2019, ISBN: 776514a7054dc3435004f27afa533b42

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Bloom Books. Good. 5.19 x 1.5 x 8 inches. Paperback. 2012. 514 pages. <br>And in this quiet moment as I close my eyes, spent and sated, I think I'm in the eye of the storm. And… Plus…

Bloom Books. Good. 5.19 x 1.5 x 8 inches. Paperback. 2012. 514 pages. <br>And in this quiet moment as I close my eyes, spent and sated, I think I'm in the eye of the storm. And in spite of all he's said, and what he hasn't said, I don't think I have ever been so happy. When literature student Anastasia Steele goes to interview young entrepreneur Christian Grey, she encounters a ma n who is beautiful, brilliant, and intimidating. The unworldly, i nnocent Ana is startled to realize she wants this man and, despit e his enigmatic reserve, finds she is desperate to get close to h im. Unable to resist Ana's quiet beauty, wit, and independent spi rit, Grey admits he wants her, too--but on his own terms. Shocke d yet thrilled by Grey's singular erotic tastes, Ana hesitates. F or all the trappings of success--his multinational businesses, hi s vast wealth, his loving family--Grey is a man tormented by demo ns and consumed by the need to control. When the couple embarks o n a daring, passionately physical affair, Ana discovers Christian Grey's secrets and explores her own dark desires. An Instant #1 New York Times Bestseller More than 165 Million Copies Sold Wo rldwide One of 100 Great Reads in the Great American Read 133 Weeks on the New York Times Bestseller List This book is inten ded for mature audiences. Editorial Reviews Review A GoodReads Choice Awards Finalist for Best Romance In a class by itself. - Entertainment Weekly About the Author E L James is an incurabl e romantic and a self-confessed fangirl. After twenty-five years of working in television, she decided to pursue a childhood dream and write stories that readers could take to their hearts. The r esult was the controversial and sensuous romance Fifty Shades of Grey and its two sequels, Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Fr eed. In 2015, she published the #1 bestseller Grey, the story of Fifty Shades of Grey from the perspective of Christian Grey, and in 2017, the chart-topping Darker, the second part of the Fifty S hades story from Christian's point of view. She followed with the #1 New York Times bestseller, The Mister in 2019. Her books have been published in fifty languages and have sold more than 165 mi llion copies worldwide. E L James has been recognized as one of Time magazine's Most Influential People in the World and Publishe rs Weekly's Person of the Year. Fifty Shades of Grey stayed on th e New York Times bestseller list for 133 consecutive weeks. Fifty Shades Freed won the Goodreads Choice Award (2012), and Fifty Sh ades of Grey was selected as one of the 100 Great Reads, as voted by readers, in PBS's The Great American Read (2018). Darker was long-listed for the 2019 International DUBLIN Literary Award. Sh e was a producer on each of the three Fifty Shades movies, which made more than a billion dollars at the box office. The third ins tallment, Fifty Shades Freed, won the People's Choice Award for D rama in 2018. E L James is blessed with two wonderful sons and li ves with her husband, the novelist and screenwriter Niall Leonard , and their West Highland terriers in the leafy suburbs of West L ondon. Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. C HAPTER ONE I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Dam n my hairit just won't behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for be ing ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying fo r my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to br ush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I att empt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail a nd hope that I look semi-presentable. Kate is my roommate, and s he has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she'd arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I've never heard of, for the student ne wspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram f or and one essay to finish, and I'm supposed to be working this a fternoon, but notoday I have to drive 165 miles to downtown Seatt le in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holding s, Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of ou r university, his time is extraordinarily preciousmuch more preci ous than minebut he has granted Kate an interview. A real coup, s he tells me. Damn her extracurricular activities. Kate is huddle d on the couch in the living room. Ana, I'm sorry. It took me ni ne months to get this interview. It will take another six to resc hedule, and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I c an't blow this off. Please, Kate begs me in her rasping, sore thr oat voice. How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorg eous, strawberry blond hair in place and green eyes bright, altho ugh now red rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympa thy. Of course I'll go, Kate. You should get back to bed. Would you like some NyQuil or Tylenol? NyQuil, please. Here are the qu estions and my digital recorder. Just press record here. Make not es, I'll transcribe it all. I know nothing about him, I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic. The questions wi ll see you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you to be late. Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later. I stare at her fondly. Only for you, Kate, would I do this. I will. Good luck. And thanks, Anaas usual, you're my lifesaver. Gathering my backpack, I smile wryly at her, then he ad out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this. But then Kate can talk anyone into anything. She'l l make an exceptional journalist. She's articulate, strong, persu asive, argumentative, beautifuland she's my dearest, dearest frie nd. The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, Washington, toward Interstate 5. It's early, and I don't have to be in Seatt le until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Kate has lent me her sp orty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would ma ke the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the mile s slip away as I hit the pedal to the metal. My destination is t he headquarters of Mr. Grey's global enterprise. It's a huge twen ty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architec t's utilitarian fantasy, with GREY HOUSE written discreetly in st eel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arri ve, greatly relieved that I'm not late as I walk into the enormou sand frankly intimidatingglass, steel, and white sandstone lobby. Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, bl onde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharp est charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She lo oks immaculate. I'm here to see Mr. Grey. Anastasia Steele for K atherine Kavanagh. Excuse me one moment, Miss Steele. She arches her eyebrow as I stand self-consciously before her. I'm beginnin g to wish I'd borrowed one of Kate's formal blazers rather than w orn my navy-blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one an d only skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots, and a blue swe ater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils o f my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn't intimidate me. Miss Kavanagh is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Steele. You 'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor. She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in. S he hands me a security pass that has visitor very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all. Nothing changes. I in wardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators a nd past the two security men who are both far more smartly dresse d than I am in their well-cut black suits. The elevator whisks m e at terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide op en, and I'm in another large lobbyagain all glass, steel, and whi te sandstone. I'm confrontd by another desk of sandstone and anot her young blonde woman, this time dressed impeccably in black and white, who rises to greet me. Miss Steele, could you wait here, please? She points to a seated area of white leather chairs. Be hind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room w ith an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty match ing chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling wi ndow with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through th e city toward the Sound. It's a stunning vista, and I'm momentari ly paralyzed by the view. Wow. I sit down, fish the questions fr om my backpack, and go through them, inwardly cursing Kate for no t providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I'm about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thi rty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews , preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer m y own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a ch air in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a c olossal glass-and-stone edifice. I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Steele. Judging from the building, which is too clinical a nd modern, I guess Grey is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair- haired to match the rest of the personnel. Another elegant, flaw lessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. Wha t is it with all the immaculate blondes? It's like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up. Miss Steele? the latest blond e asks. Yes, I croak, and clear my throat. Yes. There, that soun ded more confident. Mr. Grey will see you in a moment. May I tak e your jacket? Oh, please. I struggle out of the jacket. Have y ou been offered any refreshment? Umno. Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble? Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young wom an at the desk. Would you like tea, coffee, water? she asks, turn ing her attention back to me. A glass of water. Thank you, I mur mur. Olivia, please fetch Miss Steele a glass of water. Her voic e is stern. Olivia scoots up and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer. My apologies, Miss Steele, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Grey will be another five minutes. Olivia returns with a glass of iced water. Here you go, Miss St eele. Thank you. Blonde Number Two marches over to the large de sk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She si ts down, and they both continue their work. Perhaps Mr. Grey ins ists on all his employees being blonde. I'm wondering idly if tha t's legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dress ed, attractive African American man with short dreads exits. I ha ve definitely worn the wrong clothes. He turns and says through the door, Golf this week, Grey? I don't hear the reply. He turns , sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Ol ivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more nervous than me! Good afterno on, ladies, he says as he departs through the sliding door. Mr. Grey will see you now, Miss Steele. Do go through, Blonde Number Two says. I stand rather shakily, trying to suppress my nerves. G athering up my backpack, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door. You don't need to knockjust go i n. She smiles kindly. I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet and falling headfirst into the office. Double crapme and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Grey's office, and gentle hands are around me, helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cowhe's so young. Mis s Kavanagh. He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I'm uprigh t. I'm Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit? So youngand attractive, very attractive. He's tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark copp er-colored hair and intense, bright gray eyes that regard me shre wdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice. Um. Actually I mutter. If this guy is over thirty, then I'm a monkey's uncle. I n a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers tou ch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate. Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Grey. And you are? His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from h is impassive expression. He looks mildly interested but, above al l, polite. Anastasia Steele. I'm studying English literature wit h Kate, um . . . Katherine . . . um . . . Miss Kavanagh, at WSU V ancouver. I see, he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a sm ile in his expression, but I'm not sure. Would you like to sit? He waves me toward an L-shaped white leather couch. His office i s way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a modern dark wood desk that six people could co mfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. E verything else is whiteceiling, floors, and walls, except for the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty -six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisitea series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they lo ok like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking. A local artist. Trouton, says Grey when he catches my gaze. The y're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary, I murmur, dis tracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one s ide and regards me intently. I couldn't agree more, Miss Steele, he replies, his voice soft, and for some inexplicable reason I f ind myself blushing. Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the wh ite leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and ret, Bloom Books, 2012, 2.5, Ballantine Books. Good. 0.75 x 5.25 x 8 inches. Paperback. 1992. 400 pages. Cover worn.<br>A thousand acres, a piece of land of al most mythic proportions. Upon this fertile, nourishing earth, Jan e Smiley has set her rich, breathtakingly dramatic novel of an Am erican family whose wealth cannot stay the hand of tragedy. It is the intense, compelling story of a father and his daughters, of sisters, of wives and husbands, and of the human cost of a lifeti me spent trying to subdue the land and the passions it stirs. The most critically acclaimed novel of the literary season, a classi c story of contemporary American life, A THOUSAND ACRES is destin ed to be read for years to come. It has been a long time since a novel so surprised me with its power to haunt . . . . Its genius grows from its ruthless acceptance of the divided nature of every character . . . . This gives A THOUSAND ACRES the prismatic qual ity of the greatest art. -- Chicago Tribune Winner of the Pulitze r Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award Editorial Rev iews Amazon com Review Aging Larry Cook announces his intention to turn over his 1,000-acre farm--one of the largest in Zebulon C ounty, Iowa--to his three daughters, Caroline, Ginny and Rose. A man of harsh sensibilities, he carves Caroline out of the deal be cause she has the nerve to be less than enthusiastic about her fa ther's generosity. While Larry Cook deteriorates into a pathetic drunk, his daughters are left to cope with the often grim realiti es of life on a family farm--from battering husbands to cutthroat lenders. In this winner of the 1991 National Book Critics Circle Award for Fiction, Smiley captures the essence of such a life wi th stark, painful detail. From Publishers Weekly Winner of the P ulitzer Prize and the NBCC Award for fiction, a BOMC dual main se lection and a five-week PW bestseller in cloth, Smiley's novel of family life on an insular Iowa farm raises profound questions ab out human conduct and moral responsibility. Copyright 1992 Reed Business Information, Inc. Review Brilliant. . . . Absorbing. . . . A thrilling work of art. -Chicago Sun-Times A family portrai t that is also a near-epic investigation into the broad landscape , the thousand dark acres of the human heart. . . . The book has all the stark brutality of a Shakespearean tragedy. -The Washingt on Post Book World Powerful and poignant. -The New York Times Bo ok Review Superb. . . . There seems to be nothing Smiley can't w rite about fabulously well. -San Francisco Chronicle It has been a long time since a novel so surprised me with its power to haun t. . . . A Thousand Acres[has] the prismatic quality of the great est art. -Chicago Tribune Absorbing. . . . Exhilarating. . . . A n engrossing piece of fiction. -Time A full, commanding novel. . . . A story bound and tethered to a lonely road in the Midwest, but drawn from a universal source. . . . Profoundly American. -Th e Boston Globe From the Inside Flap A thousand acres, a piece of land of almost mythic proportions. Upon this fertile, nourishing earth, Jane Smiley has set her rich, breathtakingly dramatic nov el of an American family whose wealth cannot stay the hand of tra gedy. It is the intense, compelling story of a father and his dau ghters, of sisters, of wives and husbands, and of the human cost of a lifetime spent trying to subdue the land and the passions it stirs. The most critically acclaimed novel of the literary seaso n, a classic story of contemporary American life, A THOUSAND ACRE S is destined to be read for years to come. It has been a long ti me since a novel so surprised me with its power to haunt . . . . Its genius grows from its ruthless acceptance of the divided natu re of every character . . . . This gives A THOUSAND ACRES the pri smatic quality of the greatest art. -- Chicago Tribune Winner of the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award Ab out the Author Jane Smiley is the author of more than ten works o f fiction, including Good Faith, Horse Heaven, Moo, and The Green landers. In 2001 she was inducted into the American Academy of Ar ts and Letters. She lives in northern California. Excerpt. ® Rep rinted by permission. All rights reserved. At sixty miles per hou r, you could pass our farm in a minute, on County Road 686, which ran due north into the T intersection at Cabot Street Road. Cabo t Street Road was really just another country blacktop, except th at five miles west it ran into and out of the town of Cabot. On t he western edge of Cabot, it became Zebulon County Scenic Highway , and ran for three miles along the curve of the Zebulon River, b efore the river turned south and the Scenic continued west into P ike. The T intersection of CR 686 perched on a little rise, a ris e nearly as imperceptible as the bump in the center of an inexpen sive plate. From that bump, the earth was unquestionably flat, the sky unquestionably domed, and it seemed to me when I was a ch ild in school, learning about Columbus, that in spite of what my teacher said, ancient cultures might have been onto something. No globe or map fully convinced me that Zebulon County was not the center of the universe. Certainly, Zebulon County, where the eart h was flat, was one spot where a sphere (a seed, a rubber ball, a ballbearing) must come to perfect rest and once at rest must sen d a taproot downward into the ten-foot-thick topsoil. Because t he intersection was on this tiny rise, you could see our building s, a mile distant, at the southern edge of the farm. A mile to th e east, you could see three silos that marked the northeastern co rner, and if you raked your gaze from the silos to the house and barn, then back again, you would take in the immensity of the pie ce of land my father owned, six hundred forty acres, a whole sect ion, paid for, no encumbrances, as flat and fertile, black, friab le, and exposed as any piece of land on the face of the earth. If you looked west from the intersection, you saw no sign of anyt hing remotely scenic in the distance. That was because the Zebulo n River had cut down through topsoil and limestone, and made its pretty course a valley below the level of the surrounding farmlan ds. Nor, except at night, did you see any sign of Cabot. You saw only this, two sets of farm buildings surrounded by fields. In th e nearer set lived the Ericsons, who had daughters the ages of my sister Rose and myself, and in the farther set lived the Clarks, whose sons, Loren and Jess, were in grammar school when we were in junior high. Harold Clark was my father's best friend. He had five hundred acres and no mortgage. The Ericsons had three hundre d seventy acres and a mortgage. Acreage and financing were fact s as basic as the name and gender in Zebulon County. Harold Clark and my father used to argue at our kitchen table about who shoul d get the Ericson land when they finally lost their mortgage. I w as aware of this whenever I played with Ruthie Ericson, whenever my mother, my sister Rose, and I went over to help can garden pro duce, whenever Mrs. Ericson brought over some pies or doughnuts, whenever my father loaned Mr. Ericson a tool, whenever we ate Sun day dinner in the Ericson's kitchen. I recognized the justice of Harold Clark's opinion that the Ericson' land was on his side of the road, but even so, I thought it should be us. For one thing, Dinah Ericson's bedroom had a window seat in the closet that I co veted. For another, I thought it appropriate and desirable that t he great circle of the flat earth spreading out from the T inters ection of County Road 686 and Cabot Street be ours. A thousand ac res. It was that simple. It was 1951 and I was eight when I saw the farm and the future in this way. That was the year my father bought his first car, a Buick sedan with prickly gray velvet sea ts, so rounded and slick that it was easy to slide off the backse at into the footwell when we went over a stiff bump or around a s harp corner. That was also the year my sister Caroline was born, which was undoubtedly the reason my father bought the car. The Er icson Children and the Clark children continued to ride in the ba ck of the farm pickup, but the Cook children kicked their toes ag ainst a front seat and stared out the back windows, nicely protec ted from the dust. The car was the exact measure of six hundred f orty acres compared to three hundred or five hundred. In spite of the price of gasoline, we took a lot of rides that year, somet hing farmers rarely do, and my father never again did after Carol ine was born. For me, it was a pleasure like a secret hoard of co ins--Rose, whom I adored, sitting against me in the hot musty vel vet luxury of the car's interior, the click of the gravel on its undercarriage, the sensation of the car swimming in the rutted ro ad, the farms passing every minute, reduced from vastness to insi gnificance by our speed; the unaccustomed sense of leisure; most important, though, the reassuring note of my father's and mother' s voices commenting on what they saw--he on the progress of the y early work and the condition of the animals in the pastures, she on the look and size of the house and garden, the colors of the b uildings. Their tones of voice were unhurried and self-confident, complacent with the knowledge that the work at our place was far ther along, the buildings at our place more imposing and better c ared for. When I think of them now, I think how they had probably seen nearly as little of the world as I had by that time. But wh en I listened to their duet then, I nestled into the certainty of the way, through the repeated comparisons, our farm and our live s seemed secure and good. ., Ballantine Books, 1992, 2.5, Silhouette. Very Good. 4.21 x 1.18 x 6.62 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2007. 448 pages. <br>Home for Christmas After years spent abroad, repo rter Jason Law returned home determined to win back the girl he l eft behind. It would take all his skills-and then some-to win Fai th back. But this time, nothing would stand in his way-it was tim e faith was rewarded. All I Want for Christmas Identical twin b oys Zeke and Zach wanted only one gift from Santa this year: a ne w mom! But convincing their love-wary dad that their music teache r, Miss Davis, was his destiny and part of Santa's plan wasn't as easy as they'd hoped-. Gabriel's Angel All Gabriel Bradley wan ted was solitude. But when Laura ended up at his remote cabin dur ing a blizzard, desperate, alone and on the run, the modern-day S crooge couldn't turn her away. For she brought him the gift of pa ssion, life, hope-if he had the courage to reach for it. Editori al Reviews About the Author Nora Roberts is the bestselling auth or of more than two hundred romance novels. She was the first aut hor to be inducted into the Romance Writers of America Hall of Fa me. Since her first bestseller in 1991, Nora's books have spent m ore than two hundred weeks in the number one spot on the New York Times bestseller list. There are more than five hundred million copies of her books in print, published in over thirty-four count ries. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. S o much can change in ten years. He was prepared for it. All durin g the flight from London and the long, winding drive north from B oston to Quiet Valley, New Hampshire, population 326-or it had be en ten years before when Jason Law had last been there-he'd thoug ht of how different things would be. A decade, even for a forgott en little town in New England was bound to bring changes. There w ould have been deaths and births. Houses and shops would have cha nged hands. Some of them might not be there at all. Not for the first time since Jason had decided to visit his hometown did he f eel foolish. After all, it was very likely he wouldn't even be re cognized. He'd left a thin, defiant twenty-year-old in a scruffy pair of jeans. He was coming back a man who'd learned how to repl ace defiance with arrogance and succeed. His frame was still lean , but it fitted nicely into clothes tailored on Savile Row and Se venth Avenue. Ten years had changed him from a desperate boy dete rmined to make his mark to an outwardly complacent man who had. W hat ten years hadn't changed, was what was inside. He was still l ooking for roots, for his place. That was why he was heading back to Quiet Valley. The road still twisted and turned through the woods, up the mountains and down again, as it had when he'd heade d in the opposite direction on a Greyhound. Snow covered the grou nd, smooth here, bumpy there where it was heaped over rocks. In t he sunlight trees shimmered with it. Had he missed it? He'd spent one winter in snow up to his waist in the Andes. He'd spent anot her sweltering in Africa. The years ran together, but oddly enoug h, Jason could remember every place he'd spent Christmas over the last ten years, though he'd never celebrated the holiday. The ro ad narrowed and swept into a wide curve. He could see the mountai ns, covered with pines and dusted with white. Yes, he'd missed it . Sun bounced off the mounds of snow. He adjusted his dark glass es and slowed down, then on impulse, stopped. When he stepped fro m the car his breath came in streams of smoke. His skin tingled w ith the cold but he didn't button his coat or reach in his pocket s for his gloves. He needed to feel it. Breathing in the thin, ic y air was like breathing in thousands of tiny needles. Jason walk ed the few feet to the top of the ridge and looked down on Quiet Valley. He'd been born there, raised there. He'd learned of grie f there-and he'd fallen in love. Even from the distance he could see her house-her parents' house, Jason reminded himself and felt the old, familiar surge of fury. She'd be living somewhere else now, with her husband, with her children. When he discovered tha t his hands were balled into fists he carefully relaxed them. Cha nneling emotion was a skill he'd turned into an art over the past decade. If he could do it in his work, reporting on famine, war, and suffering, he could do it for himself. His feelings for Fait h had been a boy's feelings. He was a man now, and she, like Quie t Valley, was only part of his childhood. He'd traveled more than five thousand miles just to prove it. Turning away, he got back in the car and started down the mountain. From the distance, Qui et Valley had looked like a Currier and Ives painting, all white and snug between mountain and forest. As he drew closer, it becam e less idyllic and more approachable. The tired paint showed here and there on some of the outlying houses. Fences bowed under sno w. He saw a few new houses in what had once been open fields. Cha nge. He reminded himself he'd expected it. Smoke puffed out of c himneys. Dogs and children raced in the snow. A check of his watc h showed him it was half past three. School was out, and he'd bee n traveling for fifteen hours. The smart thing to do was to see i f the Valley Inn was still in operation and get a room. A smile p layed around his mouth as he wondered if old Mr. Beantree still r an the place. He couldn't count the times Beantree had told him h e'd never amount to anything but trouble. He had a Pulitzer and a n Overseas Press Award to prove differently. Houses were grouped closer together now, and he recognized them. The Bedford place, Tim Hawkin's house, the Widow Marchant's. He slowed again as he p assed the widow's tidy blue clapboard. She hadn't changed the col or, he noticed and felt foolishly pleased. And the old spruce in the front yard was already covered with bright-red ribbons. She' d been kind to him. Jason hadn't forgotten how she had fixed hot chocolate and listened to him for hours when he'd told her of the travels he wanted to make, the places he dreamed of seeing. She' d been in her seventies when he'd left, but of tough New England stock. He thought he might still find her in her kitchen patientl y fueling the wood stove and listening to her Rachmaninoff. The streets of the town were clear and tidy. New Englanders were a pr actical lot, and Jason thought, as sturdy as the bedrock they'd p lanted themselves on. The town had not changed as he'd anticipate d. Railings Hardware still sat on the corner off Main and the pos t office still occupied a brick building no bigger than a garage. The same red garland was strung from lamppost to lamppost as it had been all through his youth during each holiday season. Childr en were building a snowman in front of the Litner place. But whos e children? Jason wondered. He scanned the red mufflers and brigh t boots knowing any of them might be Faith's. The fury came back and he looked away. The sign on the Valley Inn had been repainte d, but nothing else about the three-story square stone building w as different. The walkway had been scraped clean and smoke billow ed out of both chimneys. He found himself driving beyond it. Ther e was something else to do first, something he'd already known he would have to do. He could have turned at the corner, driven a b lock and seen the house where he grew up. But he didn't. Near th e end of Main would be a tidy white house, bigger than most of th e others with two big bay windows and a wide front porch. Tom Mon roe had brought his bride there. A reporter of Jason's caliber kn ew how to ferret out such information. Perhaps Faith had put up t he lace curtains she'd always wanted at the windows. Tom would ha ve bought her the pretty china tea sets she'd longed for. He'd ha ve given her exactly what she'd wanted. Jason would have given he r a suitcase and a motel room in countless cities. She'd made her choice. After ten years he discovered it was no easier to accep t. Still, he forced himself to be calm as he pulled up to the cur b. He and Faith had been friends once, lovers briefly. He'd had o ther lovers since, and she had a husband. But he could still reme mber her as she'd looked at eighteen, lovely, soft, eager. She ha d wanted to go with him, but he wouldn't let her. She had promise d to wait, but she hadn't. He took a deep breath as he climbed fr om the car. The house was lovely. In the big bay window that fac ed the street was a Christmas tree, cluttered and green in the da ylight. At night it would glitter like magic. He could be sure of it because Faith had always believed so strongly in magic. Stan ding on the sidewalk he found himself dealing with fear. He'd cov ered wars and interviewed terrorists but he'd never felt the stom ach-churning fear that he did now, standing on a narrow snow-brus hed sidewalk facing a pristine white house with holly bushes by t he door. He could turn around, he reminded himself. Drive back to the inn or simply out of town again. There was no need to see he r again. She was out of his life. Then he saw the lace curtains a t the window and the old resentment stirred, every bit as strong as fear. As he started down the walk a girl raced around the sid e of the house just ahead of a well-aimed snowball. She dived, ro lled and evaded. In an instant, she was up again and hurling one of her own. Bull's-eye, Jimmy Harding! With a whoop, she turned to run and barreled into Jason. Sorry. With snow covering her fro m head to foot, she looked up and grinned. Jason felt the world s pin backward. She was the image of her mother. The sable hair pe eked out of her cap and fell untidily to her shoulders. The small , triangular face was dominated by big blue eyes that seemed to h old jokes all of their own. But it was the smile, the one that sa id, isn't this fun? that caught him by the throat. Shaken, he ste pped back while the girl dusted herself off and studied him. I'v e never seen you before. He slipped his hands into his pockets. But I've seen you, he thought. No. Do you live here? Yeah, but t he shop's around the side. A snowball landed with a plop at her f eet. She lifted a brow in a sophisticated manner. That's Jimmy, s he said in the tone of a woman barely tolerating a suitor. His ai m's lousy. The shop's around the side, she repeated as she bent t o ball more snow. Just walk right in. She raced off holding a ba ll in each hand. Jason figured Jimmy was in for a surprise. Fait h's daughter. He hadn't asked her name and nearly called her back . It didn't matter, he told himself. He'd only be in town a few d ays before he took the next assignment. Just passing through, he thought. Just cleaning the slate. He backtracked to walk around the side of the house. Though he couldn't imagine what sort of sh op Tom could have, he thought it might be best to see him first. He almost relished it. The little workshop he'd half expected tu rned out to be a miniature of a Victorian cottage. The sleigh out in front held two life-size dolls dressed in top hats and bonnet s, cloaks and top boots. Above the door was a fancy hand-painted sign that read Doll House. To the accompaniment of bells, Jason p ushed the door open. I'll be right with you. Hearing her voice again was like stepping back and finding no solid ground. But he' d deal with it, Jason told himself. He'd deal with it because he had to. Slipping off his glasses, he tucked them into his pocket and looked around. Child-size furniture was set around the room in the manner of a cozy parlor. Dolls of every shape and size and style occupied chairs, stools, shelves and cabinets. In front of an elf-size fireplac... </div ., Silhouette, 2007, 3, Dell. Good. 4.17 x 0.95 x 6.86 inches. Paperback. 2008. 368 pages. Cover worn.<br>Book 5 in the New York Times and #1 int ernationally bestselling Midnight Breed vampire romance series B ound by blood, addicted to danger, they'll enter the darkest--and most erotic--place of all. A warrior trained in bullets and bla des, Renata cannot be bested by any man--vampire or mortal. But h er most powerful weapon is her extraordinary psychic ability--a g ift both rare and deadly. Now a stranger threatens her hard-won i ndependence--a golden-haired vampire who lures her into a realm o f darkness...and pleasure beyond imagining. A combat-loving adr enaline junkie, Nikolai dispenses his own justice to enemies of t he Breed--and his latest quarry is a ruthless assassin. One woman stands in his way: the seductive, cool-as-ice bodyguard, Renata. But Renata's powers are put to the test when a loved one, a chil d, is threatened and she's forced to turn to Niko for help. As th e two join forces, as desire fans the flames of a deeper hunger, Renata's life is under siege by a man who offers the exquisite pl easure of a blood bond--and a passion that could save or doom the m both forever.... Editorial Reviews Review Well-written and be autifully plotted, with intriguingly complex characters, it's a t hrill ride from the opening scenes . . . Fans get ready, this ser ies just gets better and better! --Fresh Fiction From the Author The Midnight Breed Series reading order: A Touch of Midnight (p requel novella - free ebook) Kiss of Midnight Kiss of Crimson Mid night Awakening Midnight Rising Veil of Midnight Ashes of Midnigh t Shades of Midnight Taken by Midnight Deeper Than Midnight A Tas te of Midnight (novella, ebook only) Darker After Midnight The Mi dnight Breed Series Companion Edge of Dawn Marked by Midnight (no vella) Crave the Night Tempted by Midnight (novella) Bound to Dar kness Stroke of Midnight (novella) Defy the Dawn (Spring 2016) Mi dnight Untamed (October 2016) ...and more to come! Also by Lara Adrian: Phoenix Code Romantic Suspense Series (with Tina Folsom) Cut and Run Hide and Seek Masters of Seduction Paranormal Roman ce Series Merciless: House of Gravori Priceless: House of Ebarron To get notified of new releases and to be eligible for subscrib ers-only giveaways and exclusive content, be sure to visit Lara's website and sign up for the newsletter! About the Author Lara A drian is the New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling au thor of the Midnight Breed vampire romance series (Random House) and seven award-winning, newly reissued historical romances, prev iously released under the pen name Tina St. John--now available f or Kindle and other ebook devices. To keep up to date with all o f Lara's upcoming books and to be eligible for special promotions and giveaways, visit Lara's website and sign up for her private email newsletter. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One On stage in the cavernous jazz club below Montreal's street level, a crimson-lipped singer drawled into th e microphone about the cruelty of love. Although her sultry voice was pleasant enough, the lyrics about blood and pain and pleasur e clearly heartfelt, Nikolai wasn't listening. He wondered if she knew-if any of the dozens of humans packed into the intimate clu b knew-that they were sharing breathing space with vampires. The two young females sucking down pink martinis in the dark corner banquette sure as hell didn't know it. They were sandwiched betw een four such individuals, a group of slick, leather-clad males w ho were chatting them up-without much success-and trying to act l ike their bloodthirsty eyes hadn't been permanently fixed on the women's jugulars for the past fifteen minutes straight. Even thou gh it was clear that the vampires were negotiating hard to get th e humans out of the club with them, they weren't making much prog ress with their prospective blood Hosts. Nikolai scoffed under h is breath. Amateurs. He paid for the beer he'd left untouched o n the bar and headed at an easy stroll toward the corner table. A s he approached, he watched the two human females scoot out of th e booth on unsteady legs. Giggling, they stumbled for the restroo ms together, disappearing down a dim, crowded hallway off the mai n room. Nikolai sat down at the table in a negligent sprawl. Ev ening, ladies. The four vampires stared at him in silence, insta ntly recognizing their own kind. Niko lifted one of the tall, lip stick-stained martini glasses to his nose and sniffed at the dreg s of the fruity concoction. He winced, pushing the offending drin k aside. Humans, he drawled in a low voice. How can they stomach that shit? A wary silence fell over the table as Nikolai's glan ce traveled among the obviously young, obviously civilian Breed m ales. The largest of the four cleared his throat as he looked at Niko, his instincts no doubt picking up on the fact that Niko was n't local, and he was a far cry from civilized. The youth adopte d something he probably thought was a hardass look and jerked his soul-patched chin toward the restroom corridor. We saw them firs t, he murmured. The women. We saw them first. He cleared his thro at again, like he was waiting for his trio of wingmen to back him up. None did. We got here first, man. When the females come back to the table, they're gonna be leaving with us. Nikolai chuckle d at the young male's shaky attempt to stake his territory. You r eally think there'd be any contest if I was here to poach your ga me? Relax. I'm not interested in that. I'm looking for informatio n. He'd been through a similar song-and-dance twice already toni ght at other clubs, seeking out the places where members of the B reed tended to gather and hunt for blood, looking for someone who could point him toward a vampire elder named Sergei Yakut. It w asn't easy finding someone who didn't want to be found, especiall y a secretive, nomadic individual like Yakut. He was in Montreal, that much Nikolai was sure of. He'd spoken to the reclusive vamp ire by phone as recently as a couple of weeks earlier, when he'd tracked Yakut down to inform him of a threat that seemed aimed at the Breed's most powerful, rarest members-the twenty or so indiv iduals still in existence who were born of the first generation. Someone was targeting Gen Ones for extinction. Several had been slain within the past month, and for Niko and his brothers in arm s back in Boston-a small cadre of highly trained, highly lethal w arriors known as the Order-the business of rooting out and shutti ng down the elusive Gen One assassins was mission critical. For t hat, the Order had decided to contact all of the known Gen Ones r emaining in the Breed population and enlist their cooperation. S ergei Yakut had been less than enthusiastic to get involved. He f eared no one, and he had his own personal clan to protect him. He 'd declined the Order's invitation to come to Boston and talk, so Nikolai had been dispatched to Montreal to persuade him. Once Ya kut was made aware of the scope of the current threat-the stunnin g truth of what the Order and all of the Breed were now up agains t-Nikolai was certain the Gen One would be willing to come on boa rd. First he had to find the cagey son of a bitch. So far his i nquiries around the city had turned up nothing. Patience wasn't e xactly his strong suit, but he had all night, and he'd keep searc hing. Sooner or later, someone might give him the answer he was l ooking for. And if he kept coming up dry, maybe if he asked enoug h questions, Sergei Yakut would come looking for him instead. I need to find someone, Nikolai told the four Breed youths. A vampi re out of Russia. Siberia, to be exact. That where you're from? asked the soul-patched mouthpiece of the group. He'd evidently pi cked up on the slight tinge of an accent that Nikolai hadn't lost in the long years he'd been living in the States with the Order. Niko let his glacial blue eyes speak to his own origins. Do you know this individual? No, man. I don't know him. Two other hea ds shook in immediate denial, but the last of the four youths, th e sullen one who was slouched low in the booth, shot an anxious l ook up at Nikolai from across the table. Niko caught that tellin g gaze and held it. What about you? Any idea who I'm talking abou t? At first, he didn't think the vampire was going to answer. Hoo ded eyes held his in silence, then, finally, the kid lifted one s houlder in a shrug and exhaled a curse. Sergei Yakut, he murmured . The name was hardly audible, but Nikolai heard it. And from th e periphery of his vision, he noticed that an ebony-haired woman seated at the bar nearby heard it too. He could tell she had from the sudden rigidity of her spine beneath her long-sleeved black top and from the way her head snapped briefly to the side as thou gh pulled there by the power of that name alone. You know him? N ikolai asked the Breed male, while keeping the brunette at the ba r well within his sights. I know of him, that's all. He doesn't live in the Darkhavens, said the youth, referring to the secured communities that housed most of the Breed civilian populations th roughout North America and Europe. Dude's one nasty mofo from wha t I've heard. Yeah, he was, Nikolai acknowledged inwardly. Any i dea where I might find him? No. You sure about that? Niko asked , watching as the woman at the bar slid off her stool and prepare d to leave. She still had more than half a cocktail in her glass, but at the mere mention of Yakut's name, she seemed suddenly in a big hurry to get out of the place. The Breed youth shook his h ead. I don't know where to find the dude. Don't know why anyone w ould willingly look for him either, unless you got some kind of d eath wish. Nikolai glanced over his shoulder as the tall brunett e started edging her way through the crowd gathered near the bar. On impulse, she turned to look at him then, her jade-green gaze piercing beneath the fringe of dark lashes and the glossy swing o f her sleek, chin-length bob. There was a note of fear in her eye s as she stared back at him, a naked fear she didn't even attempt to hide. I'll be damned, Niko muttered. She knew something abo ut Sergei Yakut. Something more than just a passing knowledge, h e was guessing. That startled, panicked look as she turned and br oke for an escape said it all. Nikolai took off after her. He we aved through the thicket of humans filling the club, his eyes tra ined on the silky black hair of his quarry. The female was quick, as fleet and agile as a gazelle, her dark clothes and hair letti ng her practically disappear into her surroundings. But Niko was Breed, and there was no human in existence who could outrun one of his kind. She ducked out the club door and made a fast right o nto the street outside. Nikolai followed. She must have sensed hi m hard on her heels because she pivoted her head around to gauge his pursuit and those pale green eyes locked on to him like laser s. She ran faster now, turning the corner at the end of the bloc k. Not two seconds later, Niko was there too. He grinned as he ca ught sight of her a few yards ahead of him. The alley she'd enter ed between two tall brick buildings was narrow and dark-a dead en d sealed off by a dented metal Dumpster and a chain-link fence th at climbed some ten feet up from the ground. The woman spun arou nd on the spiked heels of her black boots, panting hard, eyes tra ined on him, watching his every move. Nikolai took a few steps i nto the lightless alley, then paused, his hands held benevolently out to his sides. It's okay, he told her. No need to run. I just want to talk to you. She stared in silence. I want to ask you about Sergei Yakut. She swallowed visibly, her smooth white thro at flexing. You know him, don't you. The edge of her mouth qui rked only a fraction, but enough to tell him that he was correct- she was familiar with the reclusive Gen One. Whether she could le ad Niko to him was another matter. Right now, she was his best, p ossibly his only, hope. Tell me where he is. I need to find him. At her sides, her hands balled into fists. Her feet were braced slightly apart as if she were prepared to bolt. Niko saw her gla nce subtly toward a battered door to her left. She lunged for it . Niko hissed a curse and flew after her with all the speed he p ossessed. By the time she'd thrown the door open on its groaning hinges, Nikolai was standing in front of her at the threshold, bl ocking her path into the darkness on the other side. He chuckled at the ease of it. I said there's no need to run, he said, shrug ging lightly as she backed a step away from him. He let the door fall closed behind him as he followed her slow retreat into the a lley. Jesus, she was breathtaking. He'd only gotten a glimpse of her in the club, but now, standing just a couple of feet from he r, he realized that she was absolutely stunning. Tall and lean, w illowy beneath her fitted black clothing, with flawless milk-whit e skin and luminous almond-shaped eyes. Her heart-shaped face was a mesmerizing combination of strength and softness, her beauty e qual parts light and dark. Nikolai knew he was gaping, but damn i f he could help it. Talk to me, he said. Tell me your name. He reached for her, an easy, nonthreatening move of his hand. He sen sed the jolt of adrenaline that shot into her bloodstream-he coul d smell the citrusy tang of it in the air, in fact-but he didn't see the roundhouse kick coming at him until he took the sharp hee l of her boot squarely in his chest. Goddamn. He rocked back, m ore surprised than unfooted. It was all the break she needed. Th e woman leapt for the door again, this time managing to disappear into the darkened building before Niko could wheel around and st op her. He gave chase, thundering in behind her. The place was e mpty, just a lot of naked concrete beneath his feet, bare bricks and exposed rafters all around him. Some fleeting sense of forebo ding prickled at the back of his neck as he raced deeper into the darkness, but the bulk of his attention was focused on the femal e standing in the center of the vacant space. She stared him down as he approached, every muscle in her slim body seeming tensed f or attack. Nikolai held that sharp stare as he drew up in front of her. I'm not going to hurt you. I know. She smiled, just a sl ight curve of her lips. You won't get that chance. Her voice was velvety smooth, but the glint in her eyes took on a cold edge. W ithout warning, Niko fel, Dell, 2008, 2.5, Garden City NY.: Doubleday & Company,, 1952. Hard cover. Good in poor dust jacket. Ex-library. Clean interior. Tightly bound. Clean covers save for small light front smudge. Remaining jacket flaps adhered inside front.. 1 157 p. Tan vinyl cloth over boards. Brown spine titles. 20 cm. Medicine / Strength over Adversity / Polio. At age 10 in 1950, Chuck Andrews, the author's son, was stricken with bulbar poliomyelitis; doctors gave him 1 chance in 1000 of survival. His parents held onto faith and applied psychology. With his strong spirit, young Chuck battled a series of crises without permanent injury. He survived. In this account about one family experience during the polio epidemic, we learn of the mid-20th century tireless dedication among caregivers, inventive equipment, and the vital role parents can play. The positive mental attitude held by Chuck and his parents is the lesson they share with anyone battling any disease of physical ailment., Doubleday & Company, 1952, 2.5<

1981, ISBN: 776514a7054dc3435004f27afa533b42

Arbor House Pub Co October 1981,, 1981. Hardcover. Fine/Very Good. Octavo, hardcover, fine in VG white pictorial dj. Book Club edition. 436 pp. in 41 chapters. Seeking freedom and the r… Plus…

Arbor House Pub Co October 1981,, 1981. Hardcover. Fine/Very Good. Octavo, hardcover, fine in VG white pictorial dj. Book Club edition. 436 pp. in 41 chapters. Seeking freedom and the reunion of her family, Chava, a young Russian-Jewish girl, the matriarch of her family at an early age, emigrates first to Palestine, then to London, and finally to New York and its diamond district., Arbor House Pub Co October 1981, 1981, 4<

1958, ISBN: 776514a7054dc3435004f27afa533b42

Hard Cover, 8vo-over 7¾"-9¾" tall., Very Good in Good jacket, Fiction, Jacket is chipped on edges, sunned on spinecover. Boards have minor shelfwear. Pages are clean, text has no markings… Plus…

Hard Cover, 8vo-over 7¾"-9¾" tall., Very Good in Good jacket, Fiction, Jacket is chipped on edges, sunned on spinecover. Boards have minor shelfwear. Pages are clean, text has no markings, binding is sound., New York, [PU: Kamin Publishers]<

1958, ISBN: 776514a7054dc3435004f27afa533b42

Edition reliée

Hardcover, VG in VG jacket, [ED: 1], Fiction|FICTION, Clean, unmarked copy., NY, [PU: KAMIN PUB.]