"Extraordinarily Complex Characters, a Superbly Executed Story: an Exceptional Book!"
Reviewed by Monique Daoust
Posted December 17, 2014
Romance
Maddie St. Clair used to be a prosecutor, but since she
has been paying for her younger sister's studies, she has
been working as an associate in a big law firm, and she's
rather short on cash. One day, Maddie's boss tells her
there's a client waiting for her, and when she sees him,
she's aghast. It's Adam LeCroix, the man she had almost
nailed for art theft when she was prosecutor, a
humiliating loss. Adam is extremely rich, and now he's
asking for her counsel because she's an insurance defence
lawyer, and one of his priceless paintings was stolen.
Maggie does not want to take the case, but her boss tells
her she takes Adam's case or she's fired.
The premise is clever, but I was a bit apprehensive for
what promised to be a "I hate you -- I want you -- I love
you" trope, which seldom works for me. Trust an author of
Ms. Connelly's calibre to deliver: THE WEDDING VOW is
supremely well executed and multidimensional does not
even begin to describe the extraordinary Maddie and Adam.
Maddie is tough -- she is known as the Pitbull -- she is
much tougher than Adam; she is witty, abrasive, and
honest to a fault. Adam is, at the same time: callous and
cold, generous and gentle, and he has personal views on
justice. As the story unfolds, even more layers to the
characters are revealed, all that happens is for a
logical reason and everything is consistent with the
characters' backgrounds.
THE WEDDING VOW is beautifully written, very fast paced,
there are no loose ends and definitely no filler. The
dialogues are realistic and Maddie's repartees are
particularly hilarious. Ms. Connelly has written a book
that breathes New York when the action is set in
Manhattan, and when the setting moves to Italy, the tempo
and the colours change accordingly. THE WEDDING VOW is
elegant, modern, harsh, tender; some passages made me
laugh out loud, especially the verbal sparring between
Maddie and Adam, while others had me tearing up, and
convincingly so; nothing is convoluted, nothing is
forced.
THE WEDDING VOW is a very emotional book; there are
explosions of rage and anger tampered by tenderness, and
understanding. The characters have a relationship that
recalls fireworks: the deafening "booms" give way to
multicoloured and beautiful shapes and patterns. THE
WEDDING VOW is a rollercoaster of emotions: raw and
primal, sweet and sexy, crafted into an extremely moving
story that keeps you guessing at how it will end until
the very end, which is quite unusual for a romance. THE
WEDDING VOW is, in my opinion, a work of genius.
SUMMARY
Cara Connelly's second Save the Date novel proves that
opposites do attract . . . The
playboy
Sexy billionaire Adam LeCroix has a mission: hunt
down the sultry spitfire he blames for his troubles, demand
her help, and exact revenge while he's at it. Maddie St.
Clair will help him . . . or else. The
prosecutor
Former prosecutor Maddie damn near nailed Adam
for stealing, but the lucky bastard walked. Now, five years
later, he's back, arrogant as ever, giving her an
ultimatum—work for him to collect the insurance money, or
she'll never work again. The problem
Maddie's all
about right and wrong. Adam's shades of gray. So when he
uncovers the hot body under her hard-ass veneer and she
finds he's a thief with a heart, can the law-and-order
lawyer and the fast-and-loose felon put their prickly past
behind them?
ExcerptSix thousand, eight hundred dollars and ninety-eight
cents.Maddie let the bill flutter to her desk, where it settled
like a leaf between her elbows. She dropped her head into
her hands. Lucille, her lovable, irresponsible, artistic sister,
wanted to do a semester in Italy, studying the great
masters. Well, hell, who wouldn’t? The problem was, Lucy’s private
college tuition was already stretching Maddie to the max.
The extra expense of a semester abroad meant dipping into
– no, wiping out – her meager emergency fund. Still, considering all they’d been through, Lucy’s
carefree spirit was nothing short of a miracle. If
keeping that miracle alive meant slaving more hours at
her desk, Maddie would make it work somehow. Knuckles rapped sharply on her office door – Adrianna
Marchand's signature staccato. Maddie slid a file on top
of the bill as Adrianna strode in. “Madeline. South conference room. Now.” Adrianna scraped
an eye over Maddie’s hair and makeup, her sleeveless
blouse. “Full armor.” Maddie shook her head. “Take Randall. I’m due in court in
two hours and I’m still not up to speed on this case.”
Insurance defense might be the most boring legal work in
the world, but it was also complex, and she was buried.
She waved an arm at the boxes stacked on her cherry
coffee table, the hundred case files that marched the
length of her leather sofa. “Remember how you dumped all
of Vicky's cases on me after you fired her for no
reason?” Adrianna iced over. “No one’s job is guaranteed at this
firm.” Maddie glared, unwilling to show fear. But she was
outclassed and she knew it. Adrianna’s stare could freeze
the fires of hell, and as one of Marchand, Riley and
White’s founding partners, she could, and would, fire
Maddie’s ass if she pushed back too hard. “Fine, whatever.” Kicking off her fuzzy slippers and
shoving her feet into the red Jimmy Choos she kept under
her desk, Maddie whipped the jacket of her black silk
Armani suit off the back of her chair and punched her
fists through the sleeves. Then she spread her arms.
“Full armor. Satisfied?” “Touch up your makeup.” Rolling her eyes, Maddie dug a compact out of her purse,
brushed some color onto her pale cheeks, hit her lips
with some gloss. Then she poked her fingers into her
caramel hair to give it some lift. She wore it spiked,
like her heels, to make herself look taller, but at a
petite five feet she was still a shrimp. Adrianna nodded once, then charged out the door, setting
a brisk pace down the carpeted hallway. “Step on it.
We’ve kept your new client waiting too long.” Maddie had to trot to keep up. “My new client? Because I
don’t have enough work?” “He requested you specifically. He says you’re
acquainted.” “Well, who is he?” “He wants to surprise you.” Adrianna’s dry tone made it
clear she wasn’t kidding. Before Maddie could respond to that ridiculous statement,
Adrianna tapped politely on the conference room door,
then gently pushed it open. Meant for large meetings with important clients, the room
was designed to impress, with Oriental carpets covering
the hardwoods, and original landscapes by notable artists
gracing the walls. But it was the long cherry table that
really set the tone. Polished to a gleam and surrounded
by posh leather chairs, it spelled confidence,
professionalism and prosperity. Bring us your problem, that table said, and we will solve
it without breaking a sweat. And if the room and the table weren’t enough to convince
a prospective client that Marchand, Riley and White were
all that, then the million-dollar view of the Manhattan
skyline through the 40-foot-wide glass wall would drive
the point home. Who could argue with that kind of
success? Now Maddie's new client stood gazing out at that view,
his back to the door, one hand in the pocket of his
expensively cut trousers, the other holding a sleek cell
phone to his ear. Through that phone, Maddie heard a woman’s tinkling
laughter. He responded in rapid Italian. Not that Maddie
understood a word of it. Her Italian began and ended with
ordering risotto in Little Italy. But she’d had a short
fling with a gorgeous Italian waiter, and she recognized
the rhythm of the language. It was the sound of sweaty
sex. Clearing her throat to announce their presence earned her
a wintry glance from Adrianna. But the man ignored them
utterly. Maddie crossed her arms and looked him up and
down with an affronted eye. He was tall, over six feet, and she put his weight at a
lean one-ninety. Broad through the shoulders, narrow at
the hips, he bore himself like an athlete, graceful and
relaxed – as if he wasn’t standing six scant inches from
thin air, sixty stories above Fifth Avenue. Though he claimed to know her, she couldn’t place him by
the sliver of his face reflected in the glass, or by the
sleek, black hair curling over his collar, too long for
Wall Street, not long enough for the Italian soccer team. Everything about him – his clothes, his bearing, his
flagrant arrogance – screamed rich, confident, and
entitled. He must be mistaken about her, she decided, because she
honestly didn’t know anyone like him. And given his
casual assumption that his time was more important than
theirs, she didn’t want to. She held it together for as long as she could, tapping
her foot, biting her tongue, but as the grandfather clock
in the corner ticked into the fifth long minute of silent
subservience, her patience ran out. She uncrossed her
arms and reached for the doorknob. “I don’t have time for
this shit.” Adrianna’s hand shot out and clamped her arm. “Suck it
up, Madeline,” she gritted through her teeth. “Why should I? Why should you?” Under normal
circumstances, Adrianna had zero tolerance for
disrespect, so why was she putting up with this guy’s
bullshit? Flinging a resentful look at the mystery man, she didn’t
bother to lower her voice. “This guy doesn’t know me.
Because seriously, if he did, he’d know I won’t stand
here burning daylight while he talks dirty to his
girlfriend.” “Oh yes you will,” Adrianna hissed. She released Maddie's
arm, but caught her eyes. “You’ll stand on your head if
he says so. He could mean millions for this firm.” The man in question chose that moment to end his call.
Casually, unhurriedly, he slipped the phone in his
pocket. Then he turned to face them. Maddie’s heart stopped. Her lips went icy. Adrianna started to speak but he cut her off, his vaguely
European accent smoothing the edge from his words. “Thank
you, Adrianna. Now give us the room.” Without a word, Adrianna nodded once and left them alone,
closing the door softly behind her. His complete attention came to rest on Maddie, a laser
beam disguised as cool condescension. Her blood, which
had gone cold, now boiled up in response, pounding her
temples, hammering out a beat called Unresolved Fury,
Frustrated Objectives, Justice Denied. “You son of a bitch,” she snarled. “How dare you claim an
acquaintance with me?” He smiled, a deceptively charming curve of the lips meant
to distract the unwary from eyes so intensely blue and so
penetratingly sharp that they might otherwise reveal him
as the diabolical felon he was. “Ms. St. Clair.” Her name sounded faintly exotic on his
tongue. “Surely you don’t deny that we know each other.” “Oh, I know you, Adam LeCroix. I know you should be doing
ten to fifteen in Leavenworth.” His lips curved another half-inch, past charming, to
amused. “And I know you. I know that if you’d taken me to
trial, you’d have done an excellent job of it. But,” he
shrugged slightly, “both of us know that no jury would
have convicted me.” “Still so cocky,” she simmered. “And so f**king guilty.” * * * Adam held back a laugh. Madeline St. Clair might be tiny
enough to fit in his pocket, but she had the grit of a
two-hundred-pound cage fighter. When he’d last seen her five years ago, she was a
bloodthirsty young prosecutor, spitting nails as her
then-boss, the US Attorney for the Eastern District of
New York – who had his eyes on higher office – shook
Adam’s hand and apologized for letting the case against
him go as far as it had. Playing magnanimous, Adam had nodded gravely, said all
the right things about public servants simply doing their
jobs, and with a wave for the news cameras, disappeared
into his limousine. Where he’d cracked a $6,000 bottle of Dom Perignon and
made a solitary toast to a narrow escape from the law. It had been his own damned fault that he’d come so close
to being caught, because he had gotten cocky. He’d made a
rare mistake, a minute one, but Madeline had used it like
a crowbar to pry into his life until she’d damn near
nailed him for stealing the Lady in Red. The newly discovered Renoir masterpiece had been sold at
Sotheby’s to a Russian arms dealer, a glorified mobster
who cynically expected a splashy show of good taste to
purge the bloodstains from his billions. Adam couldn’t
stomach it, so he’d lifted the painting. Not for gain; he
had his own billions. But because great art was sacred,
and using it as a dishrag to wipe blood off the hands of
a man who sold death was sacrilege. Adam had simply saved the masterpiece from its unholy
purpose. It wasn’t the first time, or the last, that he’d
liberated great art from unclean hands. He told himself
that it was his calling, but he couldn’t deny that it was
also a hell of a lot of fun. Outsmarting the best
security systems money could buy taxed his brain in ways
that managing his companies simply couldn’t. Training for
the physical demands kept him in Navy-SEAL condition. And
the adrenaline rush, well, that couldn’t be duplicated.
Not even by sex. No woman had ever thrilled him that
intensely or challenged him so completely on every level. But now the shoe was on the other foot. One of his own
paintings – his favorite Monet – had been heisted clean
off the wall of his Portofino villa. Just the thought made his teeth grind. Oh, he’d find it eventually; he had no doubt of that. He
had the resources, both money and manpower. He was
patient. He was relentless. And when he got his hands on
the bastard who’d infiltrated his home – his sanctuary –
he’d make him pay for his hubris. But in the meantime, he had a more immediate concern. The
insurance company, Hawthorne Mutual, was dragging its
feet, balking at paying him the $44 million the Monet was
insured for. Forty-four million was a lot of money, even to a man like
him. But it was the company’s excuse for holding it up
that really pissed him off. They needed to investigate
the theft, they claimed, because Adam had once been a
“person of interest” in the theft of the Renoir. In short, Hawthorne’s foot-dragging could be laid at
Madeline's door. She’d damaged Adam’s reputation,
impugned his integrity. Cast a shadow of doubt over one
of the richest men in the world. Never mind that she’d been right about him. Because she was visibly chomping at the bit, he moved as
if he had all day, strolling to the far end of the room,
where a leather sofa and club chairs clustered around a
coordinating coffee table. This would be where clients
chummied-up with the partners after meetings, rubbing
elbows over scotch and cigars while the lowly associates
– like Madeline – scuttled back to their offices to do
the actual work. He poured himself an inch of scotch from the Waterford
decanter on the table, then relaxed into the sofa,
stretching one arm along the back, letting the other
drape carelessly over the side, whiskey glass dangling
from his fingers. Her steel gray eyes narrowed to slits. “What do you want,
LeCroix? Why are you here?” Lazily, he sipped his scotch, enjoying the angry flush
that burned her cheeks. In the prosecutor’s office,
they’d called her the Pitbull. He was glad to see she’d
lost none of her fire. Watching her simmer, he remembered how her intensity had
appealed to him. How much she’d appealed to him. Which
was surprising, really. As a rule, he liked a solid
armful of woman, and Madeline was barely there. At the time, he’d told himself it was because she’d damn
near taken him down. Naturally, he had to admire that. But now he felt it again, that tug of attraction.
Something about those suspicious eyes, that spring-loaded
body, went straight to his groin. An image of her astride
him, nails gouging his chest, eyes blazing with passion,
flashed through his mind. Was she as hot-blooded in bed
as she was in the courtroom? Regrettably, he’d never find out. Because he was about to
piss her off for life. He crossed his legs with studied nonchalance while all
five-foot nothing of her bristled with temper. “Hawthorne Mutual is holding up payment on the Monet,” he
said. He didn’t bother to describe the painting; she’d
remember it. Five years ago she’d subpoenaed an inventory
of his art collection. He’d complied – at least as to his
legal collection. “Someone stole the Monet?” For the first time, she
smiled, a wicked grin. He flicked imaginary lint from his knee. “Apparently,
even my security isn’t unbreachable.” And wasn’t that a
sore spot? She barked out a laugh. “What goes around, comes around,
LeCroix. With your history, Hawthorne will never pay –
what was the insured value? Forty-four million?” She
sneered, clearly enjoying the irony. “They’ll keep you in
court for years.” He let her savor her last taste of victory. Then he hit
her where it hurt. “Not me,” he said, succinctly. “Us. They’ll keep us in
court. Because you’re representing me. For as long as it
takes, whatever it takes.” Her chin actually jerked as she took the blow. Then he
finished her off with a short jab to the kisser. “From now on, Madeline, you work for me.” * * * Maddie slammed her door so hard that her diploma jumped
off the wall, glass splintering as it hit the floor. She didn’t spare it a glance, just threw herself into her
desk chair and glared at the door, waiting. Five seconds later, Adrianna barged in, loaded for bear.
Planting her fists on the desk, she fired both barrels.
“Get your ass back in that conference room and unmake
whatever mess you just made. Adam LeCroix is The Most
Important Client who’s ever walked into this office.” “He’s a criminal,” Maddie lashed back. “He should be in
an eight-foot cell, not strutting around Manhattan
thinking he can buy anybody he wants. Thinking he can buy
me!” She jabbed a finger in his general direction. “He
can go fuck himself. I’d rather starve than work for
him.” “Then you’ll starve,” Adrianna shot back. She drew
herself up, breathed in, breathed out. “You’re fired.” “Good!” Maddie snapped open her briefcase and dumped out
the legal pads. In went her personal things. A photo of
Lucy in her cap and gown, smile brightening the cloudy
day. Another of Lucy on her first day at college, waving
from her dorm window. Lucy again, at her small gallery
showing, face alight with wonder and promise. Maddie stilled. Her eyes dropped to the bill poking out
from under Johnson v Jones. No job meant no semester in
Italy for Lucy. Hell, it meant no semester of any kind
for Lucy, unless the poor kid took on the same crippling
school loans that still hamstrung Maddie. That kind of
debt took away your choices, killed your dreams. Left you
at the mercy of people like Adrianna Marchand . . . and
Adam LeCroix. She had no choice but to give in. Cornered like a rabbit,
she lifted her eyes to Adrianna. Who smiled her evil she-
wolf smile. “I knew you’d see reason,” said the she-wolf. Then she
reached across Maddie's desk, hit the intercom button.
“Randall, get in here.” “Yes, ma’am!” He snapped out a verbal salute, sped into
the office in record time. Cursed with red hair and
freckles, he blushed like a virgin when Adrianna turned
her carnivorous gaze upon him. “Take this.” She scraped Johnson v Jones into a pile and
thrust it into his arms. “Judge Bernam’s expecting you in
his chambers in two hours for a settlement conference.
Don’t disappoint me.” Randall went pale. “But—” Adrianna stared him silent. “Don’t worry,” Maddie cut in, mercifully, “it’s pro
forma. The plaintiff’s not ready to settle.” Randall’s momentary relief died as Adrianna pointed at
the boxes on the coffee table, the files on the couch.
“Those are yours too. Get them out of here.” As a brand new hire, Randall had the lightest caseload of
any associate. Naively, he still believed that evenings
and weekends were his own. His dawning horror would have
evoked Maddie's pity if she hadn’t had her own horror to
reckon with: Adam LeCroix, billionaire businessman,
international playboy. Art thief extraordinaire. She swallowed hard, tasting her bitterest defeat. Five years ago she’d almost nailed him. A circumstantial
case, but if only she’d been allowed to take it to trial,
she could’ve made it stick. She could’ve convinced the
jury that LeCroix was not only the mastermind who
outwitted Sotheby’s state-of-the-art computerized
security, but also the Spiderman who scaled walls,
ghosted past armed guards and, in under four minutes,
poofed with the Lady in Red rolled up in a three-foot
tube. But her boss was too chicken to take LeCroix on. With his
eyes on a Senatorial bid, he wasn’t willing to risk
having a high-profile defeat splashed across the front
page of The New York Times. So Maddie had watched LeCroix
waltz out of her office, wave to the media whores who
worshiped him like a celebrity, and cruise away in his
black stretch limo. That had been bad. But this . . . this was a nightmare.
She was at the man’s mercy. There was no way she could
walk away from her job at Marchand, Riley and White and
into another that paid as well. Not in this economy. She suppressed a shiver. Not since she’d left her
father’s house had she felt so vulnerable to a man. She’d
sworn never to let one control her again, but now LeCroix
had her by the proverbial balls. And he was diabolical.
If he learned about her childhood, he’d use her personal
demons to turn the screws tighter still. She couldn’t – and wouldn’t – hide her revulsion at
working for him, but she could never let him know how
much it cost her. * * * Adam ended another phone call, checked his watch. Six
minutes. By now, Madeline would have capitulated and
she’d be processing her defeat. Girding her loins – that
image made him smile – for the short walk to this
conference room and the crow-eating apology the Marchand
vixen would expect her to deliver. His smile grew to a grin. That would be the day. He might
have Madeline's back to the wall, but he knew better than
to expect an apology out of her. And he didn’t want one. What he wanted was his $44 million, and to see
Hawthorne’s high-and-mighty CEO – Jonathan Edward Kennedy
Hawthorne IV – blanche when Adam showed up with his
former prosecutor in his corner. Hawthorne mistakenly believed that because his great-
whatever-grandfather came over on the Mayflower and
started what was now the oldest, most hide-bound, hoity-
toity insurance company in America, he could jam Adam up.
That he’d quail at veiled threats to dredge up old rumors
about the Lady in Red. Not likely. If Hawthorne’s smarmy lawyers had done their
homework, they’d know Adam didn’t give a damn about bad
publicity. He didn’t give a damn about the press or the
public or the next story about him on Page Six of The
Post. What he cared about was not getting screwed over by
anybody. Most assuredly not by some blueblood who thought
his money was better than Adam's simply because it had
more age on it. Well, Hawthorne had a big surprise coming. Never in a
million years would he expect Madeline to join forces
with Adam, when the whole world knew she’d done
everything in her power to convict him. Why, the press
had made hay with it across the globe, sensationalizing
the story of the upstart prosecutor’s tenacious pursuit
of the self-made billionaire, dubbing it the Pitbull
versus the Piranha. For that reason alone, her mere presence on his payroll
would neutralize any once-a-thief, always-a-thief
argument Hawthorne could make about the Monet. And if he
cooked up some other reason to deny Adam his money, then
he’d turn her loose on him. Hawthorne wouldn’t have a
chance against The Pitbull. His grin widened. The icing on the cake was that Madeline
would hate every minute of it. He couldn’t have dreamed
up a sweeter revenge if he’d tried. When the idea had first come to him a week ago, he’d
wondered how he could rope her in. The woman had more
integrity than anyone he’d ever met. But a quick and
dirty investigation into her finances turned up her
Achilles heel – her sister Lucille. Sixty percent of
Madeline's income went to cover the girl’s expenses.
Room, board, clothes, travel, and the killer – tuition at
the Rhode Island School of Design. The kid got some
meager financial aid, but she took no loans at all.
Madeline covered every penny of it. She literally couldn’t afford to lose her job. After that, all it took were some vague promises of
future business to her shrew of a boss, hinging, of
course, on Madeline's cooperation, and he had her right
where he wanted her. The door to the conference room opened and the Pitbull
herself strode in. She snarled over her shoulder at
whoever remained in the hallway, then slapped the door
shut and stalked the length of the room, a short stick of
dynamite, ready to explode. He couldn’t suppress another smile. He’d always loved to
blow things up. She pulled up in front of him, close enough that even
from her unimpressive height she was looking down at him.
She snapped out one word. “Why?” He let his brows rise a centimeter. Gave her not one inch
of ground. “Why what?” “Why me? It’s stupid to expect me to help you with the
Monet. One thing you’re not is stupid.” She crossed her
arms. “That means you’re dragging me into this for
revenge. Since it’s been five years, and the only price
you ever paid for stealing the Lady in Red was to get
more attention from your fans in the press, why risk a
$44 million recovery by putting me in the middle of it?
Why not find someone who might actually believe you
didn’t steal your own Monet, and leave me the f**k
alone?” Adam swirled his scotch. When he’d envisioned this
inevitable moment, he’d imagined responding to her attack
with a swift accounting of her precarious financial
condition followed by a hard boot in the ass to bring her
into line. Now that the time had come, he didn’t want to
do either of those things. He liked her this way, with
fire in her eyes. The truth was – and this surprised him – he wasn’t quite
comfortable using her sister as a sword to force her to
her knees. Maybe he had a soft spot for sibling affection
– he wouldn’t have guessed it, having none of his own.
But more likely it was his business sense kicking in.
After all, her feistiness would be an asset in his battle
with Hawthorne. It wouldn’t behoove him to break her
spirit. But he did have to show her who was boss. “Do sit down,” he said in an even tone that neither
challenged nor gave ground. Then he dropped his gaze to
the chair, a clear signal that if she wanted to meet his
eyes, she’d have to park herself in it. After five deliberate seconds plainly meant to show that
she was sitting because she wanted to, not because he
commanded it, she let one cheek touch leather. It hardly
made a dent; she couldn’t weigh more than 90 pounds
soaking wet. She’d left her jacket in her office, and her sleeveless
top stretched over breasts that fit her proportions
exactly. Not that he was looking; he kept his eyes on her
face, but his peripheral vision caught the action as they
swelled up and out with each annoyed breath. “Listen, LeCroix—” “Adam,” he cut in. “My top advisors go by given names. I
find they speak more freely that way.” He smiled
slightly. “Although you don’t seem to have a problem
speaking your mind to the boss.” “You’re not my boss. I work for Marchand, Riley and
White. You’re my client. I’m . . . ” here she choked on
her words, “your attorney. You don’t pay me. The firm
does. I don’t report to you. I represent you. That’s
all.” He tilted his head, did a sympathetic smile this time.
“Perhaps Adrianna wasn’t clear. It’s true that you aren’t
directly on my payroll. But make no mistake. You work for
me. You report to me. I am your only client, and my whim
is your command.” She shot out of her chair and he almost laughed. He had
gone a bit far with that last part. But really, she was
asking for it. “You can take your whim—” she snarled, but he cut her off
again. “I’m sure you have many fascinating and original ideas
about what I can do with my whim,” he said, “but that’s
not what I’m paying for. I’m paying for your time, your
efforts, and your undivided attention. And by undivided I
mean twenty-four seven.” Her eyes bugged. “I have a life, you know.” “Do you?” Insulting. Her cheeks went up in flames. He could have told her what he knew right then and there,
that not only were her finances in the crapper, her love
life was circling the bowl along with them. But why let
her know that his private investigators had turned her
life inside out? He’d save that bombshell for another
day. Still, her lack of romantic involvements – past and
present – surprised him. His investigators had checked as
far back as her undergraduate days at Boston University
and found no relationships lasting longer than a three-
day weekend. Granted, it would take a brave man to bare
his junk to her – he’d find himself short a nut if he
looked at her crosswise – but even so, there’d been no
shortage of interest through the years. It was Madeline
who refused to get serious. Her flushed face told Adam that there was a story there.
In time, he’d find out what it was. For the moment,
though, he had all the leverage he needed. “Get your things,” he said, “I’ll take you home.” She bristled. “I can get home on my own, when I’m good
and ready to go.” Ignoring her, he set his glass on the table, pulled out
his phone. “Fredo, bring the car around. We’ll be down in
five.” “I’m not riding with you!” He dropped the phone in his pocket. Rose to his full six-
foot-two, and watched her head tip back to hold him in
her furious glare. He curved his lips, part smile, all menace. “Five
minutes, Madeline. With your things, or without them.
That much is up to you.” And he walked past her and out the door.
What do you think about this review?
Comments
1 comment posted.
Re: Extraordinarily Complex Characters, a Superbly Executed Story: an Exceptional Book!
I think the review is honest and straight up. AND I'm now going to buy the book... Thanks!
(Gale Sroelov 8:24pm December 18, 2014)
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