TWO HALVES OF A WHOLEDESPERATELY SEEKING TWIN...A small, faded photograph had turned Blair Stephens' world upside down. She'd suddenly learned she was adopted—and that, somewhere, she had a twin sister who was her spitting image! With nowhere else to turn, she hired the services of hunky Devin Quaterman, P.I. He knew a bit about twins, being one himself. But what he wanted more than anything was to make beautiful Blair his better half!Two Halves of a Whole:Identical twins separated at birth find love, family...and each other in these festive holiday stories by RITA Award-winning author Marie Ferrarella. Look for The Baby Came C.O.D. this month in Silhouette Romance. Views: 57
My name is Susan Spector. I have one black eye, and one blue eye. I am colorblind. I experience synesthesia. My blood type is AB negative. I was born on a leap year. Do I sound like a freak yet? Oh yeah, and I'm dying of stage four lung cancer. My diagnosis prompted me to review my life to that point. I had spent the past decades of my life wandering, not really living. I couldn't die yet. There was so much more I wanted to do. I'd never been to a nudist resort. I'd never slept with a stranger. I'd never gone to Vegas. It was the luckiest place on Earth. I figured I would try my luck there, since I'd run out of it in California.On my way to Vegas, I had an accidental hit-and-run, which would follow me throughout the next two weeks. Once I got to Vegas, I drowned my woes in alcohol at the nearest bar. I met an exotic dancer named Calliope, who quickly became my friend. After getting drunk and spending the night at the house of a guy dressed like George Washington, an idea... Views: 57
Independent Katie Lachlan has caught the eye and heart of a rich suitor who won't take no for an answer. Luke Savage killed a man in a gunfight and swears he'll never carry a handgun again. A strong attraction and mutual dependence link them together for a journey along the brand new transcontinental railroad, as she flees the suitor who stalks her and he runs away from his past. Instead of safety, they find new danger as they are forced to travel on foot across a wintry landscape. While Katie learns that independence is no match for force, Luke discovers that saving Katie is more important to him than the vow he made. Striving together against wilderness, gunfighters bent on retribution, and a frontier town on the brink of riot, they find their strength, their convictions, and their very love tested by adversity and danger. Views: 57
Book DescriptionFrom one of the most beloved and bestselling authors in the English language, a vivid, nostalgic and utterly hilarious memoir of growing up in the middle of the United States in the middle of the last century. A book that delivers on the promise that it is “laugh-out-loud funny.”Some say that the first hints that Bill Bryson was not of Planet Earth came from his discovery, at the age of six, of a woollen jersey of rare fineness. Across the moth-holed chest was a golden thunderbolt. It may have looked like an old college football sweater, but young Bryson knew better. It was obviously the Sacred Jersey of Zap, and proved that he had been placed with this innocuous family in the middle of America to fly, become invisible, shoot guns out of people’s hands from a distance, and wear his underpants over his jeans in the manner of Superman.Bill Bryson’s first travel book opened with the immortal line, “I come from Des Moines. Somebody had to.” In this hilarious new memoir, he travels back to explore the kid he once was and the weird and wonderful world of 1950s America. He modestly claims that this is a book about not very much: about being small and getting much larger slowly. But for the rest of us, it is a laugh-out-loud book that will speak volumes – especially to anyone who has ever been young.From the Hardcover edition.From Publishers WeeklyFor most of his adult life, Bryson has made his home in the U.K, yet he actually entered the world in 1951 as part of America's postwar baby boom and spent his formative years in Des Moines, Iowa. Bryson wistfully recounts a childhood of innocence and optimism, a magical point in time when a distinct sense of regional and community identity briefly—but blissfully—coexisted with fledgling technology and modern convenience. Narrating, Bryson skillfully wields his amorphous accent—somehow neither fully British nor Midwestern—to project a genial and entertaining tour guide of lost Americana. In portraying the boyish exploits of his "Thunderbolt Kid" superhero alter ego, he convincingly evokes both the unadulterated joys and everyday battles of childhood. As an added bonus, the final CD features an interview with Bryson in which he reflects on the process of writing his autobiography and discussing the broader social and cultural insights that he gleaned from the experience.Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From School Library JournalAdult/High School–The Thunderbolt Kid was born in the 1950s when six-year-old Bryson found a mysterious, scratchy green sweater with a satiny thunderbolt across the chest. The jersey bestowed magic powers on the wearer–X-ray vision and the power to zap teachers and babysitters and deflect unwanted kisses from old people. These are the memoirs of that Kid, whose earthly parents were not really half bad–a loving mother who didn't cook and was pathologically forgetful, but shared her love of movies with her youngest child, and a dad who was the greatest baseball writer that ever lived and took his son to dugouts and into clubhouses where he met such famous players as Stan Musial and Willie Mays. Simpler times are conveyed with exaggerated humor; the author recalls the middle of the last century in the middle of the country (Des Moines, IA), when cigarettes were good for you, waxy candies were considered delicious, and kids were taught to read with Dick and Jane. Students of the decade's popular culture will marvel at the insular innocence described, even as the world moved toward nuclear weapons and civil unrest. Bryson describes country fairs and fantastic ploys to maneuver into the tent to see the lady stripper, playing hookey, paper routes, church suppers, and more. His reminiscences will entertain a wide audience.–Jackie Gropman, Chantilly Regional Library, Fairfax County, VACopyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. Views: 57
The spring of 1765 brings a welcome sense of recovery to the recently widowed Apothecary John Rawlings, but his tentative peace of mind does not last for long: a young child disappears in strange circumstances at the Hellstone Floral Dance and a seemingly omnipresent blind musician is never far away. Whilst this mysterious figure intrigues Rawlings, the case of the missing child alarms him: he feels he must do all in his powers to attempt to rescue the young life. Packed full of colorful historical detail, Death and the Cornish Fiddler is the eleventh book in the highly acclaimed John Rawlings series . . . a new masterpiece from the queen of Georgian fiction.** Views: 57
In the small town of Ptolemy, darkness is a living thing. A powerful thing. Its home is in the shadows of a bizarre, hidden club named Penumbra, where it is worshiped by followers who need the pleasure it gives them. They are addicted to it. They live for it. And they kill for it. When Aaron was first introduced to Penumbra, he thought it was just a secret club where members could indulge their kinkier fantasies. Bit by bit, as he learned the club's true purpose, he began to change in subtle, horrible ways. Now it's time for Aaron to prepare his first human sacrifice to the waiting darkness. It's too late for him to back out now, but murder is the least of Penumbra's sins. The true terror is still to come when . . . Darkness Wakes. Views: 57
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.The four men approached Annja Creed like a well-oiled machine. Their actions told her they'd done this before.She didn't break stride or change direction, heading toward the Mailboxes & Stuff store that she used to mail and receive packages. In her career as an archaeologist, she often received items for study and sometimes for authentication. A handful of museums and private collectors paid her to do certificates of authenticity on items they were putting on display.Although everything added up, payment for the certificates wasn't much. However, the benefits included free access to those museums and private collections, and the goodwill of curators who were valuable sources of information when she was doing research.The four men moved with determination, without speaking. They were young and athletic, casually dressed and instantly forgettable. She guessed that they had military training.Everything's already been planned, Annja thought. Adrenaline spiked within her, elevating her heart rate and her senses. She stayed within the flow of the lunch crowd flooding out of the buildings onto the street. Everyone was hurrying to try to make it back on time.She knew the four men had been waiting for her, and wondered if they had followed her from her loft. She hadn't been home in weeks. A dig in Florida had consumed her and given her a brief respite from the dregs of winter that still hovered over New York. She'd quickly dropped off luggage and headed back out.Layered in dark winter clothing—a thigh-length navy wool coat, sweater over a long-sleeved top, and Levi's, with a knitted black beanie and wraparound blue-tinted sunglasses, her backpack slung over one shoulder—Annja figured the team had watched her closely to recognize her. But at five feet ten and with chestnut-colored hair that dipped below her shoulders, she forgot she had a tendency to stand out in a crowd.Nikolai, the manager at the shipping business, had left messages with her answering service to let her know she had a number of packages waiting for pickup.So why hadn't they picked her up at the airport? Annja mulled that over and realized that they weren't law-enforcement personnel. Maybe they hadn't wanted to draw attention to themselves.Then why hadn't they nabbed her at her loft? If they knew about Mailboxes & Stuff, they surely knew where she lived. That thought led to a whole new line of questions.Although it stunk to the high heavens, the situation made Annja curious, and curiosity had driven her through most of her life.Annja took her cell phone out of her pocket and punched in numbers."Mailboxes & Stuff," a friendly male voice answered."This is Nikolai. How may I help you?" His Russian accent was charming, but Annja knew it was fake. Nikolai had been born and raised in Brooklyn."It's Annja.""Ah, Annja, it is so good to hear from you." Nikolai lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "You would not believe what has been going on."Annja stopped at the newsstand at the corner across the street from Mailboxes & Stuff. She waited in line as customers ahead of her picked out newspapers, magazines and snacks.Checking the reflections in the windows of the nearby coffee shop, Annja watched the four men attempt to lose themselves in the crowd of pedestrians. If she hadn't already made them, she knew she wouldn't have noticed them."So tell me," Annja invited."A man came into the store," Nikolai said. "He showed me government credentials and claimed that he needed a package that was supposed to be delivered to you."The newsstand owner dealt with his clientele quickly. The line shrank faster than Annja wanted."What kind of credentials?" Annja asked."I don't know. I didn't get a good look. They tried to intimidate me. Something with a photograph and badge.""Do you remember his name?""Agent Smith." Nikolai cackled. "I thought it was very humorous. I asked him if he'd seen The Matrix."Nikolai was a die-hard science fiction fan. He spoke Klingon and was constantly trying to teach phrases to Annja."What did he do?" Annja asked."He was not amused. Then he threatened me. So I told him he had to have a court order before I gave any package to him. He didn't produce a court order," Nikolai said. "So I called the police.""You called the police?""Sure. I'm not going to play around with them. You get expensive things here, Annja, but you're not the only client I have that does.""Right. So what did Agent Smith do?""What did he do? He left is what he did.""Did the police come?""An hour or so later, sure. Evidently my call wasn't very important.""Did you file a report?""I did. But I kept your name out of it. I just told them that someone using government ID wanted to go through the packages.""What did the police say?" Only two people separated Annja from the newsstand vendor."Just to let them know if the guy showed up again. They really don't like people jacking around with official identification and pretending to be police officers.""Have you seen him today?" Only one person remained in front of Annja."No. Why?"The last customer moved off after buying copies of Time and Newsweek."Hang on a second." Annja asked for copies of Cosmopolitan, Wired, National Geographic and People. If she ended up in some government agency's interview room, it would be nice to have reading material while she waited for her attorney to arrive."Are you at the newsstand?" Nikolai asked.Annja paid for the magazines and said thanks. Then she returned to the phone conversation. "Yes."Across the street, Nikolai peered through the Mailboxes & Stuff window. He had shoulder-length dark hair, beard stubble, a checked shirt under a sleeveless sweater and deep blue eyes."Do you see Agent Smith?" Annja slid the magazines into her backpack, two on either side of her notebook computer to provide extra cushioning. The backpack was built around an impact-resistant core case, but it never hurt to be prepared.Nikolai scanned the crowd waiting for the light. "Maybe. He's wearing different clothes today."Annja was aware of the four men closing in on her. "Who was the package from?""Mario Fellini."The name surprisedAnnja and took her back a few years. When she'd finished school, she'd worked at a dig at Hadrian's Wall in England. The Romans had built the eightymile-long wall to cut the country in half, walling out the Picts.Mario Fellini had been on the dig after completing a double major in fine arts and archaeology. He was Italian, from a large family in Florence, with four older sisters determined to marry him off.During her time there, Annja had struck up a close friendship with Mario but it hadn't gone any further than that.Annja didn't know why he would send her something. They hadn't been in touch in years."Annja?" Nikolai said."Yes?""The light is green."Annja became aware of the pedestrians flowing around her, crossing the street. She stepped off the curb and continued across."Do you know this Fellini?" Nikolai asked."Yes. At least, I did. We haven't talked in years." Annja's pulse quickened."Would he send you anything illegal? Like contraband, maybe?""If he's still the same guy I knew, then no, he wouldn't.""This is good," Nikolai said. "Some of my customers, I'm not so sure. I try to stay away from trouble.""I know. I'm sorry you're caught up in this.""You're more caught up in it than I am. That is Agent Smith behind you and to your right."Great, Annja thought. She took a deep breath. "Is the package there at the store?""No. With all the interest in it, I thought perhaps I could arrange a more private delivery. I've got it put away for safekeeping."Annja smiled. "Thank you." "Is no problem, Annja. For you, anything. If you hadn't gotten so famous doing that show, maybe you wouldn't attract strange people, you know?"Annja knew Nikolai was referring to Chasing History's Monsters, the syndicated show she cohosted. During the trip to Florida she'd worked the dig site involving Calusa Indians. Although now extinct, the Calusa had been Glades culture American Indians who had lived on shell mounds.Doug Morrell, Annja's producer on Chasing History's Monsters, had turned up a story of a ghost shark that protected the sunken remnants of Calusa villages. Annja had covered the legend of the ghost shark—which, as it turned out, most of the local people hadn't even heard of—while she'd been on-site.As a result of the television show, Annja had ended up being known by a lot of strange people around the world. Sometimes they sent her things."You remember the shrunken head the Filipino headhunter sent you?" Nikolai asked."Yes." There was no way Annja was going to forget that. It wasn't the shrunken head. She'd seen those before. The troublesome part was that it turned out to be evidence in a murder case against a serial murderer who had liked the show. That had involved days spent with interviewers from several law-enforcement agencies.To make matters worse, in the end the investigators found out that the head shrinker had intended to send the head to Kristie Chatham, the other star of the television show. Kristie was known for her physical attributes rather than her intellect. Annja had to admit Kristie's enormous popularity sometimes bothered her."That was a mess," Nikolai sighed. "I thought I would never get the smell out.""I'm sure it's not another shrunken head," Annja said."I hope you're right."Annja's mind was racing. She was usually a quick thinker even under pressure. "Can you make a fake package about the same size as the one I was sent?" "Y... Views: 57
An exciting career in a skyscraper—daring intrigue—or marriage to a regular joe? What's a girl to do? Views: 57
