2011, ISBN: 9780330509497

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

Ballantine Books. Very Good. Mass Market Paperback. 2007. 384 pages. <br>Award-winning author Cherry Adair broke thrilling new ground with On Thin Ice-her stunning romantic suspense hardco ver debut. Now Cherry's turning up the temperature, amping up the action, and raising the degree of danger and desire to irresisti bly hot new heights. Diamonds-jewels of every kind, in fact-are Taylor Kincaid's best friends. The only thing she enjoys more is the challenge of stealing them, at which she excels like few othe rs in the world. And specializing in plundering precious stones f rom wealthy international criminals just makes it all the more sa tisfying . . . and dangerously exciting. So for Taylor, there's n o resisting the double allure of snatching the elusive Blue Star diamonds-a prize she has pursued across three continents-from the South American stronghold of the murderous Morales terrorist org anization. The heist goes down without a hitch. Until Taylor dis covers she has made off with more than she bargained for, namely the secret security-system codes that provide access to a South A frican diamond mine-packed with enough gems to sink a battleship. Suddenly, Taylor's no longer just an ultrachic freelance jewel t hief, but a reluctant player in a high-stakes cat-and-mouse game against elite global trouble-shooters and bloodthirsty terrorists . There's nothing reluctant, however, about Huntington St. John, the top T-FLAC operative who's hot on Taylor's trail. And in Tay lor's opinion, just plain hot. The feeling, emotional and otherwi se, is very mutual. Though they're on opposite sides of the law, Hunt and Taylor swiftly come to appreciate each other's well-hone d skills. But since ecstasy is fleeting, and diamonds are forever , Taylor soon slips from the sheets and hits the streets . . . to reclaim the jewels she stashed overseas. And true to his name, H unt is close behind-but this time, he's after more than the codes . With the clock ticking, and two groups of terrorists closing fa st, they'll have to mix pleasure with some very risky business. I f they can survive danger at every turn, outwit the ultimate high -tech security system, and somehow conquer each other . . . they just might get everything they desire. Editorial Reviews Review PRAISE FOR CHERRY ADAIR A breathtaking ride . . . I couldn't tu rn the pages fast enough! No one does hot romance, ice-cold villa ins and nonstop adventure better. -Mariah Stewart, author of Dead Even, on On Thin Ice Sexy, funny, and wild! Hang on and enjoy t he ride! -Andrea Kane, author of Scent of Danger, on In Too Deep A thrilling, mysterious, sexy read. -Stella Cameron, author of K iss Them Goodbye, on Hide and Seek A sexy, snappy roller-coaster ride! -Susan Andersen, author of Shadow Dance, on Kiss and Tell About the Author USA Today bestselling author Cherry Adair has g enerated numerous awards for her innovative action-adventure nove ls, which include On Thin Ice, Out of Sight, In Too Deep, Hide an d Seek, and Kiss and Tell. A favorite of reviewers and fans alike , she lives in the Pacific Northwest. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by pe rmission. All rights reserved. One August 10 San Cristóbal South America Dressed in black, shrouded by the night, T-FLAC opera- tive Huntington St. John melded with the darkness of the fetid al ley behind the adobe jail. Night vision glasses made it possible to observe every inch of the inky interior of the cell through a narrow barred window high in the wall. Empty. Where in the hell was the prisoner? It had taken six long, bloody months to disco ver this woman's identity. Six months, and the considerable resou rces of the counterterrorist organization Hunt worked for. It had n't been easy, by God, and he was not leaving without her. He ne eded a thief. Someone resourceful, cunning, and unscrupulous. Som eone at the top of his game. Hunt wanted the best. Nothing less w ould do. Determined to find the right thief, T-FLAC's crack team had scrutinized past burglary victims for the last five years. L imiting their search to individuals, or companies, with collectio ns of fine gems who had the most sophisticated, advanced security systems. They'd compiled lists comprising thousands upon thousan ds of names. They'd cross-matched friends of the victims, relativ es, staff, and lifestyle to find a common denominator. Three hun dred names had cross-matched, and 118 people appeared on more tha n six lists. A deep background check on those suspects turned up an interesting anomaly. Seventeen of the women had identical, or nearly identical, backgrounds. Or, rather, one woman had seventee n identities. No one, other than himself and a few select T-FLAC operatives, even knew the thief was a woman. They'd finally conn ected the dots. Hunt had his thief. But where the hell was she? An hour after ascertaining who she was, and with an educated gu ess, where she might be, he was wheels up and headed for South Am erica. It was highly suspect that she just happened to be in the very city he needed her to be in. San Cristóbal. In flight he'd knew she'd robbed José Morales followed by a quick arrest minutes before he touched down in San Cristóbal. So, it was a fait acco mpli. A quick, thorough search of her hotel room revealed nothin g. Not a hint, not a clue. No surprise there. She never left clue s. Ever. Which is why it had been so fucking hard to discover who she was in the first place. This woman wasn't merely extraordin arily good at what she did, she was a phenomenon. And fearless. She was the one he wanted. And by God, he'd have her. Even if, as he suspected, she'd been hired by someone else. Despite intel t o the contrary, her absence from the cell could be explained by o ne of three options: she'd been moved to another location, the ot her party had already extracted her, or she'd been killed. Now t hat would be bloody inconvenient all around. He'd already investe d enough time and energy. He wasn't about to start looking for so meone else now. Suddenly, footsteps echoed down a hallway. Clear , loud, deliberate. Two pairs-heavy, booted. And the odd, incongr uous sound of chains rattling, like something out of a bad horror film. One of the guards kicked open the cell door. It slammed a gainst the adobe wall and let in muted light from the hallway to illuminate the cramped cell. This time, bruja, the jailer threate ned in Spanish, you will not get free. Hunt's mouth flattened in to a thin line as he took in the tableau in the doorway. Trussed up in chains, the woman couldn't brace herself as the guards flu ng her through the open door and onto the floor with a thud. Her head bounced on the cement and she let out a startled grunt of pa in. Hunt bit back a curse. This was precisely why he disliked wo men involved in missions. They were vulnerable and easily broken. He hated like hell seeing someone soft and delicate hurt. The c hains wrapped around her sounded almost musical as she rolled acr oss the floor, until, stopped by the opposite wall, she lay still . The two guards observed their prisoner for a few minutes from the doorway, speculating in rapid-fire Spanish as to whether the woman was a witch. Or worse. So, she'd attempted an escape, had s he? He shook his head. Nice try, but no cigar, sweetheart. This p rison built on the outskirts of town housed political prisoners, as well as the dregs of humanity. No one, including apparently a pro like her, had ever escaped. Hunt was about to change that. Listening to the conversation between the guards, Hunt shook his head. She'd given it her best shot five times. 5-0 wasn't a great track record, but it sure took guts. No wonder the men were piss ed. No wonder they had a mile of bicycle chain wrapped around her body, and God only knew how many gleaming new padlocks fastened down her back. She'd be lucky to draw in an unrestricted breath, let alone stand. The metal door clanged shut and the key ground harshly in the lock. Sorry to disappoint, hombres, but she's mine . He listened to the guards' footsteps retreat down the hallway t oward the front of the jail. The crunch of tires on gravel drift ed between the buildings down the narrow alley where he waited. H eadlights strobed over the single-story structures as cars and tr ucks pulled into the unseen parking lot of the seedy nightclub ac ross the alley behind the jail. Vehicle doors slammed. Glass cli nked. Laughing voices rose. A band tuned up their instruments. Th e door of the dive opened and slammed. Opened and slammed. Opened , letting out the raucous sounds of the crowd warming up for the evening. All music to Hunt's ears. He knew the bar would soon be packed to the rafters. The band would be loud enough to deafen a nyone within a hundred yards, and the secondhand smoke would make a five-pack-a-day smoker look like a piker. This was almost too easy. The night air felt thick and oppressive. Not even a glimme r of a star broke the blackness of the sky overhead. San Cristóba l in midsummer was not for the fainthearted. He'd been here sever al years ago on another op. The sprawling city on the edge of the rain forest was too damn crowded for his liking. Known for its t opless beaches and raunchy night life, it wasn't one of Hunt's fa vorite places. The atmosphere was a South American version of sp ring break-noise, people, skin, and excessive drinking. The combi nation usually turned things ugly before midnight. It was a quart er till. In the distance, a dog's barks turned to mournful howls . A car backfired. Lights continued strafing the roofline as more vehicles turned into the parking lot of the club. A steel guitar riffed in a jangle of bad chords, followed by the thump of stick s on the drum as the band continued its warm-up. The chains wrap ped around the woman chinked. Good. If she could move, she wasn't too badly hurt. As far as Hunt was concerned, as long as she cou ld talk and think long enough to tell him what he wanted to know, that was sufficient. In theory, he had no problem with her capt ivity. She was where thieves belonged. But not where he needed her to be for the moment. Oblivious to the muggy heat causing hi s dark shirt to stick to his back, he gave a quick tug to the cla mps he'd hooked to the bars earlier, making sure they were secure . A clever T-FLAC invention, the device, small enough to fit in h is pocket, it consisted of a complex series of pulleys and thin m etal cable, and needed very little pressure to act as a fulcrum. The band segued into their first number. What the group lacked i n talent they made up for in volume. The ruckus from the club wou ld drown out all but an atomic bomb. Thanks, Hunt muttered dryly as he exerted the small hand movement necessary to activate the tool. Inside the cell the chinking of the chains abruptly stopped . He stepped aside as window frame, bars, and chunks of plaster came out of the old adobe wall with a grinding thunk. Two San C ristóbal What, the icy voice in Theresa Smallwood's ear dripped fury, do you mean there was nothing there? You arranged for the a rrest immediately when she got back to her hotel, like I told you , didn't you? Sweat pooled in the small of Theresa's back as she pressed the receiver against her ear. The sound of the long-dist ance-distorted voice crawled over her skin like the tiny feet of a dozen spiders. The cramped phone booth stunk of pee, sweat, and fear. Theresa was responsible for two out of the three. She shu ddered, knuckles white as she clenched the receiver, and forced h erself to respond. Forced her voice to remain steady. Competent. No more than three seconds, she assured her boss. She prayed she didn't sound as scared as she felt. They both knew how important this assignment was. How dare that fucking thief put her life i n danger? Theresa thought, still shaken with anger. She'd asked t he girl to work for her. She'd offered to pay her, and pay her we ll, to retrieve the contents of Morales's safe. Which, for Christ 's sake, she was going to do anyway. The girl refused Theresa fla t out. Smallwood? Theresa swallowed fear-thick spit. She'd bare ly closed the door when the Federales grabbed her. She hadn't had a chance to hide anything. And Christ knew, she was too damn sli ck to have gone to all that trouble to hand it over to the police . Theresa had waited a few minutes to make sure no one saw her, then tossed the hotel room. Politely. Professionally. No-one-woul d-suspect carefully. Nothing. Not a fucking thing. Nada. Zip. Th en you have what I want, the voice said smoothly in her ear. Not a question. Never a question. Theresa's armpits prickled with dr ead and her mouth went bone dry. She needed a drink, she needed o ne bad. I'll meet with our Rio contact as planned. Tomorrow, she said with utmost conviction, the answer implicit. The air seemed to vibrate menacingly around Theresa as the silence on the other end of the phone lengthened. When she heard a click instead of t he ass-reaming she expected, she let the phone drop and slumped b ack against the bullet-riddled glass of the phone booth as though she were a puppet with her strings cut. She'd find the bitch if it was the last thing she did. She exited the phone booth, then strode across the gravel lot of the abandoned gas station to the rental car. Oh, she'd find the girl all right. She'd find the g irl, retrieve what she'd stolen, and then slice her skin from her skinny body in one long ribbon like peeling a fucking apple. The resa hadn't gotten where she was by letting emotions get in the w ay of business. Business was brutal. If she had to screw the bra ins out of every cop in this godforsaken city to find out where t he woman was being held, she vowed she'd do it. Theresa was prou d of the small elegant black rose tattooed on the small of her ba ck. One day soon she would have more petals added, and she'd be t he Black Rose. Until then she'd do her job, and do it well. And w hen the time came, she'd carve that full-blown rose tattoo off th e current Black Rose's skin. She opened the car door, slid behin d the wheel, and buckled up for safety as she pulled out of the d ark lot. For more immediate gratification, she thought of the thi ef's big black eyes, that smooth, dusky skin, and decided she'd l eave the girl's face for last. Three Hear me now, do you, sweet heart? a man said softly in the darkness. Well, yeah. He'd just k nocked down the wall and his, Ballantine Books, 2007, 3, Pan Publishing. Good. 5.12 x 1.41 x 7.72 inches. Paperback. 2011. 400 pages. Cover worn<br>Florence, 1943. Two sisters, Isabella an d Caterina Cammaccio, find themselves surrounded by terror and de ath; and with Italy trapped under the heel of a brutal Nazi occup ation, bands of Partisans rise up. Soon Isabella and Caterina wil l test their wits and deepest beliefs as never before. As the win ter grinds on, they will be forced to make the most important dec isions of their lives. Their choices will reverberate for decades . In the present day, Alessandro Pallioti, a senior policeman agr ees to oversee a murder investigation, after it emerges the victi m was once a Partisan hero. When the case begins to unravel, Pall ioti finds himself working to uncover a crime lost in the twiligh t of war, the consequences of which are as deadly today as they w ere over sixty years ago. 'Grindle vividly evokes Florence as few tourists see it ...Here is the perfect summer holiday read' Lite rary Review 'Grindle saves her best story-weaving to the thrillin g denouement that creates a surprise as unexpected and delicious as the finest Florentine cuisine' Daily Express ., Pan Publishing, 2011, 2.5<

2011, ISBN: 9780330509497

paperback, Access codes and supplements are not guaranteed with used items. May be an ex-library book., Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Pan Publishing]

ISBN: 9780330509497

Paperback. Good., 2.5