Gabrielle needed to face her guilt. Julian learned long ago that guilt left unpunished devours from the inside out. Captivated by the sad, sultry Gabrielle, Julian finds himself to be the hand that must administer the medicine.Although hesitant at first, Gabrielle agrees to take her punishment, finding an outlet for her pain and a pleasure unparalleled through her submission. Views: 13
Margriet grew up as a lonely child in the old town of Hull. Her adored father often travelled by sea to the Netherlands, leaving her with an unaffectionate mother and only her imagination of a little Dutch girl, Annelise, to keep her company. When devastation ravages her tiny family. Annelise becomes the comforting friend Margriet needs for a long time to come.A few years later, Margriet is blossoming into a kind young lady. Keen to escape her mother and strike out on her own, she forms an unlikely friendship with some of the street children who roam the town. As Margriet acts upon her inspiration to help them, will the troubles of her past break her spirit, or will she be able to overcome them?If you've liked books by Katie Flynn and Dilly Court, you'll love Val's heart-rending stories of triumph over adversity. Views: 12
This is a love story written with the heart, the life of a woman who lived with determination, loving and getting over all sufferings and discovering herself, who she really was, giving her love without bias or following the patterns of the society, just doing what she felt was genuine. Views: 12
This volume assembles no less than 42 of the classic Old West novels and short stories of B.M. Bower. Included are many tales of the Flying U Ranch, as well as stories set in California, Montana, and many other western locales. Hours of great western reading await!Included are:Flying U RanchChip, of the Flying UThe Flying-U's Last StandBlinkMiss Martin's MissionHappy Jack, Wild Man.A Tamer of Wild Ones.Andy, the Liar"Wolf! Wolf!"Fool's GoldLords of the Pots and PansFirst Aid To CupidThe LambThe RevelerThe Spirit of the RangeThe Unheavenly TwinsWhen the Cook Fell IllGood IndianThe Heritage of the SiouxThe Phantom HerdHer Prairie KnightCabin FeverCasey RyanCow-CountryThe GringosAnanias GreenThe Long ShadowThe Lookout ManLonesome LandThe Lure of the Dim TrailsThe QuirtThe Ranch at the WolverineThe Range DwellersRim O' the WorldSawtooth RanchSkyriderThe Trail of the... Views: 12
Not one to let being banged up in Sick Bay stop her, Max has had a brilliant idea. But she needs Markham to execute it on her behalf. The subject of this cunning plan is Peterson, struggling with another bereavement and not doing very well. What's needed to get him through it is sympathy, sensitivity, tact and understanding. Step forward Mr Markham, for whom sympathy, sensitivity, etc., are things that happen to other people. Combine a fanatic from R&D, a head of Security with his own problems, a steam-pump, two historians who can't even be in the same room as each other, some fractious Protestants and a large body of very dirty water. Told in Markham's own words, this is the story of an intervention – St Mary's style. Views: 12
{blind·sight: the ability to see without knowing it} Sometimes a single touch is all it takes to spark a wildfire. Erin Warner learned that the day she bumped into the dashing, tattooed stranger on a busy Chicago street corner. She’s captivated from the moment his mystifying green eyes find hers, and it isn’t long before she finds herself flying to exotic locales to assist him, the award-winning erotic photographer Hunter Ellis, on location. What she didn’t bargain for was the way he makes her blood bubble and churn with lust and thinly-veiled promises of unfathomable erotic pleasure with every click of his camera. But there is more to Hunter than meets the eye, including the intricately etched tattoos decorating his body that disguise horrific scars from a past he refuses to revisit. As she peels away the layers, Erin realizes that what she thought was true, never really was at all, for both of them. Now she can only hope that blind adoration for the dashing stranger didn’t sign her death warrant. The first in a thrilling new erotic serial intended for mature audiences. Views: 12
The standalone romance novella which follows the #1 Bestselling Shifter Romance Blind Wolf!
Julia always thought that she was human. When the blind leader of a
pack of straggling misfits claims her as his one true mate, she accepts
that she is in love with Damien despite their radical differences. But after another shifter wolf attacks them, he points to her as he dies and utters words that will change Julia's life forever:"...she's not what you think she is..."From New York Times Bestselling author Aubrey Rose comes a thrilling sequel to the #1 Bestselling Shifter Romance Blind Wolf that's
equal parts romance and suspense. This werewolf shifter BBW romance
novella is 24,000 words long, has some naughty language, and a lot of
naughty sex. Be warned! Views: 12
Welcome to a London Gaming Hell like no other. A place where anonymity is your security—no names, no faces, no strings. But that doesn't mean no surprises . . . Lucas Mayfield, the Eighth Earl of Heightford, couldn't be more pleased with the private club that is his brainchild. But when a young courtesan at the club's masquerade appears far too innocent, his suspicions are raised—along with his interest. . . . Until her gleaming hair tumbles down and he recognizes her as the Duke of Langston's beautiful daughter. How did the minx even know the place existed? And how has he allowed himself to give in to temptation and kiss her? More perplexing: she has vowed the kiss won't be the last . . . Liliah Durary's father has cruelly demanded she marry her best friend, Meyer, though no romantic feeling exists between them. In fact, Meyer and Liliah's other best friend, Rebecca, are truly in love. Liliah sees only one option: She and Meyer will... Views: 12
The #1 New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Kellerman’s “psychology skills and dark imagination are a potent literary mix” (Los Angeles Times), and this intensely thrilling blend has never been so powerful as in the acclaimed author’s new novel of murder and madness among the beautiful dreamers, seductive predators, and doomed innocents adrift in the glare of Southern California’s eternal sunshine.A series of horrifying events occur in quick succession in the same upscale L.A. neighborhood. A backyard renovation unearths an infant’s body, buried sixty years ago. And soon thereafter in a nearby park, another disturbingly bizarre discovery is made not far from the body of a young woman shot in the head. Helping LAPD homicide detective Milo Sturgis to link these eerie incidents is brilliant psychologist Alex Delaware. But even the good doctor’s vast experience with matters both clinical and criminal might not be enough to cut down to the bone of this chilling case—and draw out the disturbing truth.Backtracking six decades into the past stirs up tales of a beautiful nurse with a mystery lover, a handsome, wealthy doctor who seems too good to be true, and a hospital with a notorious reputation—all of them long gone, along with any records of a newborn, and destined for anonymity. But the specter of fame rears its head when the case unexpectedly twists in the direction of the highest echelons of celebrity privilege. Entering this sheltered world, Alex little imagines the macabre layer just below the surface—a decadent quagmire of unholy rituals and grisly sacrifice.Before their work is done, Alex and Milo, “the most original whodunit duo since Watson and Holmes” (Forbes), must confront a fanatically deranged mind of such monstrous cunning that even the most depraved madman would shudder.About the AuthorJonathan Kellerman is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club, Twisted, and True Detectives. With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored Double Homicide and Capital Crimes. He is also the author of two children’s books and numerous nonfiction works, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children and With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California, New Mexico, and New York. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.CHAPTER1All mine!The house, the life growing inside her.The husband.Holly finished her fifth circuit of the back room that looked out to the yard. She paused for breath. The baby—Aimee—had started pushing against her diaphragm.Since escrow had closed, Holly had done a hundred circuits, imagining. Loving every inch of the place despite the odors embedded in ninety-year-old plaster: cat pee, mildew, overripe vegetable soup. Old person.In a few days the painting would begin and the aroma of fresh latex would bury all that, and cheerful colors would mask the discouraging gray-beige of Holly’s ten-room dream. Not counting bathrooms.The house was a brick-faced Tudor on a quarter-acre lot at the southern edge of Cheviot Hills, built when construction was meant to last and adorned by moldings, wainscoting, arched mahogany doors, quarter-sawn oak floors. Parquet in the cute little study that would be Matt’s home office when he needed to bring work home.Holly could close the door and not have to hear Matt’s grumbling about moron clients incapable of keeping decent records. Meanwhile she’d be on a comfy couch, snuggling with Aimee.She’d learned the sex of the baby at the four-month anatomical ultrasound, decided on the name right then and there. Matt didn’t know yet. He was still adjusting to the whole fatherhood thing.Sometimes she wondered if Matt dreamed in numbers.Resting her hands on a mahogany sill, Holly squinted to blank out the weeds and dead grass, struggling to conjure a green, flower-laden Eden.Hard to visualize, with a mountain of tree trunk taking up all that space.The five-story sycamore had been one of the house’s selling points, with its trunk as thick as an oil drum and dense foliage that created a moody, almost spooky ambience. Holly’s creative powers had immediately kicked into gear, visualizing a swing attached to that swooping lower branch.Aimee giggling as she swooped up and shouted that Holly was the best mommy.Two weeks into escrow, during a massive, unseasonal rainstorm, the sycamore’s roots had given way. Thank God the monster had teetered but hadn’t fallen. The trajectory would’ve landed it right on the house.An agreement was drawn up: The sellers—the old woman’s son and daughter—would pay to have the monstrous thing chopped down and hauled away, the stumps ground to dust, the soil leveled. Instead, they’d cheaped out, paying a tree company only to cut down the sycamore, leaving behind a massive horror of deadwood that took up the entire rear half of the yard.Matt had gone bananas, threatened to kill the deal.Abrogate. What an ugly word.Holly had cooled him off by promising to handle the situation, she’d make sure they got duly compensated, he wouldn’t have to deal with it.Fine. As long as you actually do it.Now Holly stared at the mountain of wood, feeling discouraged and a bit helpless. Some of the sycamore, she supposed, could be reduced to firewood. Fragments and leaves and loose pieces of bark she could rake up herself, maybe create a compost pile. But those massive columns . . .Whatever; she’d figure it out. Meanwhile, there was cat-pee/overripe-soup/mildew/old-lady stink to deal with.Mrs. Hannah had lived in the house for fifty-two years. Still, how did a person’s smell permeate lath and plaster? Not that Holly had anything against old people. Though she didn’t know too many.There had to be something you could do to freshen yourself—a special deodorant—when you reached a certain age.One way or the other, Matt would settle down. He’d come around, he always did.Like with the house, itself. He’d never expressed any interest in design, all of a sudden he was into contemporary. Holly had toured a ton of boring white boxes, knowing Matt would always find a reason to say no because that was Matt’s thing.By the time Holly’s dream house materialized, he didn’t care about style, just a good price.The deal had been one of those warp-speed magical things, like when the stars are all aligned and your karma’s perfectly positioned: Old lady dies, greedy kids want quick cash and contact Coldwell and randomly get hooked up with Vanessa, and Vanessa calls Holly before the house goes on the market because she owes Holly big-time, all those nights talking Vanessa down from bad highs, listening to Vanessa’s nonstop litany of personal issues.Toss in the biggest real estate slump in decades and the fact that Holly had been a little Ms. Scroogette working twelve-hour days as a P.R. drone since graduating college nine years ago and Matt was even tighter plus he’d gotten that raise plus that IPO they got to invest in from one of Matt’s tech buddies had paid off, and they had just enough for the down payment and to qualify for financing.Mine!Including the tree.Holly struggled with a balky old brass handle—original hardware!—shoved a warped French door open, and stepped out into the yard. Making her way through the obstacle course of felled branches, death-browned leaves, and ragged pieces of bark, she reached the fence that separated her property from the neighbors.This was her first serious look at the mess, and it was even worse than she’d thought: The tree company had sawed away with abandon, allowing the chunks to fall on unprotected ground. The result was a whole bunch of holes—craters, a real disaster.Maybe she could use that to threaten a big-time lawsuit unless they carted everything away and cleaned up properly.She’d need a lawyer. One who’d take it on contingency . . . God, those holes were ugly, sprouting thick, wormy masses of roots and a nasty-looking giant splinter.She kneeled at the rim of the grossest crater, tugged at the roots. No give. Moving to a smaller pit, she dislodged only dust.At the third hole, as she managed to tug loose a thatch of smaller roots, her fingers brushed against something cold. Metallic.Buried treasure, aye aye, pirate booty! Wouldn’t that be justice!Laughing, Holly brushed away soil and rocks, revealed a patch of pale blue. Then a red cross. A few more strokes and the entire top of the metal thing came into view.A box, like a safe-deposit box but larger. Blue except for the red cross at the center.Something medical? Or just kids burying who-knew-what in an abandoned receptacle?Holly tried to budge the box. It shimmied but held fast. She rocked it back and forth, made some progress but was unable to free the darn thing.Then she remembered and went to the garage and retrieved the ancient spade from the stack of rusty tools left behind by the sellers. Another broken promise, they’d pledged to clean up completely, gave the excuse that the tools were still usable, they were just trying to be nice.Like Matt would ever use hedge clippers or a rake or a hand edger.Returning to the hole, she wedged the spade’s flat mouth between metal and dirt and put a little weight into the pry. A creak sounded but the box only budged a tiny bit, stubborn devil. Maybe she could pop the lid to see what was inside . . . nope, the clasp was held tight by soil. She worked the spade some more, same lack of progress.Back in the old days she would’ve borne down hard. Back when she did Zumba twice a week and yoga once a week and ran 10Ks and didn’t have to avoid sushi or carpaccio or latte or Chardonnay.All for you, Aimee.Now every week brought increasing fatigue, everything she’d taken for granted was an ordeal. She stood there, catching her breath. Okay, time for an alternative plan: Inserting the spade along every inch of the box’s edges, she let loose a series of tiny, sharp tugs, working methodically, careful not to strain.After two go-rounds, she began again, had barely pushed down on the spade when the box’s left side popped up and it flew out of the hole and Holly staggered back, caught off-balance.The spade fell from her hands as she used both arms to fight for stability.She felt herself going down, willed herself not to, managed to stay on her feet.Close call. She was wheezing like an asthmatic couch potato. Finally, she recovered enough to drag the blue box onto the dirt.No lock on the latch, just a hasp and loop, rusted through. But the rest of the box had turned green from oxidation, and a patch worn through the blue paint explained that: bronze. From the weight, solid. That had to be worth something by itself.Sucking in a lungful of air, Holly jiggled with the hasp until she freed it.“Presto-gizmo,” she said, lifting the lid.The bottom and sides of the box were lined with browned newspaper. Resting in the nest of clippings was something wrapped in fuzzy cloth—a satin-edged blanket, once blue, now faded mostly to tan and pale green. Purplish splotches on the satin borders.Something worth wrapping. Burying. Excited, Holly lifted the blanket out of the box.Feeling disappointed immediately because whatever was inside had no serious weight to it, scratch doubloons or gold bars or rose-cut diamonds.Laying the blanket on the ground, Holly took hold of a seam and unfurled.The thing that had been inside the blanket grinned up at her.Then it shape-shifted, oh God, and she cried out and it fell apart in front of her eyes because all that had held it together was the tension of the blanket-wrap.Tiny skeleton, now a scatter of loose bones.The skull had landed right in front of her. Smiling. Black eyeholes insanely piercing.Two minuscule tooth-thingies on the bottom ja... Views: 12
