting here guessing. But of all things to happen today of all days. A marquess. Eleanor laughed again. Poo r man, she said. I pity him. Claudia had never had much use for the aristocracy-idle, arrogant, cold-hearted, nasty lot-though th e marriage of two of her teachers and closest friends to titled g entlemen had forced her to admit during the past few years that p erhaps some of them might be agreeable and even worthy individual s. But it did not amuse her to have one of their number, a strang er, intrude into her own world without a by-your-leave, especiall y at the end of a difficult day. She did not believe for a singl e moment that this marquess wished to place any daughter of his a t her school. She preceded Mr. Keeble down the stairs since she did not wish to move at his slow pace. She ought, she supposed, t o have gone into her bedchamber first to see that she was looking respectable, which she was quite possibly not doing after a hard day at school. She usually made sure that she presented a neat a ppearance to visitors. But she scorned to make such an effort for a marquess and risk appearing obsequious in her own eyes. By th e time she opened the door into the visitors' parlor, she was bri stling with a quite unjustified indignation. How dared he come he re to disturb her on her own property, whatever his business migh t be. She looked down at the visiting card still in her hand. T he Marquess of Attingsborough? she said in a voice not unlike the one she had used on Paula Hern earlier in the day-the one that s aid she was not going to be at all impressed by any pretension of grandeur. At your service, ma'am. Miss Martin, I presume? He wa s standing across the room, close to the window. He bowed elegant ly. Claudia's indignation soared. One steady glance at him was n ot sufficient upon which to make any informed judgment of his cha racter, of course, but really, if the man had any imperfection of form or feature or taste in apparel, it was by no means apparent . He was tall and broad of shoulder and chest and slim of waist a nd hips. His legs were long and well shaped. His hair was dark an d thick and shining, his face handsome, his eyes and mouth good-h umored. He was dressed with impeccable elegance but without a tra ce of ostentation. His Hessian boots alone were probably worth a fortune, and Claudia guessed that if she were to stand directly o ver them and look down, she would see her own face reflected in t hem-and probably her flat, untidy hair and limp dress collar as w ell. She clasped her hands at her waist lest she test her theory by touching the collar points. She held his card pinched between one thumb and forefinger. What may I do for you, sir? she asked , deliberately avoiding calling him my lord-a ridiculous affectat ion, in her opinion. He smiled at her, and if perfection could b e improved upon, it had just happened-he had good teeth. Claudia steeled herself to resist the charm she was sure he possessed in aces. I come as a messenger, ma'am, he said, from Lady Whitleaf. He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a seal ed paper. From Susanna? Claudia took one step farther into the r oom. Susanna Osbourne had been a teacher at the school until her marriage last year to Viscount Whitleaf. Claudia had always rejo iced at Susanna's good fortune in making both an eligible marriag e and a love match and yet she still mourned her own loss of a de ar friend and colleague and a good teacher. She had lost three su ch friends-all in the same cause-over the course of four years. S ometimes it was hard not to be selfishly depressed by it all. Wh en she knew I was coming to Bath to spend a few days with my moth er and my father, who is taking the waters, the marquess said, sh e asked me to call here and pay my respects to you. And she gave me this letter, perhaps to convince you that I am no impostor. H is eyes smiled again as he came across the room and placed the le tter in her hand. And as if at least his eyes could not have been mud-colored or something equally nondescript, she could see that they were a clear blue, almost like a summer sky. Susanna had a sked him to come and pay his respects? Why? Whitleaf is the cous in of a cousin of mine, the marquess explained. Or an almost cous in of mine, anyway. It is complicated, as family relationships of ten are. Lauren Butler, Viscountess Ravensberg, is a cousin by vi rtue of the fact that her mother married my aunt's brother-in-law . We have been close since childhood. And Whitleaf is Lauren's fi rst cousin. And so in a sense both he and his lady have a strong familial claim on me. If he was a marquess, Claudia thought with sudden suspicion, and his father was still alive, what did that make his father? But he was here at Susanna's behest and it behoo ved her to be a little better than just icily polite. Thank you, she said, for coming in person to deliver the letter. I am much obliged to you, sir. May I offer you a cup of tea? She willed him to say no. I will not put you to that trouble, ma'am, he said, smiling again. I understand you are to leave for London in two da ys' time? Ah. Susanna must have told him that. Mr. Hatchard, her man of business in London, had found employment for two of her s enior girls, both charity pupils, but he had been unusually evasi ve about the identity of the prospective employers, even when she had asked quite specifically in her last letter to him. The payi ng girls at the school had families to look after their interests , of course. Claudia had appointed herself family to the rest and never released any girl who had no employment to which to go or any about whose expected employment she felt any strong misgiving . At Eleanor's suggestion, Claudia was going to go to London wit h Flora Bains and Edna Wood so that she could find out exactly wh ere they were to be placed as governesses and to withdraw her con sent if she was not satisfied. There were still a few weeks of th e school year left, but Eleanor had assured her that she was perf ectly willing and able to take charge of affairs during Claudia's absence, which would surely be no longer than a week or ten days . Claudia had agreed to go, partly because there was another matt er too upon which she wished to speak with Mr. Hatchard in person . I am, she told the marquess. Whitleaf intended to send a carr iage for your convenience, the marquess told her, but I was able to inform him that it would be quite unnecessary to put himself t o the trouble. Of course it would, Claudia agreed. I have alread y hired a carriage. I will see about unhiring it for you, if I m ay be permitted, ma'am, he said. I plan to return to town on the same day and will be pleased to offer you the comfort of my own c arriage and my protection for the journey. Oh, goodness, heaven forbid! That will be quite unnecessary, sir, she said firmly. I have already made the arrangements. Hired carriages are notoriou s for their lack of springs and all other comforts, he said. I be g you will reconsider. Perhaps you do not fully understand, sir, she said. I am to be accompanied by two schoolgirls on the journ ey. Yes, he said, so Lady Whitleaf informed me. Do they prattle? Or, worse, do they giggle? Very young ladies have an atrocious t endency to do both. My girls are taught how to behave appropriat ely in company, Lord Attingsborough, she said stiffly. Too late s he saw the twinkle in his eyes and understood that he had been jo king. I do not doubt it, ma'am, he said, and feel quite confiden t in trusting your word. Allow me, if you will, to escort all thr ee of you ladies to Lady Whitleaf's door. She will be vastly impr essed with my gallantry and will be bound to spread the word amon g my family and friends. Now he was talking utter nonsense. But how could she decently refuse? She desperately searched around in her head for some irrefutable argument that would dissuade him. Nothing came to mind, however, that did not seem ungracious, even downright rude. But she would rather travel a thousand miles in a springless carriage than to London in his company. Why? Was s he overawed by his title and magnificence? She bristled at the ve ry idea. At his . . . maleness, then? She was uncomfortably awar e that, Dell, 2008, 3<

2013, ISBN: 9780440241997

Ballantine Books. Very Good. Mass Market Paperback. 2007. 384 pages. <br>Award-winning author Cherry Adair broke thrilling new ground with On Thin Ice-her stunning romantic suspens… mais…

Ballantine Books. Very Good. Mass Market Paperback. 2007. 384 pages. <br>Award-winning author Cherry Adair broke thrilling new ground with On Thin Ice-her stunning romantic suspense hardco ver debut. Now Cherry's turning up the temperature, amping up the action, and raising the degree of danger and desire to irresisti bly hot new heights. Diamonds-jewels of every kind, in fact-are Taylor Kincaid's best friends. The only thing she enjoys more is the challenge of stealing them, at which she excels like few othe rs in the world. And specializing in plundering precious stones f rom wealthy international criminals just makes it all the more sa tisfying . . . and dangerously exciting. So for Taylor, there's n o resisting the double allure of snatching the elusive Blue Star diamonds-a prize she has pursued across three continents-from the South American stronghold of the murderous Morales terrorist org anization. The heist goes down without a hitch. Until Taylor dis covers she has made off with more than she bargained for, namely the secret security-system codes that provide access to a South A frican diamond mine-packed with enough gems to sink a battleship. Suddenly, Taylor's no longer just an ultrachic freelance jewel t hief, but a reluctant player in a high-stakes cat-and-mouse game against elite global trouble-shooters and bloodthirsty terrorists . There's nothing reluctant, however, about Huntington St. John, the top T-FLAC operative who's hot on Taylor's trail. And in Tay lor's opinion, just plain hot. The feeling, emotional and otherwi se, is very mutual. Though they're on opposite sides of the law, Hunt and Taylor swiftly come to appreciate each other's well-hone d skills. But since ecstasy is fleeting, and diamonds are forever , Taylor soon slips from the sheets and hits the streets . . . to reclaim the jewels she stashed overseas. And true to his name, H unt is close behind-but this time, he's after more than the codes . With the clock ticking, and two groups of terrorists closing fa st, they'll have to mix pleasure with some very risky business. I f they can survive danger at every turn, outwit the ultimate high -tech security system, and somehow conquer each other . . . they just might get everything they desire. Editorial Reviews Review PRAISE FOR CHERRY ADAIR A breathtaking ride . . . I couldn't tu rn the pages fast enough! No one does hot romance, ice-cold villa ins and nonstop adventure better. -Mariah Stewart, author of Dead Even, on On Thin Ice Sexy, funny, and wild! Hang on and enjoy t he ride! -Andrea Kane, author of Scent of Danger, on In Too Deep A thrilling, mysterious, sexy read. -Stella Cameron, author of K iss Them Goodbye, on Hide and Seek A sexy, snappy roller-coaster ride! -Susan Andersen, author of Shadow Dance, on Kiss and Tell About the Author USA Today bestselling author Cherry Adair has g enerated numerous awards for her innovative action-adventure nove ls, which include On Thin Ice, Out of Sight, In Too Deep, Hide an d Seek, and Kiss and Tell. A favorite of reviewers and fans alike , she lives in the Pacific Northwest. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by pe rmission. All rights reserved. One August 10 San Cristóbal South America Dressed in black, shrouded by the night, T-FLAC opera- tive Huntington St. John melded with the darkness of the fetid al ley behind the adobe jail. Night vision glasses made it possible to observe every inch of the inky interior of the cell through a narrow barred window high in the wall. Empty. Where in the hell was the prisoner? It had taken six long, bloody months to disco ver this woman's identity. Six months, and the considerable resou rces of the counterterrorist organization Hunt worked for. It had n't been easy, by God, and he was not leaving without her. He ne eded a thief. Someone resourceful, cunning, and unscrupulous. Som eone at the top of his game. Hunt wanted the best. Nothing less w ould do. Determined to find the right thief, T-FLAC's crack team had scrutinized past burglary victims for the last five years. L imiting their search to individuals, or companies, with collectio ns of fine gems who had the most sophisticated, advanced security systems. They'd compiled lists comprising thousands upon thousan ds of names. They'd cross-matched friends of the victims, relativ es, staff, and lifestyle to find a common denominator. Three hun dred names had cross-matched, and 118 people appeared on more tha n six lists. A deep background check on those suspects turned up an interesting anomaly. Seventeen of the women had identical, or nearly identical, backgrounds. Or, rather, one woman had seventee n identities. No one, other than himself and a few select T-FLAC operatives, even knew the thief was a woman. They'd finally conn ected the dots. Hunt had his thief. But where the hell was she? An hour after ascertaining who she was, and with an educated gu ess, where she might be, he was wheels up and headed for South Am erica. It was highly suspect that she just happened to be in the very city he needed her to be in. San Cristóbal. In flight he'd knew she'd robbed José Morales followed by a quick arrest minutes before he touched down in San Cristóbal. So, it was a fait acco mpli. A quick, thorough search of her hotel room revealed nothin g. Not a hint, not a clue. No surprise there. She never left clue s. Ever. Which is why it had been so fucking hard to discover who she was in the first place. This woman wasn't merely extraordin arily good at what she did, she was a phenomenon. And fearless. She was the one he wanted. And by God, he'd have her. Even if, as he suspected, she'd been hired by someone else. Despite intel t o the contrary, her absence from the cell could be explained by o ne of three options: she'd been moved to another location, the ot her party had already extracted her, or she'd been killed. Now t hat would be bloody inconvenient all around. He'd already investe d enough time and energy. He wasn't about to start looking for so meone else now. Suddenly, footsteps echoed down a hallway. Clear , loud, deliberate. Two pairs-heavy, booted. And the odd, incongr uous sound of chains rattling, like something out of a bad horror film. One of the guards kicked open the cell door. It slammed a gainst the adobe wall and let in muted light from the hallway to illuminate the cramped cell. This time, bruja, the jailer threate ned in Spanish, you will not get free. Hunt's mouth flattened in to a thin line as he took in the tableau in the doorway. Trussed up in chains, the woman couldn't brace herself as the guards flu ng her through the open door and onto the floor with a thud. Her head bounced on the cement and she let out a startled grunt of pa in. Hunt bit back a curse. This was precisely why he disliked wo men involved in missions. They were vulnerable and easily broken. He hated like hell seeing someone soft and delicate hurt. The c hains wrapped around her sounded almost musical as she rolled acr oss the floor, until, stopped by the opposite wall, she lay still . The two guards observed their prisoner for a few minutes from the doorway, speculating in rapid-fire Spanish as to whether the woman was a witch. Or worse. So, she'd attempted an escape, had s he? He shook his head. Nice try, but no cigar, sweetheart. This p rison built on the outskirts of town housed political prisoners, as well as the dregs of humanity. No one, including apparently a pro like her, had ever escaped. Hunt was about to change that. Listening to the conversation between the guards, Hunt shook his head. She'd given it her best shot five times. 5-0 wasn't a great track record, but it sure took guts. No wonder the men were piss ed. No wonder they had a mile of bicycle chain wrapped around her body, and God only knew how many gleaming new padlocks fastened down her back. She'd be lucky to draw in an unrestricted breath, let alone stand. The metal door clanged shut and the key ground harshly in the lock. Sorry to disappoint, hombres, but she's mine . He listened to the guards' footsteps retreat down the hallway t oward the front of the jail. The crunch of tires on gravel drift ed between the buildings down the narrow alley where he waited. H eadlights strobed over the single-story structures as cars and tr ucks pulled into the unseen parking lot of the seedy nightclub ac ross the alley behind the jail. Vehicle doors slammed. Glass cli nked. Laughing voices rose. A band tuned up their instruments. Th e door of the dive opened and slammed. Opened and slammed. Opened , letting out the raucous sounds of the crowd warming up for the evening. All music to Hunt's ears. He knew the bar would soon be packed to the rafters. The band would be loud enough to deafen a nyone within a hundred yards, and the secondhand smoke would make a five-pack-a-day smoker look like a piker. This was almost too easy. The night air felt thick and oppressive. Not even a glimme r of a star broke the blackness of the sky overhead. San Cristóba l in midsummer was not for the fainthearted. He'd been here sever al years ago on another op. The sprawling city on the edge of the rain forest was too damn crowded for his liking. Known for its t opless beaches and raunchy night life, it wasn't one of Hunt's fa vorite places. The atmosphere was a South American version of sp ring break-noise, people, skin, and excessive drinking. The combi nation usually turned things ugly before midnight. It was a quart er till. In the distance, a dog's barks turned to mournful howls . A car backfired. Lights continued strafing the roofline as more vehicles turned into the parking lot of the club. A steel guitar riffed in a jangle of bad chords, followed by the thump of stick s on the drum as the band continued its warm-up. The chains wrap ped around the woman chinked. Good. If she could move, she wasn't too badly hurt. As far as Hunt was concerned, as long as she cou ld talk and think long enough to tell him what he wanted to know, that was sufficient. In theory, he had no problem with her capt ivity. She was where thieves belonged. But not where he needed her to be for the moment. Oblivious to the muggy heat causing hi s dark shirt to stick to his back, he gave a quick tug to the cla mps he'd hooked to the bars earlier, making sure they were secure . A clever T-FLAC invention, the device, small enough to fit in h is pocket, it consisted of a complex series of pulleys and thin m etal cable, and needed very little pressure to act as a fulcrum. The band segued into their first number. What the group lacked i n talent they made up for in volume. The ruckus from the club wou ld drown out all but an atomic bomb. Thanks, Hunt muttered dryly as he exerted the small hand movement necessary to activate the tool. Inside the cell the chinking of the chains abruptly stopped . He stepped aside as window frame, bars, and chunks of plaster came out of the old adobe wall with a grinding thunk. Two San C ristóbal What, the icy voice in Theresa Smallwood's ear dripped fury, do you mean there was nothing there? You arranged for the a rrest immediately when she got back to her hotel, like I told you , didn't you? Sweat pooled in the small of Theresa's back as she pressed the receiver against her ear. The sound of the long-dist ance-distorted voice crawled over her skin like the tiny feet of a dozen spiders. The cramped phone booth stunk of pee, sweat, and fear. Theresa was responsible for two out of the three. She shu ddered, knuckles white as she clenched the receiver, and forced h erself to respond. Forced her voice to remain steady. Competent. No more than three seconds, she assured her boss. She prayed she didn't sound as scared as she felt. They both knew how important this assignment was. How dare that fucking thief put her life i n danger? Theresa thought, still shaken with anger. She'd asked t he girl to work for her. She'd offered to pay her, and pay her we ll, to retrieve the contents of Morales's safe. Which, for Christ 's sake, she was going to do anyway. The girl refused Theresa fla t out. Smallwood? Theresa swallowed fear-thick spit. She'd bare ly closed the door when the Federales grabbed her. She hadn't had a chance to hide anything. And Christ knew, she was too damn sli ck to have gone to all that trouble to hand it over to the police . Theresa had waited a few minutes to make sure no one saw her, then tossed the hotel room. Politely. Professionally. No-one-woul d-suspect carefully. Nothing. Not a fucking thing. Nada. Zip. Th en you have what I want, the voice said smoothly in her ear. Not a question. Never a question. Theresa's armpits prickled with dr ead and her mouth went bone dry. She needed a drink, she needed o ne bad. I'll meet with our Rio contact as planned. Tomorrow, she said with utmost conviction, the answer implicit. The air seemed to vibrate menacingly around Theresa as the silence on the other end of the phone lengthened. When she heard a click instead of t he ass-reaming she expected, she let the phone drop and slumped b ack against the bullet-riddled glass of the phone booth as though she were a puppet with her strings cut. She'd find the bitch if it was the last thing she did. She exited the phone booth, then strode across the gravel lot of the abandoned gas station to the rental car. Oh, she'd find the girl all right. She'd find the g irl, retrieve what she'd stolen, and then slice her skin from her skinny body in one long ribbon like peeling a fucking apple. The resa hadn't gotten where she was by letting emotions get in the w ay of business. Business was brutal. If she had to screw the bra ins out of every cop in this godforsaken city to find out where t he woman was being held, she vowed she'd do it. Theresa was prou d of the small elegant black rose tattooed on the small of her ba ck. One day soon she would have more petals added, and she'd be t he Black Rose. Until then she'd do her job, and do it well. And w hen the time came, she'd carve that full-blown rose tattoo off th e current Black Rose's skin. She opened the car door, slid behin d the wheel, and buckled up for safety as she pulled out of the d ark lot. For more immediate gratification, she thought of the thi ef's big black eyes, that smooth, dusky skin, and decided she'd l eave the girl's face for last. Three Hear me now, do you, sweet heart? a man said softly in the darkness. Well, yeah. He'd just k nocked down the wall and his, Ballantine Books, 2007, 3, Pocket Star. Very Good. 4.19 x 1 x 6.75 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2009. "480 pages. <br>Colossal in concept, dazzlingly plotted, filled w ith vivid, jaw-dropping violence, Sins of the Assassin confirms R obert Ferrigno as the modern master of the futuristic thriller. In the second book of Ferrigno's spectacular Assassin Trilogy, R akkim Epps battles radical fundamentalist forces in a futuristic America, now a divided blood-soaked dystopia. Will he survive? Ca n America ever be unified again? The year is 2043. New York and Washington, D.C., have been leveled by nuclear bombs. New Orlean s is submerged beneath fifty feet of water and treasure hunters s cavenge its watery ruins. The United States no longer exists, and in its place two new nations maintain an uneasy coexistence. T o the west stretches the Islamic Republic, seemingly governed by a moderate president but hollowed from within by the violent, rep ressive Black Robes, a shadowy fundamentalist group intent on cru shing all those who do not follow Allah's path. In this frighteni ng world, freedom is controlled by the state, and non-Muslims are either second-class citizens, hidden underground, exiled, or exe cuted. To the east and south lies the Christian Bible Belt, its elf torn by conflict from warring factions, each claiming to be m ore righteous than the others. Meanwhile the former United States is being nibbled away at the edges: South Florida, known as ""Nu evo Florida,"" is independent; the Aztlán Empire, formerly Mexico , encroaches from the south; and Canada has laid claim to huge sw aths of territory along the United States's former northern borde r. What stability exists between the warring empires is threate ned when the president of the Islamic Republic discovers that a B ible Belt warlord, known simply as the Colonel, is searching for a superweapon hidden inside a remote mountain decades earlier by the old United States regime. Rakkim Epps, retired shadow warrior , is sent on a perilous mission to infiltrate the Belt and steal or destroy the weapon. Accompanying Rakkim is Leo, a naive ninete en-year-old whose technologically enhanced brain is crucial to th eir success.Together they sneak through the Belt, a lawless terri tory where a bloodthirsty, drug-addled militia prepares for the E nd-Times. When Rakkim and Leo finally reach the Colonel's mount ain, Epps is forced to rely on his shadow warrior's ability to ki ll any and all who would halt his quest. Opposing him is the Colo nel's enforcer, a sadistic, carbon-skinned killer named Gravenhol tz, and the Colonel's wife, the alluring, sexually rapacious Baby , who wants -- and gets -- more of everything. Meanwhile, the Old One, the ancient and immensely rich Muslim fanatic who seeks to rule both American nations, plots his attack from the safety of h is ocean liner. Rakkim Epps, he realizes, must be stopped, contro lled, or killed. A terrific stand-alone read, Sins of the Assas sin is a cinematic feast of action and plot, and verifies Robert Ferrigno's Assassin Trilogy as a monumental imaginative work of s uspense. Editorial Reviews Review ""White-knuckle suspense."" - - Chicago Sun-Times ""Provocative, unpredictable, and nuanced... .Sins of the Assassin is terrific -- all killer, no filler."" -- The Seattle Times About the Author Robert Ferrigno was born in S outh Florida, a tropical backwater rife with mosquitoes and flyin g cockroaches. After earning college degrees in philosophy, film- making, and creative writing, he returned to his first love, poke r. He spent the next five years gambling full-time and living in a high-crime area populated by starving artists, alcoholics, thie ves, and drug dealers, becoming friends with many people who woul d later populate his novels. Over the next several years he flew jets with the Blue Angels, drove Ferraris, and went for desert su rvival training with gun nuts. He ultimately gave up his day job to become a novelist, and his first book, The Horse Latitudes, wa s called ""the fiction debut of the season"" by Time. He lives in Washington with his family. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Sins of the Assassin Chapter 1 Moseby ne eded to slow down. His haste stirred up a gray confetti of silt, disintegrating paper, and pulverized glass from the neon sign tha t once flashed OYSTER POâ&#8364;&#8482; BOYS, TREAT YO MOUTH. The tiny halogen beams on either side of his face mask bounced back from the confetti, the light made useless by his excitement. Mose by drifted in the warm water of the Gulf, waiting. Plenty of time , no need to rush. He easily got four hours out of a three-hour t ank. More if he stayed calm and clear. Mamaâ&#8364;&#8482;s Home Cookinâ&#8364;&#8482; lay crumbling on its foundation, roof gone , the concrete-block walls scoured clean by the tide. A couple of red leatherette stools still sat upright, the floor carpeted wit h gently waving sea grass. He thought of the crowd at the LSU hom ecoming game last month, Annabelle on her feet beside him, pom-po ms shaking as she cheered louder than anyone. He smiled around hi s mouthpiece. The cash register was sprung open on the counter, s oggy bills hanging out like fingers from the till. Old money. Wor thless. Mamaâ&#8364;&#8482;s didnâ&#8364;&#8482;t hold any treasu re. The oyster shack was just a marker, an indicator that he was close to what he sought. Moseby floated in place, listening to t he sound of his own steady breathing. Easy to get spooked fifty f eet under, a swimmer alone with the dead. It took patience to sur vive in the drowned city. More than patience, it took faith. Mose by pulled at the chain around his neck, clasped the small gold cr ucifix between thumb and forefinger. He silently asked the blessi ng of Mary, mother of God. Asked her to intercede on behalf of al l who had lost their lives in the city below. Asked the dead for their permission to take what they no longer needed. A man could never pray too much. Particularly a man like Moseby, who had much to atone for. He let go of the crucifix, drifted again, shiverin g in the warm water. Unlike Moseby, most scavengers used electri c sleds in their explorations, racing around at full power, churn ing up debris. Greedy, frightened men chopping their way through the city, so eager to get back to the surface that they ruined mo st of what they brought up. Dangerous work under the best of circ umstances. Rebreathers failed. Floors and ceilings gave way. Wall s collapsed. Jagged metal sliced through wet suits, the rush of b lood attracting the barracuda and morays that lurked in the mossy grottos of the French Quarter and the collapsed Superdome. More dangerous than anything else to the scavengers was the panic, men disoriented by the darkness, and the fractured geometry of wreck ed buildings. Gulping air, swimming frantically, they got lost in the concrete maze, adding themselves to the long list of dead. The streets below were almost beyond the reach of sunlight, obscu red further by thousands of automobiles leaking oil even after al l these years. Murkier still in the houses and restaurants, the g rand hotels where the easy spoils lay. Afraid of the deep, the sc avengers used ever more powerful lights, blinding themselves, los ing all perspective in the undersea tableau. Men had died for a c rystal doorknob they mistook for a massive diamond, gotten trappe d reaching for a sterling punch bowl far from their grasp. Fright ened of the dark and the loneliness, frightened most of all by th e ghosts. Commuters floating in their vehicles. Lovers in their h otel beds, honeymooners huddling in the lavish bathrooms where th ey had taken cover. Hard to pluck a gold Rolex off a bony wrist u nder those watching eye sockets. Hard not to hurry, to drop the g oods and fumble to find them again. Easy to breathe too fast, to let the nitrogen build up in the bloodstream, to overestimate the air supply. This year alone sixty-seven men had died or disappea red. Most scavengers focused on the French Quarterâ&#8364;""the f ancy stores and tourist emporiums had been picked over, but their familiarity offered some illusion of safety. Not Moseby. His cr ew worked the untouched areas, the mansions and banks and busines ses outside the central core, places where the flood had been mos t ferocious, leaving behind a deadly jumble of concrete and steel and twisted rebar. They were the most successful crew working th e city, bringing up gold coins and jewelry, carved stonework, vin tage brandy, and Creole memorabilia. Steering wheels from classic cars had been particularly hot this yearâ&#8364;""most of them s old to collectors in Asia and South America. Moseby trained his m en himself, taught them as much as they could handle. The men wer e carefulâ&#8364;¦but they still died. Not as often as the men wo rking the supposedly safer parts of the city, but too often, for Moseby. Thatâ&#8364;&#8482;s why he dove alone today. Men had the right to risk their lives to feed their families, but Moseby was nâ&#8364;&#8482;t seeking treasure today. At least none that woul d be sold or bartered. He switched off his light. Gave in to the darkness. Waiting. Moseby closed his eyes. Patient. When he open ed them again, he could see. Not clearly, even his eyes werenâ&#8 364;&#8482;t that good, but he could see. Now that Mamaâ&#8364;&# 8482;s had oriented him, the shapes and shadows seemed laid out b efore him, the messy grid on the cityâ&#8364;&#8482;s outskirts. St. Bernardâ&#8364;&#8482;s Parish in the Ninth Ward, where the l evee had failed first. The old government had raised the levees two times after Hurricane Katrina inundated the city. Built them higher and higher, trying to keep up with the rising sea level an d the ever more powerful hurricanes spawned by the warming. Septe mber 23, 2013, thirty years ago, Hurricane James, a category 6 hu rricane, predicted to miss the city, had suddenly veered west in the middle of the night and struck New Orleans at sunrise. The le vees gave way as though made of tissue, the waters of the Gulf co vering the city under fifty feet of water. Most of the estimated 300,000 dead were stuck in traffic trying to flee. Hurricane Jame s was the most violent storm ever recorded. Until Hurricane Maria two years later. He glided over the road, his no-wake flippers almost living up to their name. Brightly colored fish ignored him , twisting and turning as they darted past him, weaving in and ou t the open windows of the barnaclecrusted vehicles strewn below. The houses in the immediate area were small and falling down, but the land rose slightly toward the north, where the homes were la rger, many of them surrounded by iron fences and stone walls. Thi s was where Sweeny would have lived. Annabelle couldnâ&#8364;&#8 482;t remember much from her visit to her eccentric uncleâ&#8364; &#8482;s houseâ&#8364;""she was barely fiveâ&#8364;""but there ha d been an ancient banyan tree in his backyard dripping with Spani sh moss, and a swing set already rusted, squeaking loudly, one le g of the swing lifting off the ground as she had rhythmically pum ped away. She remembered Sweeny taking her and her mother to a lo cal poâ&#8364;&#8482;boy joint, a hole-in-the-wall specializing i n oysters drenched in fresh lime juice, bourbon, and Tabasco. Swe eny said he ate two poâ&#8364;&#8482;boys for lunch every day, pr oudly watched as his niece devoured one of her own, smacking her lips with pleasure in spite of the blistering hot sauce. Moseby h ad spent months searching for New Orleans take-out joints special izing in the Cajun delicacy, months of scouring local guidebooks and newspaper articles. Last week he got lucky, ran into an old-t imerâ&#8364;¦a regular at Mamaâ&#8364;&#8482;s in the old days. Mosebyâ&#8364;&#8482;s eyes adjusted even further to the dim ligh t. Annabelle said if it had been him instead of Jonah swallowed b y the whale, Moseby wouldnâ&#8364;&#8482;t have needed divine int ervention to find his way out of its innards. He checked his watc h. Plenty of time. Plenty of air. He passed over a small backyard , a line of laundry drooping but still standing. Shirts and pants and dresses, their colors faded, eaten through with time, ragged pennants rippling in the current. Another yardâ&#8364;¦the scree n door thrown open, torn half off its hinges, and Moseby wondered if the family inside the house had made it out alive, had clung to a boat, a skiff, an inflatable swimming pool; he wondered if t hey had gotten lucky, awakened from a nightmare before dawn, and raced ahead of the raging floodwaters. Annabelle said her uncleâ &#8364;&#8482;s house had been large, with a high river-rock fenc e and white pillars; he had become a rich man down on his luck by then, his house the remnant of his fortune as the neighborhood s unk into squalor. She and her mother had never gone back after th at first visit. Sweeny had taken offense at something her mother saidâ&#8364;¦or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, he r uncle and the house were a dim memory. The marble bust of the womanâ&#8364;¦that was a different story. Annabelle remembered it vividly. The stone queen, thatâ&#8364;&#8482;s what she had call ed the statue. A beautiful woman with a head full of tight curls, her expression distant and dreamy, as though she had seen someth ing that no one else had ever seen, and the sight had changed her . The world would never be quite fine enough for the woman now. A nnabelle said she thought the stone queen must have looked into h eaven and couldnâ&#8364;&#8482;t wait to go there. Moseby knew be tter. He and Annabelle had sifted through photos on the Net until she narrowed down what she remembered. If she was right, the sta tue was Greek, probably early classical, in the style of Aphrodit e of Melos. Priceless. Moseby was going to surprise Annabelle wit h it for their anniversary tonight. For weeks he had been searchi ng for it, not even telling his daughter, Leanne. A gro, Pocket Star, 2009, 3, Dell. Very Good. 4.2 x 1 x 6.79 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2008. 464 pages. <br>Against the seductive backdrop of Regency England, New York Times bestselling author Mary Balogh sweeps us into the sensual, enthralling world of four teachers at an elite academy for young ladies. As headmistress of Miss Martin's School for G irls in Bath, Claudia Martin long ago resigned herself to a life without love. Until Joseph, Marquess of Attingsborough, arrives u nannounced and tempts her to toss away a lifetime of propriety fo r an affair that can only lead to ruin, embarking on a plan of se duction that leaves them both yearning for more. But Claudia know s she has no place in Joseph's aristocratic world. And now that w orld is about to be rocked by scanda....An arranged marriage, a s ecret that will shock the ton, and a man from Claudia's past cons pire to drive the lovers apart. But Joseph is determined to make Claudia his at any cost-even if that means breaking every rule fo r a love that is everything he has ever wanted.... Editorial Rev iews Review With her signature exquisite sense of characterizati on and subtle wit, Balogh brings her sweetly sensual, thoroughly romantic Simply quartet to a truly triumphant conclusion.-Booklis t About the Author Mary Balough is the New York Times bestsellin g author of the acclaimed Slightly novels: Slightly Married, Slig htly Wicked, Slightly Scandalous, Slightly Tempted, Slightly Sinf ul, and Slightly Dangerous, as well as the romances No Man's Mist ress, More than a Mistress,and One Night for Love. She is also th e author of Simply Magic, Simply Love,and Simply Unforgettable, t he first three books in her dazzling quartet of novels set at Mis s Martin's School for Girls. A former teacher herself, she grew u p in Wales and now lives in Canada. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by perm ission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Claudia Martin had alre ady had a hard day at school. First Mademoiselle Pierre, one of the nonresident teachers, had sent a messenger just before breakf ast with the news that she was indisposed with a migraine headach e and would be unable to come to school, and Claudia, as both own er and headmistress, had been obliged to conduct most of the Fren ch and music classes in addition to her own subjects. French was no great problem; music was more of a challenge. Worse, the accou nt books, which she had intended to bring up to date during her s pare classes today, remained undone, with days fast running out i n which to get accomplished all the myriad tasks that needed doin g. Then just before the noonday meal, when classes were over for the morning and discipline was at its slackest, Paula Hern had d ecided that she objected to the way Molly Wiggins looked at her a nd voiced her displeasure publicly and eloquently. And since Paul a's father was a successful businessman and as rich as Croesus an d she put on airs accordingly while Molly was the youngest-and mo st timid-of the charity girls and did not even know who her fathe r was, then of course Agnes Ryde had felt obliged to jump into th e fray in vigorous defense of the downtrodden, her Cockney accent returning with ear-jarring clarity. Claudia had been forced to d eal with the matter and extract more-or-less sincere apologies fr om all sides and mete out suitable punishments to all except the more-or-less innocent Molly. Then, an hour later, just when Miss Walton had been about to step outdoors with the junior class en route to Bath Abbey, where she had intended to give an informal l esson in art and architecture, the heavens had opened in a downpo ur to end downpours and there had been all the fuss of finding th e girls somewhere else to go within the school and something else to do. Not that that had been Claudia's problem, but she had bee n made annoyingly aware of the girls' loud disappointment beyond her classroom door as she struggled to teach French irregular ver bs. She had finally gone out there to inform them that if they ha d any complaint about the untimely arrival of the rain, then they must take it up privately with God during their evening prayers, but in the meantime they would be silent until Miss Walton had c losed a classroom door behind them. Then, just after classes wer e finished for the afternoon and the girls had gone upstairs to c omb their hair and wash their hands ready for tea, something had gone wrong with the doorknob on one of the dormitories and eight of the girls, trapped inside until Mr. Keeble, the elderly school porter, had creaked his way up there to release them before mend ing the knob, had screeched and giggled and rattled the door. Mis s Thompson had dealt with the crisis by reading them a lecture on patience and decorum, though circumstances had forced her to spe ak in a voice that could be heard from within-and therefore throu gh much of the rest of the school too, including Claudia's office . It had not been the best of days, as Claudia had just been rem arking-without contradiction-to Eleanor Thompson and Lila Walton over tea in her private sitting room a short while after the pris oners had been freed. She could do with far fewer such days. And yet now! Now, to cap everything off and make an already trying day more so, there was a marquess awaiting her pleasure in the vi sitors' parlor downstairs. A marquess, for the love of all that was wonderful! That was what the silver-edged visiting card she held between two fingers said-the Marquess of Attingsborough. The porter had just delivered it into her hands, looking sour and di sapproving as he did so-a not unusual expression for him, especia lly when any male who was not a teacher invaded his domain. A ma rquess, she said, looking up from the card to frown at her fellow teachers. Whatever can he want? Did he say, Mr. Keeble? He did not say and I did not ask, miss, the porter replied. But if you w as to ask me, he is up to no good. He smiled at me. Ha! A cardin al sin indeed, Claudia said dryly while Eleanor laughed. Perhaps , Lila suggested, he has a daughter he wishes to place at the sch ool. A marquess? Claudia raised her eyebrows and Lila looked sui tably quelled. Perhaps, Claudia, Eleanor said, a twinkle in her eye, he has two daughters. Claudia snorted and then sighed, took one more sip of her tea, and got reluctantly to her feet. I sup pose I had better go and see what he wants, she said. It will be more productive than sitting here guessing. But of all things to happen today of all days. A marquess. Eleanor laughed again. Poo r man, she said. I pity him. Claudia had never had much use for the aristocracy-idle, arrogant, cold-hearted, nasty lot-though th e marriage of two of her teachers and closest friends to titled g entlemen had forced her to admit during the past few years that p erhaps some of them might be agreeable and even worthy individual s. But it did not amuse her to have one of their number, a strang er, intrude into her own world without a by-your-leave, especiall y at the end of a difficult day. She did not believe for a singl e moment that this marquess wished to place any daughter of his a t her school. She preceded Mr. Keeble down the stairs since she did not wish to move at his slow pace. She ought, she supposed, t o have gone into her bedchamber first to see that she was looking respectable, which she was quite possibly not doing after a hard day at school. She usually made sure that she presented a neat a ppearance to visitors. But she scorned to make such an effort for a marquess and risk appearing obsequious in her own eyes. By th e time she opened the door into the visitors' parlor, she was bri stling with a quite unjustified indignation. How dared he come he re to disturb her on her own property, whatever his business migh t be. She looked down at the visiting card still in her hand. T he Marquess of Attingsborough? she said in a voice not unlike the one she had used on Paula Hern earlier in the day-the one that s aid she was not going to be at all impressed by any pretension of grandeur. At your service, ma'am. Miss Martin, I presume? He wa s standing across the room, close to the window. He bowed elegant ly. Claudia's indignation soared. One steady glance at him was n ot sufficient upon which to make any informed judgment of his cha racter, of course, but really, if the man had any imperfection of form or feature or taste in apparel, it was by no means apparent . He was tall and broad of shoulder and chest and slim of waist a nd hips. His legs were long and well shaped. His hair was dark an d thick and shining, his face handsome, his eyes and mouth good-h umored. He was dressed with impeccable elegance but without a tra ce of ostentation. His Hessian boots alone were probably worth a fortune, and Claudia guessed that if she were to stand directly o ver them and look down, she would see her own face reflected in t hem-and probably her flat, untidy hair and limp dress collar as w ell. She clasped her hands at her waist lest she test her theory by touching the collar points. She held his card pinched between one thumb and forefinger. What may I do for you, sir? she asked , deliberately avoiding calling him my lord-a ridiculous affectat ion, in her opinion. He smiled at her, and if perfection could b e improved upon, it had just happened-he had good teeth. Claudia steeled herself to resist the charm she was sure he possessed in aces. I come as a messenger, ma'am, he said, from Lady Whitleaf. He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a seal ed paper. From Susanna? Claudia took one step farther into the r oom. Susanna Osbourne had been a teacher at the school until her marriage last year to Viscount Whitleaf. Claudia had always rejo iced at Susanna's good fortune in making both an eligible marriag e and a love match and yet she still mourned her own loss of a de ar friend and colleague and a good teacher. She had lost three su ch friends-all in the same cause-over the course of four years. S ometimes it was hard not to be selfishly depressed by it all. Wh en she knew I was coming to Bath to spend a few days with my moth er and my father, who is taking the waters, the marquess said, sh e asked me to call here and pay my respects to you. And she gave me this letter, perhaps to convince you that I am no impostor. H is eyes smiled again as he came across the room and placed the le tter in her hand. And as if at least his eyes could not have been mud-colored or something equally nondescript, she could see that they were a clear blue, almost like a summer sky. Susanna had a sked him to come and pay his respects? Why? Whitleaf is the cous in of a cousin of mine, the marquess explained. Or an almost cous in of mine, anyway. It is complicated, as family relationships of ten are. Lauren Butler, Viscountess Ravensberg, is a cousin by vi rtue of the fact that her mother married my aunt's brother-in-law . We have been close since childhood. And Whitleaf is Lauren's fi rst cousin. And so in a sense both he and his lady have a strong familial claim on me. If he was a marquess, Claudia thought with sudden suspicion, and his father was still alive, what did that make his father? But he was here at Susanna's behest and it behoo ved her to be a little better than just icily polite. Thank you, she said, for coming in person to deliver the letter. I am much obliged to you, sir. May I offer you a cup of tea? She willed him to say no. I will not put you to that trouble, ma'am, he said, smiling again. I understand you are to leave for London in two da ys' time? Ah. Susanna must have told him that. Mr. Hatchard, her man of business in London, had found employment for two of her s enior girls, both charity pupils, but he had been unusually evasi ve about the identity of the prospective employers, even when she had asked quite specifically in her last letter to him. The payi ng girls at the school had families to look after their interests , of course. Claudia had appointed herself family to the rest and never released any girl who had no employment to which to go or any about whose expected employment she felt any strong misgiving . At Eleanor's suggestion, Claudia was going to go to London wit h Flora Bains and Edna Wood so that she could find out exactly wh ere they were to be placed as governesses and to withdraw her con sent if she was not satisfied. There were still a few weeks of th e school year left, but Eleanor had assured her that she was perf ectly willing and able to take charge of affairs during Claudia's absence, which would surely be no longer than a week or ten days . Claudia had agreed to go, partly because there was another matt er too upon which she wished to speak with Mr. Hatchard in person . I am, she told the marquess. Whitleaf intended to send a carr iage for your convenience, the marquess told her, but I was able to inform him that it would be quite unnecessary to put himself t o the trouble. Of course it would, Claudia agreed. I have alread y hired a carriage. I will see about unhiring it for you, if I m ay be permitted, ma'am, he said. I plan to return to town on the same day and will be pleased to offer you the comfort of my own c arriage and my protection for the journey. Oh, goodness, heaven forbid! That will be quite unnecessary, sir, she said firmly. I have already made the arrangements. Hired carriages are notoriou s for their lack of springs and all other comforts, he said. I be g you will reconsider. Perhaps you do not fully understand, sir, she said. I am to be accompanied by two schoolgirls on the journ ey. Yes, he said, so Lady Whitleaf informed me. Do they prattle? Or, worse, do they giggle? Very young ladies have an atrocious t endency to do both. My girls are taught how to behave appropriat ely in company, Lord Attingsborough, she said stiffly. Too late s he saw the twinkle in his eyes and understood that he had been jo king. I do not doubt it, ma'am, he said, and feel quite confiden t in trusting your word. Allow me, if you will, to escort all thr ee of you ladies to Lady Whitleaf's door. She will be vastly impr essed with my gallantry and will be bound to spread the word amon g my family and friends. Now he was talking utter nonsense. But how could she decently refuse? She desperately searched around in her head for some irrefutable argument that would dissuade him. Nothing came to mind, however, that did not seem ungracious, even downright rude. But she would rather travel a thousand miles in a springless carriage than to London in his company. Why? Was s he overawed by his title and magnificence? She bristled at the ve ry idea. At his . . . maleness, then? She was uncomfortably awar e that, Dell, 2008, 3<

ISBN: 9780440241997

Dell. Mass Market Paperback. GOOD. Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that does affect the text. Possible ex l… mais…

Dell. Mass Market Paperback. GOOD. Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that does affect the text. Possible ex library copy, will have the markings and stickers associated from the library. Accessories such as CD, codes, toys, may not be included., Dell, 2.5<

2008, ISBN: 9780440241997

Dell, 2008-12-29. Mass Market Paperback. Very Good. Mass Market Paperback. Very Good.FREE Media Mail Shipping on all U.S. orders over $ 25.00, Dell, 2008-12-29, 3