We ll Meet Again
Dr Gary Lasch is found dead at his desk. The murder stuns his elite Connecticut community - especially when his beautiful young wife, Molly, is arrested and charged with his murder. Six years later, on Molly's release from prison, she reasserts her innocence in front of reporters gathered at the prison gates. Among them is an old schoolfriend, Fran Simmons, who is currently working as an investigative reporter for a true crime television series. Determined to prove her innocence, Molly convinces Fran to research and produce a programme on Gary's death. Fran agrees, but in doing so, she has a second agenda - to learn the truth about her own father's suicide fourteen years earlier. Fran soon finds herself enmeshed in a tangled web of intrigue and menace - more deaths and more unanswered questions about Gary Lasch's death. As her investigation proceeds, there are those who know they must make a choice: face ruin, or eliminate Fran.
At fifteen, Troy and Liam were fostered by the same family, and although they hated each other at first, they gradually became solid friends. As adults, the two foster brothers live together. Both experience tough times, each being a rock for the other, but their love had never been anything other than brotherly.Until they both fall for the same guy, and things get... complicated.Dalton is fresh out of a ten year marriage. Feeling lost, he concentrates on the only thing he can control-his body. Developing from a chubby, unfit police officer into a lean, mean inked one, Dalton has never looked better, but inside, he's never felt worse. A relationship is far from his thoughts, and one with another man makes Dalton even more confused. He takes time to get to know Troy and Liam separately, but Manchester isn't that big, and sparks fly when fate throws the three together.Together, these three fight it out between them. Both Troy and Liam demand Dalton choose between them, but what if he didn't have to choose? What if it could work between three?The things in life we fight for are never the easiest, but they're the ones worth holding onto forever.
You Belong To Me
Regina Clausen was forty-three, successful in her career but insecure and unfulfilled in her personal life. Travelling alone on the luxury liner Gabrielle, she disembarked in Hong Kong saying she would rejoin the ship when it docked in Japan. She was never seen again. . . Five years later, radio presenter Susan Chandler does a series about vanishing women on her radio talk show. When a caller, who refuses to identify herself, tells of meeting a man on a cruise who gave her a ring inscribed 'You Belong to Me', but then disappeared when she refused to leave the ship with him, she thinks little of it. But then Regina's mother appears at Susan's office with a ring bearing the same inscription which was found amongst her daughter's belongings, and Susan begins to suspect that they are on the trail of something dangerously sinister...
Breakfast at Tiffany s
In this seductive, wistful masterpiece, Truman Capote created a woman whose name has entered the American idiom and whose style is a part of the literary landscape. Holly Golightly knows that nothing bad can ever happen to you at Tiffany's; her poignancy, wit, and naïveté continue to charm. This volume also includes three of Capote's best-known stories, “House of Flowers,” “A Diamond Guitar,” and “A Christmas Memory,” which the Saturday Review called “one of the most moving stories in our language.” It is a tale of two innocents—a small boy and the old woman who is his best friend—whose sweetness contains a hard, sharp kernel of truth.
Lucky Luke Ma Dalton
Cowboy Lucky Luke upholds the law of the Wild West. Always accompanied by his loyal and dapper horse Jolly Jumper, Lucky dedicates his life to serving justice—and beating his bumbling but persistant foes, the Dalton brothers. When Joe Dalton escapes from prison and dresses up as his mother to rob banks, Lucky Luke must distinguish between the two—and they have much in common.
A Gentle Feuding
Duty demands that Sheena, the beautiful jewel of the Fergusson clan, wed to end the violent feud that has devastated her family. But never could she give herself completely to the handsome and dangerous laird Jamie MacKinnion - the most feared man in the Scottish highlands. The captive prize of Jamie's sword, Sheena struggles in vain to escape the desire awakened by his touch. And though pride insists she hate her dashing enemy, Sheena's heart begs her to yield...and to surrender to Jamie's passionate love.
Bite Me If You Can
Once Bitten . . . One minute Leigh is walking home in the early hours of the morning, and the next a vampire is sinking his teeth into her neck. Turns out it was a rogue vampire marked for termination, but it does Leigh little good because the damage's already been done. She's become one of them. Lucian Argeneau, hunter of rogue vampires, has been alive for over two thousand years, and there's very little to excite him anymore. Food has become tasteless, sex is ordinary. Then Leigh drops into his life. Suddenly he finds himself craving coffee . . . and imagining the sassy brunette atop the black satin sheets on his nice big bed. It's Lucian's job now to enlighten Leigh on the inner workings of being immortal . . . and tutoring her is igniting a fire in him that hasn't burned in centuries. But until they stop a renegade bloodsucker from destroying the human race, passion will have to wait!
Annie Dunne and her cousin Sarah live and work on a small farm in a remote and beautiful part of Wicklow in late 1950s Ireland. All about them the old green roads are being tarred, cars are being purchased, a way of life is about to disappear. Like two old rooks, they hold to their hill in Kelsha, cherishing everything. When Annie's nephew and his wife are set to go to London to find work, their two small children, a little boy and his older sister, are brought down to spend the summer with their great-aunt. It is a strange chance for happiness for Annie. But against that happiness moves the figure of Billy Kerr, with his ambiguous attentions to Sarah, threatening to drive Annie from her last niche of safety in the world. The world of childish innocence also proves darkened and puzzling to her, and she struggles to find clear ground, clear light - to preserve her sense of love and place against these subtle forces of disquiet. A summer of adventure, pain, delight and ultimately epiphany unfolds for both the children and their elderly caretakers in this poignant and exquisitely told story of innocence, loss and reconciliation.
BLUE BOY by JEAN GIONO. CHAPTER I. Mof my age here remember the time when he road to Sainte-Tulle was bordered by a erried row of poplars. It is a Lombard cus om to plant poplars along the wayside. This road came, with its procession of trees, from the very heart of Piedmont. It straddled Mont Genevre, it flowed along the Alps, it caine all the way with its burden of long creaking carts and its knots of curly-haired countrymen who strode along with their songs and their hussar pantaloons flutter ing in the breeze. It came this far but no farther. It came with all its trees, its two-wheeled carts, and its Pied monteses, as far as the little hill called Toutes-Aures. Here, it looked back. From this point it saw in the hazy distance the misty peak of the Vaucluse, hot and muddy, steaming like cabbage soup. Here it was assailed by the odors of coarse vegetables, fertile land, and the plain. From here, on fine days, could be seen the still pallor of the whitewashed farmhouses and the slow kneeling of the fat peasants in the rows of vegetables. On windy days, the heavy odors of dung heaps surged in waves along with the broken, bloody bodies of storms from the Rhone. At this point the poplars stopped. The carts rolled noisily into the jaws of the way side inns with their loads of corn flour and black wine. The carters said, Porca wwdona They sneezed like mules that have snuffed up pipe smoke, and they stayed on this side of the hill with the poplars and the carts. The chief inn was called Au Territoire de Piemont. In those days, our country was made up of meadows and fair orchards that used to unfold in a magnificent spring time as soon as the warm weather came up the Durance Valley. They knewhow to recognize the approach of the long days. By what means, no one knows. By some bird cry or by that burst of green flame that lights up the hills on April evenings. They would simply begin to flutter while the frost was still on the grass, and, one fine morning, just when the bluish heat weighed upon the rocky bed of the Durance, the gaily flowered orchards would begin to sing in the warm breeze. That we have all seen from the time we were mere urchins in our black school smocks. I remember my father's workroom. I can never pass by a shoemaker's shop without thinking that my father still exists, somewhere beyond this world, sitting at a spirit table with his blue apron, his shoemaker's knife, his wax-ends, his awls, making shoes of angel leather for some thousand legged god. I was able to recognize strange steps on the stairs. I could hear my mother saying below, It is on the third floor. Go up, you will see the light. And the voice would reply, Grazia, signora And then the sound of the feet. They stumbled on that soapstone step near the top of the first flight. The loose boards in the landing rattled be neath the heavy boots. Their hands pressed against the two walls in the darkness. Here comes one of them, said my father. Putamr That is a Romagnol, said my father. And the man would enter. I remember that my father always gave them the chair near the window, then he would lift his spectacles. He would begin to speak in Italian to the man who sat erect, hands on thighs, all perfumed with wine and new corduroy. Sometimes it took a long time. At others, the smile came almost at once. My father spoke without gestures, or with very slow ones, because he held a shoe in one hand and theawl in the other. He would talk until he saw the smile. It was useless for the other to haul out papers, to tap on his papers with the back of his hand. Porca di Dior Until the smile appeared my father talked on, and some times the other would say in a hushed tone, Che bellezza Then the man would smile. Moreover, they did not come to my father at once. I do not know by what miracle they came. ...