2019, ISBN: 9780135046135

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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, Unknown. Very Good. 111 x 179mm. Perfect Paperback. 2003. 283 pages. <br>A smart, deeply satisfying romantic comedy about a woman's obsession with the return of her fianc?s ex. On the Del ta Shuttle between New York and Washington, Elise finds herself s itting next to Donald-tall, with dark wavy hair, a big easy smile . She's left the world of women's magazines in Manhattan for grad uate school in D.C. He's left investment banking to become a teac her. They are both unattached. They exchange stories. They fall i n love. One year later they're headed for an April wedding. Story book finish? Not quite. Donald has some serious baggage: an ex-f ianc? named Adrienne. And she's not just any ex: she is the mothe r of all exes. Yale educated, French extraction, ravishing, and s he's just shown up in D.C. Adrienne is Elise's worst nightmare in carnate--and before too long her all-consuming obsession. Every m an comes with baggage. But did it have to be her? Editorial Revi ews Amazon Review The problem with most of the post-Bridget Jones fiction is that the dithering heroines tend to inspire impa tience rather than sympathy, but in the novel Her, Laura Zigman s killfully avoids that common pitfall. Elise is engaged to be marr ied to Donald. Displaced New Yorkers living in Washington, D.C., they bond over the foibles of life in the capital: pundits at the grocery store, power brokers at the baggage claim. Donald seems a truly amiable fellow, a fine fictional creation worth fighting over. Enter the titular her, Donald's ex-girlfriend Adrienne, a d ark beauty who's catty and gracefully catlike all at once. When A drienne relocates from New York to D.C., Elise fights a pitched b attle over the hapless Donald, who of course has no idea of the w arfare on his behalf. Unfortunately, Elise can be so insecure and jealous that the reader guiltily begins to root for Adrienne--at least she's got a little self-respect. Such is the power of roma ntic formula, however, that when it all comes right for Donald an d Elise, we close the book with a satisfied feeling. --Claire Ded erer --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Laura Zigman is the author of A nimal Husbandry and Dating Big Bird. She spent ten years working in book publishing in New York. Her pieces have appeared in the N ew York Times, the Washington Post, and USA Today. She now lives outside Boston. --This text refers to an out of print or unavaila ble edition of this title. From the Back Cover It's fun; it's s mart; it's sassy, and it's about a subject most women have no pro blem relating to: the other woman. We love it...Zigman's dialogue is witty and right on...[Her] will win you over, give you someth ing to smile about (in the end) and give the little green monster in all of us a chance to get out of his cage, if only for a shor t while. -Michelle Rupe Eubanks, TimesDaily (Alabama) Her is a b itter gem...taut and gripping, true and painful. -City Paper (PA) This is one rampaging hoot of a book, likely to strike a resoun ding chord with anyone who has ever felt a reluctant and horrid f ascination with the 'ex' of [his/her] significant other. It's wit ty, snappy, a bit disquieting and always hugely entertaining, eve n when the heroine for whom you are rooting runs totally amok.... The fun here is in the details....A romp of a tale. -The Seattle Times /Post Intelligencer Zigman is a smart writer, part Dorothy Parker, part Gilda Radner. [She] has perfect pitch in getting th e comic details of urban women's lives and relationships, as well as the emotional mix of exuberance and loneliness, self-doubt an d self-confidence, dreaming dreams and not giving up on them. -Sa ndee Brawarsky, The Jewish Week [A] delightfully frothy novel... Zigman's strength is creating lovably frazzled and charmingly ins ecure heroines...It's a fun ride... -Chicago Tribune In Zigman's zany romantic comedy Her, ex marks the spot . . . Her is as scar y as it is funny. . . . A howl. -USA Today A captivating tale of jealousies and misconceptions. -Booklist Lively and funny. . . . Her is as addicting as Zigman's previous work. . . Sharp, hilar ious. -Bookpage --This text refers to an out of print or unavaila ble edition of this title. From Publishers Weekly Zigman's third novel, a wild tale of a woman's transformation... from bride-to- be to madwoman is for anyone who's ever felt prewedding jitters a nd the pangs of obsessive jealousy. Having left her job at a teen magazine in New York City to pursue a quieter life in Washington , D.C., Zigman's narrator, Elise, meets her perfect guy Donald, a reformed bond trader now teaching English at Sidwell Friends on the Delta shuttle. Or her almost perfect guy. Donald's one fault is that he was engaged to Adrienne, and her name crops up in just about every conversation. Though Donald and Elise swiftly fall i n love and begin planning their wedding, Elise cannot help obsess ing over the brilliant and horrifyingly gorgeous former fianc,e. But like the paranoiac who is being followed, Elise may have good reason to be jealous. Only months before the wedding, Adrienne t akes a job in Washington, D.C., and reinserts herself into Donald 's life, fueling Elise's jealousy as well as a slapstick plot hav ing to do with Donald's dog, Elise's wedding dress and liposuctio n. Zigman is better at caricature than characterization, and her emphatic, read-aloud style sometimes falls flat on the page. Yet some scenes when Donald meets Elise, for instance are fresh and s mart and almost perfect, as are many of her one-liners. Copyrigh t 2002 Cahners Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to a n out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 We were, as it h appened, Donald and I, deciding that evening on how we would have our wedding invitations printed--Engraving? Thermography? Lithog raphy?--when Adrienne, Donald's ex-fianc?, called to share her go od news: she was leaving New York to accept a job in Washington, where we lived, just after the first of the year. It was late No vember. We were planning an April wedding. And until that insta nt when the phone rang and Donald ran to the Caller ID box by the desk and froze, I had been planning-perhaps naively, perhaps idi otically-on taking the high road when it came to Adrienne and her relentless pursuit of friendship with Donald. I had vowed, witho ut any true understanding of just how deep-rooted and, well, viru lent, my particular strain of jealousy was, I see now, to put an end to my obsession. My suspicion. My frenzied insecurity. I had vowed, as they say, at long last, to get a grip. On my demons. On my nemesis. On her. Clearly this was wishful thinking on my part; a momentary lapse of delusional optimism (quite common, I'd read, with most brides-to-be), for nothing of the sort-maturity, acceptance, suffering in silence-was in the cards. Especially n ow that she-Adrienne-would be living, as it were, in our backyard . We had been staring intently at three pieces of Crane's Ecruwh ite Kid Finish stationery stock that I'd managed to sneak out of Neiman Marcus's sample book as souvenirs-the salesman, stout, bal ding, moist, had excused himself to take a phone call from an imp ortant customer: And will this be a surprise celebration for the Chief Justice? (This was, after all, Washington.) The three sampl e invitations were identical except for the method of printing (w hich is why I had lifted them: to better understand the hefty pri ce differential) and the surely fictional inviters and betrotheds (Mr. and Mrs. Henry Stewart Evans request the honour of your pre sence at the marriage of their daughter Katherine Leigh to Mr. Br ian Charles Jamison. . . . Mr. and Mrs. Wendell Fields, III, requ est the honour of your presence at the marriage of their daughter Tiffany Jane to Mr. Phinneas Welch. . . . Our joy will be more c omplete if you will share in the marriage of our daughter Blah bl ah blah to Mr. Blah blah blah.). Running our fingers slowly and c arefully over the print on each card; holding them up to the ligh t; sniffing them, even (my suggestion), yielded nothing. We were failures in the study and appreciation of fine printing technique s. Okay, I give up, Donald said, throwing the invitation he was holding down onto the table and leaning back in his chair until i ts joints creaked ominously. Which is which? Beats me. Neiman's had, I explained, not been kind enough to reward my little theft by providing me the answers on the back of each like a set of hel pful flash cards. Donald brought his chair abruptly forward, sat upright, and yawned passionately. He stretched his arms across t he table, pushing the sample invitations aside as he did, and rea ched for my hands. Honey? he said languidly. What? I said flatl y. May I speak frankly? Must you? Had he ever spoken any other way? Couldn't we, just once, I wondered, get through some task ( eating dinner, washing dishes, having sex) without his need to sp eak frankly? Fine. Speak, I said, waving my hand, giving up. Rel ieved now to have license to speak his mind (a technicality: he s poke his mind quite freely without my permission, as you'll see), he smiled broadly, then brought his shoulders up in a fake cring e, as if to indicate that he felt just terrible about what he was going to say-even though, I knew, he didn't. I'm bored, he said , finally, his confession a guilty pleasure (he was a true Cathol ic, through and through). I have to be honest, I'm having a hard time caring-broad smile, shoulders up, fake cringe-about how the invitations get printed. I mean, why are we doing this? I couldn 't have been more bored myself, but I wouldn't have admitted it f or the world. Instead, I let my mouth sag slightly into a sad pou t. Doing what? I asked. Getting married or discussing the invita tions? The phone rang. Discussing the invitations, of course, h e said. He reached to give my hands a reassuring little squeeze b ut I withheld them for effect. I want to get married. The phone rang again. Because. I was about to explain how costly engraving was compared to the other options and how since we couldn't tell the difference anyway, we could, with a completely clear conscie nce, opt for the cheapest method of the three-lithography-but I w as too distracted by the third ring of the telephone. On the begi nning of the fourth ring he rose from the dining room table where we'd been sitting, took three steps over to the desk, leaned acr oss it, turned back to look at me, and cringed-this time for real . It's Adrienne. --This text refers to an out of print or unavai lable edition of this title. From Booklist Zigman, a former publ icist who used to work for Knopf, is now publishing her third nov el with her former employer. Elise has left the magazine business and New York behind to go to grad school in Washington, D.C. She meets Donald on a shuttle plane, and the two hit it off, despite Elise's annoyance at the fact that Donald mentions his ex-fiance e, Adrienne. A year later, Elise and Donald are engaged, but Elis e is still jealous of Adrienne. When Adrienne announces that she' s moving to D.C., Elise is sure she's planning to steal Donald aw ay. Adrienne arrives, and she's everything Elise feared: gorgeous , magnetic, and flirtatious. Despite her insecurities, Elise deci des to put aside her doubts and befriend Adrienne. Is Adrienne re ally trying to steal Donald, or is it all in Elise's head? Elise is neurotic but sympathetic, and Zigman expertly pulls the reader into the story through Elise's eyes. Readers who liked Zigman's previous novels, Animal Husbandry (1998) and Dating Big Bird (200 0), will enjoy this captivating tale of jealousies and misconcept ions. See Works in Progress [BKL Mr 15 02] for more about Zigman' s transition from publicist to author. Kristine Huntley Copyright ? American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Library Journal This slim profile-cum-cautionary tale of an obsessed, driven woman brings Fran‡oise Sagan's Bonjour, Tristess e to mind, though it's less downbeat. Popular author Zigman (e.g. , Animal Husbandry) tells the story of Elise, whose relationship with fianc, Donald is put to the test when his aggressive, drop-d ead-gorgeous ex-fianc,e, Adrienne, decides to relocate to Washing ton, DC, and looks him up. Immature Donald's not much of a prize he's obsessive to the point of absurdity on the subject of his we ight and prone to dropping his trousers when upset. The question for readers, then, is whether they want to read a story, however well written, about annoying, even mean-spirited people. Zigman d issects paranoia and single-Jewish-woman angst perfectly and no d oubt will connect with a number of readers, but the tale's attemp ts at humor are forced and the ending contrived. The moral of thi s story is that smart women are often dim, and perhaps that's jus t not quite enough. Recommended for public libraries where there' s a demand for women's fiction. Jo Manning, Barry Univ., Miami Sh ores, FL Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this ti tle. From AudioFile Zigman's novel features a cast of neurotic c haracters. Narrator Elise is paranoid about the presence of her f ianc?s ex-fianc?, and fianc?Donald seems afraid to let his ex, Ad rienne, go. Even super-beautiful Adrienne is insecure and clingy, and the waves of self-involved tension even radiate out to inclu de Elise's friends. Ilana Levine gives a solid performance, clear and appropriately ironic, but it cannot detract from the fact th at the 6-hour audiobook is about 3 hours too long. Elise's fearfu l rants become redundant and tiresome after the first chapter, an d there seems to be no motivation for her grating behavior. What should be humorous scenes of pseudo-obsession--Elise's drive-bys past the competition's house, late night forays into Donald's des k drawers--just seem pathetic after the third time she does them. And she's only getting started. L.B.F. ? AudioFile 2002, Portlan d, Maine-- Copyright ? AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text ref ers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Fro m the Inside Flap A smart, deeply satisfying romantic comedy abou t a woman's obsession with the return of her fianc?s ex. On the Delta Shuttle betwee, Unknown, 2003, 3, Arrow. Very Good. 5.09 x 0.98 x 7.78 inches. Paperback. 2017. 400 pages.<br>Fear Index Editorial Reviews About the Author ROB ERT HARRIS is the author of Fatherland, Enigma, Archangel, Pompei i, Imperium and The Ghost, all of which were international bestse llers. His work has been translated into thirty-seven languages. After graduating with a degree in English from Cambridge Universi ty, he worked as a reporter for the BBC's Panorama and Newsnight programmes, before becoming political editor of the Observer and subsequently a columnist on the Sunday Times and the Daily Telegr aph. He is married to Gill Hornby and they live with their four c hildren in a village near Hungerford. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by pe rmission. All rights reserved. Learn from me, if not by my precep ts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of k nowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his nativ e town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater tha n his nature will allow. --Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (1818) Dr. Alexander Hoffmann sat by the fire in his study in Geneva, a hal f-smoked cigar lying cold in the ashtray beside him, an anglepois e lamp pulled low over his shoulder, turning the pages of a first edition of The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals by Charles Darwin. The Victorian grandfather clock in the hall was s triking midnight but Hoffmann did not hear it. Nor did he notice that the fire was almost out. All his formidable powers of attent ion were directed onto his book. He knew it had been published i n London in 1872 by John Murray & Co. in an edition of seven thou sand copies, printed in two runs. He knew also that the second ru n had introduced a ­misprint--htat--on page 208. As the volume in his hands contained no such error, he presumed it must have come from the first run, thus greatly increasing its value. He turned it round and inspected the spine. The binding was in the origina l green cloth with gilt lettering, the spine-ends only slightly f rayed. It was what was known in the book trade as a fine copy, wo rth perhaps $15,000. He had found it waiting for him when he retu rned home from his office that evening, as soon as the New York m arkets had closed, a little after ten o'clock. Yet the strange th ing was, even though he collected scientific first editions and h ad browsed the book online and had in fact been meaning to buy it , he had not actually ordered it. His immediate thought had been that it must have come from his wife, but she had denied it. He had refused to believe her at first, following her around the kit chen as she set the table, holding out the book for her inspectio n. You're really telling me you didn't buy it for me? Yes, Alex . Sorry. It wasn't me. What can I say? Perhaps you have a secret admirer. You are totally sure about this? It's not our anniversa ry or anything? I haven't forgotten to give you something? For G od's sake, I didn't buy it, okay? It had come with no message ap art from a Dutch bookseller's slip: Rosengaarden & Nijenhuise, An tiquarian Scientific & Medical Books. Established 1911. Prinsengr acht 227, 1016 HN Amsterdam, The Netherlands. Hoffmann had presse d the pedal on the waste bin and retrieved the bubble wrap and th ick brown paper. The parcel was correctly addressed, with a print ed label: Dr. Alex- ander Hoffmann, Villa Clairmont, 79 Chemin de Ruth, 1223 Col­ogny, Geneva, Switzerland. It had been dispatched by courier from Amsterdam the previous day. After they had eate n their supper--a fish pie and green salad prepared by the housek eeper before she went home--Gabrielle had stayed in the kitchen t o make a few anxious last-minute phone calls about her exhibition the next day, while Hoffmann had retreated to his study clutchin g the mysterious book. An hour later, when she put her head round the door to tell him she was going up to bed, he was still readi ng. She said, Try not to be too late, darling. I'll wait up for you. He did not reply. She paused in the doorway and considered him for a moment. He still looked young for forty-two, and had al ways been more handsome than he realised--a quality she found att ractive in a man as well as rare. It was not that he was modest, she had come to realise. On the contrary: he was supremely indiff erent to anything that did not engage him intellectually, a trait that had earned him a reputation among her friends for being dow nright bloody rude--and she quite liked that as well. His pretern aturally boyish American face was bent over the book, his spectac les pushed up and resting on the top of his thick head of light b rown hair; catching the firelight, the lenses seemed to flash a w arning look back at her. She knew better than to try to interrupt him. She sighed and went upstairs. Hoffmann had known for years that The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals was one o f the first books to be published with photographs, but he had ne ver actually seen them before. Monochrome plates depicted Victori an artists' models and inmates of the Surrey Lunatic Asylum in va rious states of emotion--grief, despair, joy, defiance, terror--f or this was meant to be a study of Homo sapiens as animal, with a n animal's instinctive responses, stripped of the mask of social graces. Born far enough into the age of science to be photographe d, their misaligned eyes and skewed teeth nonetheless gave them t he look of crafty, superstitious peasants from the Middle Ages. T hey reminded Hoffmann of a childish nightmare--of grown-ups from an old-fashioned book of fairy tales who might come and steal you from your bed in the night and carry you off into the woods. An d there was another thing that unsettled him. The bookseller's sl ip had been inserted into the pages devoted to the emotion of fea r, as if the sender specifically intended to draw them to his att ention: The frightened man at first stands like a statue motionl ess or breathless, or crouches down as if instinctively to escape observation. The heart beats quickly and violently, so that it p alpitates or knocks against the ribs . . . Hoffmann had a habit when he was thinking of cocking his head to one side and gazing i nto the middle distance, and he did so now. Was this a coincidenc e? Yes, he reasoned, it must be. On the other hand, the physiolog ical effects of fear were so directly relevant to VIXAL-4, the pr oject he was presently involved in, that it did strike him as pec uliarly pointed. And yet VIXAL-4 was highly secret, known only to his research team, and although he took care to pay them well--$ 250,000 was the starting salary, with much more on offer in bonus es--it was surely unlikely any of them would have spent $15,000 o n an anonymous gift. One person who certainly could afford it, wh o knew all about the project and who would have seen the joke of it--if that was what this was: an expensive joke--was his busines s partner, Hugo Quarry, and Hoffmann, without even thinking about the hour, rang him. Hello, Alex. How's it going? If Quarry saw anything strange in being disturbed just after midnight, his perf ect manners would never have permitted him to show it. Besides, h e was accustomed to the ways of Hoffmann, the mad professor, as h e called him--and called him it to his face as well as behind his back, it being part of his charm always to speak to everyone in the same way, public or private. Hoffmann, still reading the des cription of fear, said distractedly, Oh, hi. Did you just buy me a book? I don't think so, old friend. Why? Was I supposed to? S omeone's just sent me a Darwin first edition and I don't know who . Sounds pretty valuable. It is. I thought, because you know ho w important Darwin is to VIXAL, it might be you. &thinsp;'Fraid not. Could it be a client? A thank-you gift and they've forgotte n to include a card? Lord knows, Alex, we've made them enough mon ey. Yeah, well. Maybe. Okay. Sorry to bother you. Don't worry. See you in the morning. Big day tomorrow. In fact, it's already t omorrow. You ought to be in bed by now. Sure. On my way. Night. As fear rises to an extreme pitch, the dreadful scream of terror is heard. Great beads of sweat stand on the skin. All the muscle s of the body are relaxed. Utter prostration soon follows, and th e mental powers fail. The intestines are affected. The sphincter muscles cease to act, and no longer retain the contents of the bo dy . . . Hoffmann held the volume to his nose and inhaled. A com pound of leather and library dust and cigar smoke, so sharp he co uld taste it, with a faint hint of something chemical--­formaldeh yde, perhaps, or coal gas. It put him in mind of a nineteenth-cen tury laboratory or lecture theatre, and for an instant he saw Bun sen burners on wooden benches, flasks of acid and the skeleton of an ape. He reinserted the bookseller's slip to mark the page and carefully closed the book. Then he carried it over to the shelve s and with two fingers gently made room for it between a first ed ition of On the Origin of Species, which he had bought at auction at Sotheby's in New York for $125,000, and a leather-bound copy of The Descent of Man that had once belonged to T. H. Huxley. La ter, he would try to remember the exact sequence of what he did n ext. He consulted the Bloomberg terminal on his desk for the fina l prices in the United States: the Dow Jones, the S&P 500 and the ­NASDAQ had all ended down. He had an email exchange with Susumu Takahashi, the duty dealer in charge of execution on VIXAL-4 ove rnight, who reported that everything was functioning smoothly, an d reminded him that the Tokyo Stock Exchange would reopen in less than two hours' time following the annual three-day Golden Week holiday. It would certainly open down, to catch up with what had been a week of falling prices in Europe and the United States. An d there was one other thing: VIXAL was proposing to short another three million shares in Procter & Gamble at $62 a share, which w ould bring their overall position up to six million--a big trade: would Hoffmann approve it? Hoffmann emailed OK, threw away his u nfinished cigar, put a fine-meshed metal guard in front of the fi replace and switched off the study lights. In the hall he checked to see that the front door was locked and then set the burglar a larm with its four-digit code: 1729. (The numerals came from an e xchange between the mathematicians G. H. Hardy and S. I. Ramanuja n in 1920, when Hardy went in a taxi cab with that number to visi t his dying colleague in hospital and com­­plained it was a rathe r dull number, to which Ramanujan responded: No, Hardy! No, Hardy ! It is a very interesting number. It is the smallest number expr essible as the sum of two cubes in two different ways.) He left j ust one lamp lit downstairs--of that he was sure--then climbed th e curved white marble staircase to the bathroom. He took off his spectacles, undressed, washed, brushed his teeth and put on a pai r of blue silk pyjamas. He set the alarm on his mobile for six th irty, registering as he did so that the time was then twenty past twelve. In the bedroom he was surprised to find Gabrielle still awake, lying on her back on the counterpane in a black silk kimo no. A scented candle flickered on the dressing table; otherwise t he room was in darkness. Her hands were clasped behind her head, her elbows sharply pointed away from her, her legs crossed at the knee. One slim white foot, the toenails painted dark red, was ma king impatient circles in the fragrant air. Oh God, he said. I'd forgotten the date. Don't worry. She untied her belt and parted the silk, then held out her arms to him. I never forget it. ., Arrow, 2017, 3, 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, New York, NY Peebles Press, 1973. Hardcover Reprint Edition; (1973) First Printing thus, so stated. . Very Good+ in Very Good+ DJ: Both book and DJ show indications of very careful use. The Book shows just a touch of wear to extremities, but a small crack in the paper-over-board at the top edge of the rear panel; foxing to the outside edges; else flawless; the binding is square and secure; the text is clean. Free of creased or dog-eared pages in the text. Free of any underlining, hi-lighting or marginalia or marks in the text. Free of any ownership names, dates, addresses, notations, inscriptions, stamps, plates, or labels. A handsome very nearly-new copy, structurally sound and tightly bound, showing only mild wear and minor cosmetic flaws. Bright and Clean. Corners sharp. Close to "As New". The DJ shows mild rubbing; to the panels; the price has been clipped; mylar-protected. Not far from "As New". NOT a Remainder, Book-Club, or Ex-Library. 4to. (10.25 x 7.8 x 0.8 inches). 200 pages. Liberally illustrated with 16 full-color plates and 102 black & white illustrations, mostly photographic. Language: English. Weight: 1 pound, 10 ounces. Red boards with silver titles at the backstrip. Reprint Edition; (1973) First Printing thus, so stated. Hardback with DJ.  , Peebles Press, 1973., 0, Pearson Education, Limited. Used - Very Good. Used book that is in excellent condition. May show signs of wear or have minor defects., Pearson Education, Limited, 3<

1999, ISBN: 9780135046135

Walt Disney Home Video, 1999-03-23. VHS Tape. Very Good/Very Good. excellent condition VHA tape in original clamshell case with inserts. case slightly squashed. VHS 14793; Two fantasy … Plus…

Walt Disney Home Video, 1999-03-23. VHS Tape. Very Good/Very Good. excellent condition VHA tape in original clamshell case with inserts. case slightly squashed. VHS 14793; Two fantasy novels by Margery Sharp were combined for in the Disney animated feature The Rescuers. The title characters are a pair of mice, Bernard and Miss Bianca. A little girl named Penny has been kidnapped by Miss Medusa. When the human law enforcement officials fail to locate the child, Bernard and Miss Bianca take over with the help of several colorful animal companions. In classic Disney tradition, the comedy element is offset by moments of genuine terror. Voices are provided by Bob Newhart (Bernard), Eva Gabor (Miss Bianca), Geraldine Page (Madame Medusa), Jim "Fibber McGee" Jordan, John McIntire, George "Goober" Lindsay, Joe Flynn (who died in 1974, not long into the four-year production), and a host of others. It scored at the box office, more than compensating for the large investment and the half-decade of work it took to complete the film. In fact, The Rescuers remains one of the most popular of the Disney cartoon films produced after the death of Uncle Walt., Walt Disney Home Video, 1999-03-23, 3, Random House, 23-Sep-97. First paperback edition. Paperback. Like New. In excellent condition. From Publishers Weekly: Disputing with economists who blame declining U.S. living standards on inflation, federal budget deficits, shoddy education or low levels of investment, Madrick views these presumed causes as the consequences of a sharp slowdown in U.S. economic growth since 1973. Smaller annual growth rates, in his often provocative analysis, have translated into lost jobs, stagnating wages, eroding markets, insecure pensions and reduced home-ownership. Former Business Week finance editor and a former NBC economic reporter, Madrick believes that Americans will create a realistic national agenda only when they abandon misplaced optimism by recognizing that slower economic growth may well be permanent and a structural rather than a cyclical phenomenon. Although offering a few concrete proposals, he recommends more investment in plants, equipment and research and development. He sets as top priorities control of health care costs and greater allocations to schools, day care centers and libraries. Author tour. Copyright 1995 Reed Business Information, Inc.- From Library Journal: Madrick, the former national economic reporter for NBC and former finance editor for Business Week magazine, believes that the United States has been experiencing economic decline since 1973, with a loss of some $12 trillion in production. This explains our chronic government budget deficits and the stagnant or falling incomes of most Americans. Madrick rejects conventional solutions such as making business more competitive, raising the savings rate, increasing exports, and improving education. In his view, our reduced economic circumstances are structural and permanent. Before searching for a way out, Americans must accept these realities. Madrick's account is adequate, but the essentials of his analysis are """"in the air"""" and have been made more systematically in magazine articles, for example. An optional purchase for large public libraries. Harry Frumerman, formerly with Hunter Coll., New York Copyright 1995 Reed Business Information, Inc., Random House, 23-Sep-97, 5, Prentice Hall. Used - Good. Good condition. 2nd edition.Highlighting inside., Prentice Hall, 2.5<

1981, ISBN: 9780135046135

Englewood Cliffs, Nj: Prentice-Hall. Good. 1981. Second Edition. Hardback. 0135046130 . 654 pages ., Prentice-Hall, 1981, 2.5

ISBN: 9780135046135

Prentice Hall. Used - Good. Good condition. 2nd edition.Highlighting inside., Prentice Hall, 2.5