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Instead of a proper second honeymoon, the newly remarried Harry and Fair Haristeen leave cozy Crozet, Virginia, for Shelbyville, Kentucky, site of the famous saddlebred horse show. There they’ll visit dear friends Joan Hamilton and Larry Hodge and enjoy a week among some of the finest horses, trainers, and riders in the country.

But soon after they arrive, events veer mysteriously–and murderously–off course. First, Joan’s ruby and sapphire horsehead heirloom pin is stolen from her private box at the fairgrounds. Next, a young film star’s prize three-gaited mare disappears into thin air. There is no lack of suspects, from hotheaded trainers and jealous rivals to vicious ex-spouses. Then a body is found flagrantly murdered and it’s obvious to Harry that someone at Shelbyville is sending a strong message: winning is only secondary–first prize is survival.

As Harry searches for clues, rediscovers life as a married woman, and deals with her upcoming fortieth birthday, her four-legged detective friends are already on the case. But is animal instinct any match for human depravity? Especially with two humans to protect and a killer on the prowl?


From the Hardcover edition.

• Sales Rank: #374072 in Books
• Brand: Brown, Rita Mae/ Brown, Sneaky Pie/ Gellatly, Michael (ILT)
• Published on: 2008-01-29
• Released on: 2008-01-29
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 6.85" h x .97" w x 4.19" l,
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 352 pages

From Publishers Weekly
The charming 14th Mrs. Murphy mystery (after 2006's Sour Puss) finds ex-postmistress and sometime-detective Mary Minor "Harry" Haristeen accompanying her veterinarian husband, Fair, to an equestrian extravaganza in Kentucky. The mishaps begin when Harry's good friend Joan loses a beloved pin—or is the treasured piece of jewelry stolen? Then Jorge, a groom at Joan's farm, is found murdered, a pair of crosses cut into his palm. As if murder's not enough, an aging movie star's horse goes missing, and INS officials show up, hunting illegal aliens. Throughout, Harry's menagerie—cats Mrs. Murphy and Pewter as well as corgi Tee Tucker—cleverly sniff out wrongdoing. Though some readers might find the anthropomorphized animals' italicized dialogue a bit much, the novel's tight pacing, combined with intriguing local color, make this mystery a blue-ribbon winner. (Mar.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From Booklist
With nearly every new entry in the popular Mrs. Murphy series (the last five were New York Times best-sellers), Brown introduces an intriguing setting to go with her cast of human and feline characters. So if the plots sometimes fall a bit short, fans are sure to stay entertained by either the antics of the players or the particulars of the worlds into which they wander. This time it's a horse show, as newlyweds Harry and Fair Hairsteen take their mewing brood with them to the prestigious Saddlebred horse show in Shelbyville Kentucky, where they meet up with some old friends. Along for the trip is the whole four-legged gang: Mrs. Murphy (the feline matron, who's a tabby), Tucker (a corgi), and Pewter (a "full-bodied" gray cat). Not two days into their trip, there's a robbery, and the cats take it upon themselves to find the culprit, as they can see what humans can't. Those who can keep all the characters straight (there's a person named Booty and a cat named Frederick) will find that this clever mystery strikes a comfortable balance between suspense and silliness. Even those who find the scale tipping a little too much in the direction of silliness will learn something about horse shows. Mary Frances Wilkens
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

About the Author
Rita Mae Brown is the bestselling author of the Sneaky Pie Brown series; the Sister Jane series; A Nose for Justice and Murder Unleashed; Rubyfruit Jungle; In Her Day; and Six of One, as well as several other novels. An Emmy-nominated screenwriter and a poet, Brown lives in Afton, Virginia.
 
Sneaky Pie Brown, a tiger cat born somewhere in Albemarle County, Virginia, was discovered by Rita Mae Brown at her local SPCA. They have collaborated on numerous Mrs. Murphy mysteries—in addition to Sneaky Pie’s Cookbook for Mystery Lovers and Sneaky Pie for President.

Most helpful customer reviews

55 of 58 people found the following review helpful.
There's no mystery here---
By SJ
If you've never read any of the Sneaky Pie books--don't buy this one! Start at the beginning (Wish You Were Here) as this was once a great series, and read the books in sequence until you begin to get bored--then STOP!! The series only gets worse.

The wonderful warm characters have lost their charm, the "mysteries" have become flat and nonexistent, and the books have been weighted down with too much technical information.

Ms. Brown also has begun using her books as a soapbox for her many opinions. While it is interesting to find out an author's views, she goes on and on...and on. A case in point, there is a brief mention in this book about steroids in show animals, then she goes on...and on...about wanting steroids legalized for human athletes. As a mother I am appalled. As an avid reader; I think, "What the heck has this to do with the story?" A little hint--absolutely nothing!

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
This is a mystery, right? Hello?
By J. C. Grant
The Mrs. Murphy series has been a delight! While some series featuring animals prominently in the plot can easily put the reader into a diabetic coma, this series stands out because the animals have not overshadowed the main characters, who have been well-developed and have lived in a realistic world. It has been edgy and tart with good plots and murders galore in the small town of Crozet, Va., in each successive volume. We have heard the thoughts of the animals in italicized conversations that did not interrupt the unfolding of the plot and, in fact, often aided its flow. This series has had well structured plots and thoughtful character development while including the right amount of local and cultural history of that region as well as thorough but not overdone amounts of background explanatory detail of elements such as fox hunting, farming, and horses necessary to the story.
Unfortunately, however, "Puss'n Cahoots," like "Sour Puss" and "Cat's Eyewitness" before it, continues her disturbing and thoroughly annoying trend of forgetting that it's a mystery story and not a soapbox for the author's favorite cause(s) of the month. Long before the first murder, the story screeches to a halt several times with what I assume Ms. Brown believes are well-presented arguments for her currents favs: illegal immigration and performance enhancing drugs leading at the first turn. There was a time when Ms. Brown could deal with a issue she believes in with one or two well-crafted sentences without stopping the story in its tracks; perhaps she had an editor then. Now, we the reader are subjected to pages of preaching talking points ad nauseam which completely detract from the mystery, and this happens throughout the story! I actually found myself skimming through her sermonizing to try to find the story line again. When even the animals put on a surplice, Ms. Brown needs to remember that Crozet, VA. (or Shelbyville, KY) is not a part of Hyde Park, London, and get off her soapbox! Forget a tight plot with a suspenseful and foreboding atmosphere; forget a suspenseful climax; forget a tight denouement which ties up all the pieces neatly. These elements are barely present (or not here at all) as if they were afterthoughts because Ms. Brown was too busy preaching to craft a good mystery story instead of the weakly developed alleged mystery that is "Puss'n Cahoots."
I give "Puss'n Cahoots" two stars because Ms. Brown does include a lot of her trademark background information about her setting: Saddlebred horse shows and all therein. This is part of what made this series so good and once again I learned a lot. Otherwise, sadly, thumbs disappointedly down.
To rescue this series as a legitimate mystery series, Ms. Brown needs to do two things: (1) start writing real mysteries again, and (2) STOP preaching at us! Would Miranda Hogendobber put too many ingredients in her cinnamon buns and then tell us why we need to like them?

30 of 31 people found the following review helpful.
Great title -- poor book
By pnkfuchsia
Hey, where's the story? I believe this should have been made into a short story with only Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, Pewter and the horses talking. I am so disappointed. After looking forward to this book, I find that I cannot continue past the first 50 pages. It is just too painful. So, I am sadly putting the book aside and going to take a break from the Mrs. Murphy series. It was fun while it lasted but the time has come to move on -- for both Ms. Brown and me.

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! Fee Download The God Machine, by J.G. Sandom

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A secret so explosive, the church always insisted it was just a legend. Now it'll stop at nothing to prevent its discovery...

The coded journal of Benjamin Franklin. A hidden map. A legendary gospel. These are the first pieces to an ancient puzzle so powerful, it could destroy the very foundation of Christianity.

Once before, Joseph Koster unearthed one of the church’s most deeply buried secrets . . . and it almost cost him his life. But some treasures are too hard to resist. And as Koster puts the pieces of the puzzle together, he discovers something even more startling … and infinitely more deadly.

Now, along with a beautiful engineer, Savita Sajan, Koster must race to decode Franklin’s journal before it falls into the hands of those who would do anything, kill anyone, to suppress it. But in a world of secret societies, ancient conspiracies, and Masonic puzzles, locating the prize is one thing … staying alive, another.

For as Koster and Sajan are about to learn, the same key that unlocks the doorway to Heaven … could open the portals of Hell.

• Sales Rank: #1783091 in Books
• Published on: 2009-04-28
• Released on: 2009-04-28
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 7.00" h x 1.00" w x 4.15" l,
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 480 pages

Review
"History galore, violence, and intrigue fill the pages of this tightly plotted, twisting and turning adventure story, reminding one of a multilayered Russian matryoshka doll. The reader will also learn a great deal about da Vinci, Ben Franklin, Thomas Edison, Nikola Tesla, and many more historical geniuses…Those who love numbers, physics, and a truly unpredictable, suspenseful mystery will relish the facts and ponderings replete in this well-written, mysterious spin-off of The Da Vinci Code.The God Machine is a very impressive historical thriller!"  —Historical Novels Reviews

About the Author
J.G. Sandom is the author of six thrillers and mysteries, including THE GOD MACHINE, GOSPEL TRUTHS and THE WALL STREET MURDER CLUB, plus the eco-thriller THE WAVE.
 
Booklist called GOSPEL TRUTHS "a splendid, tautly woven thriller . . . (and) an intelligent mystery of tremendous spiritual and literary depth." And Library Journal termed it, "A masterful first novel, based on a true incident, which spins a complicated web of corruption, greed and deception."
 
Kirkus Reviews called THE WALL STREET MURDER CLUB "A Big Apple Deliverance, endowing New York culture with all the corrosively dehumanizing power of Dickey's wild nature." And Booklist said, "(Sandom) writes with stunning elegance . . . A sure hit with any suspense reader."
 
Caroline Thompson (author of Edward Scissorhands) said, "Move over, Dan Brown . . . All hail J.G. Sandom . . . (THE GOD MACHINE) is a thrilling and breathless, rapturously-written and mind-blowing read. It'll keep you up all night, turning pages as fast as your little fingers can manage." And Historical Novels Review said, "History galore, violence, and intrigue fill the pages of this tightly plotted, twisting and turning adventure story . . . THE GOD MACHINE is a very impressive historical thriller!"
 
Kirkus said, "Sandom's strength lies in the verve of his story, with writing that has both muscle . . . (and) brains . . . (THE WAVE) races from improbable to crazywild, all in good fun, with Sandom always one step ahead . . . A story with enough manic energy to be worthy of a nuclear explosion."
 
While known mostly as a writer of thrillers and mysteries, Sandom is also the author of several Young Adult (YA) novels, including the award-winning KISS ME, I'M DEAD and CONFESSIONS OF A TEENAGE BODY SNATCHER. The Washington Post said, "(Sandom) writes with a precision and delicacy unusual for YA fiction," and called KISS ME, I'M DEAD "a subtle gem."

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Present Day
Philadelphia

Tom Moody was working at the far end of the basement, kneeling on a plastic tarpaulin, when he first spied a corner of the box in the wall. It was nestled in a small depression, immediately beside the joist. It was made out of wood. Moody worked his trowel around the edges, and the dense compacted dirt, trapped for two hundred years, came undone, tumbled down. He wiggled the box from the hole.

In the bright glow of the work light, he could just make out a series of engravings on the top, scarred and covered in dirt: a Mason’s square and a pyramid; some kind of seal. There was a latch on one side. Moody pulled the box into his lap. He opened the latch, lifted the lid. Inside was a book of some sort, a kind of notebook or journal. He put the box on the floor. Then he removed his work gloves. He turned the cover of the notebook over and his heart skipped a beat as he picked out the signature: B. Franklin.

The fact of the matter is, Tom Moody shouldn’t have gone to work that day at all. He’d been up late the night before at that Thai joint on Bainbridge, in Center City, on a blind date with a girl he’d met on the Net. After his most recent string of failures, Moody hadn’t been expecting much. But the date had gone great. The girl’s name was Miranda. She had long brown curly hair and a big rack, and when he spotted her in the restaurant wearing that leotard—the way she was leaning with her hip out and her hand on the bar, the way she smiled at him when he called out her name—he knew that his luck had just turned. She was Catholic, too. They had stayed for Pad Thai and green tea, then gone dancing, and everything had somehow just clicked, in that weird freaky way that it does. At least sometimes. He had awakened beside her at dawn, still excited. His cell phone was ringing. It was Tony, his buddy from the union. There was a freelance gig, it turned out, at Franklin Court. If he was interested.

A tall bundle of muscle, with teal-colored eyes, a shiny shaved head and a nose ring, Tom Moody found a ten-dollar bill at the bus stop on his way to the hall. It was just lying there. He bent down, half expecting it to fly away or be pulled back by some invisible thread, but it just sat there, and he picked it up and stuffed it into the pocket of his leather jacket.

By the time he got to Franklin Court, he’d already bought two tickets for that night’s drawing of the Powerball Jackpot.

The job was pretty straightforward. The Independence National Historic Park had authorized some structural engineering work under Franklin Court, at the former home and print shop of Benjamin Franklin, off Market Street. Over the centuries, the buildings surrounding Franklin Court had shifted. Recent excavations had shown less-than-optimal support structures beside the new museum. They had to go in through the basement of the old house, excavate and shore up the supports.

Moody flipped through the pages of the journal in his hand. It was all nonsense, he decided. The sentences were blocked together in distinctive rows of three, but the letters didn’t link to form words. They seemed random, a jumble. Then he noticed a few words he recognized: The Gospel of Judas. And besides the familiar English alphabet, two foreign languages. Greek, Moody speculated. He’d seen it before at Greek diners. Plus some alien script.

“I found something,” said Moody, as he settled the box on Ian Wilson’s desk.

Short and round, with thinning hair combed adroitly across his bald spot, Wilson was the general contractor on the Park job, and the guy responsible for interfacing with the Independence Park Service officials. He generally worked over by Rittenhouse Square, but had set up a temporary office on Third Street and Chestnut. The space was Spartan: a desk and a chair; a PC; a secondhand file cabinet and a coffee machine.

Wilson wore a light brown windbreaker, with the name of the Little League baseball team he sponsored—The Thunders—stenciled on the front, and a blue button-down shirt. He glanced up from his paperwork. “What is it?” He glared at the dirt-covered box on his desk.

“In the north wall,” Moody said. “Just under the basement joist. Some kind of hiding spot, I guess. Go ahead. Open it.”

Wilson frowned. He reached over, unlatched the top and opened the box. “A book?” He looked up at Moody.

“A journal,” said Moody. “Or diary. And look at the front cover, on the inside.”

Wilson did so. He gasped as he saw the signature. There was no mistaking that florid horizontal double helix underneath the stolid script. B. Franklin. He turned a few more pages with care.

“It’s in some kind of foreign language,” Moody said. “But I don’t recognize it.”

“No,” Wilson said. “Not a language. A code, I’d guess.”

“I found a phrase,” countered Moody, feeling suddenly disheartened. It was as though, through Wilson’s single observation, the title to his remarkable discovery had been unceremoniously transferred. “Look, here,” Moody said. He stepped around the desk. He leaned across the surface and began to flip through the pages.

Wilson pushed him away. “Your hands are still dirty. Just show me.”

“Keep going. More,” said Moody. “More. There. Right there. See? On the bottom right.”

“The Gospel of Judas,” said Wilson. “In Greek and in Hebrew. The Gospel of Judas!” He whistled. “That’s a Gnostic text. The Gnostics were an early Christian sect, considered heretical by the organized Church.”

“Is that what that writing is? Looks different from the Jewish I’ve seen.”

“Hebrew.”

“Right,” said Moody with a nod. “That’s what I meant.” This was not going as visualized, as manifested, he thought. That’s what Miranda had called it the previous evening at that Thai place. She had leaned in to him at the bar, all of a sudden, before they’d been seated, leaned in with her long brown curly hair. And she had told him that things only happened when you visualized them first, and when you were in harmony, in tune with the laws of attraction. Something like that. “Hey, Mr. Wilson. Do you think there might be some sort of finder’s fee . . . you know, for digging up the box?” Moody asked. “Not that I’m trying to take no advantage. Just wonderin’.”

“I doubt it,” said Wilson. “It’s a National Park. It belongs to the Feds. To the people, Moody,” he added and laughed. “You and me.”

“What are you going to do, give it to Thompson?” Larry Thompson was the curator of Independence Park. Moody had met him before, on another project three years earlier.

Wilson closed the journal, slipped the lid into place. He pulled the box toward his chest. “On the other hand, there might just be a reward,” he continued. “I could find out for you. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Play your cards right and this freelance gig might turn into something permanent. You never know, Moody. And you’re right, of course—Larry Thompson should see it. Right away.”
Wilson stood up. He reached into his pants and took out his wallet. It was stuffed full of papers, on a chain attached to his khakis. “Do me a favor, will ya?” He flipped open the wallet and pulled out a ticket. “Swing over to the garage by Christ Church and pick up my car. It’s a black Continental. Level three. I have to make a call before I leave. Then you can break early for lunch.” He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “On me.” There was a charm on the chain by his wallet, shaped like a small Mason’s square. “Meantime, until I hear what Thompson has to say, might as well forget about this box here. Probably not real, anyway. And you don’t want to go spoiling your chances of earning some reward now, do you?”

Moody took the ticket from Wilson. Then he took the hundred-dollar bill. The wheel of life had just turned. He was in harmony, in tune. What should he manifest next?

Chapter Two


1731
Philadelphia

Benjamin Franklin sat at the table by the entrance to Tun Tavern, watching the late afternoon crowd amble by, waiting upon Henry Price. Located on the waterfront at the corner of Water Street and Tun Alley, the three-story beer tavern had been built in 1685 by Samuel Carpenter, whose apparent lack of imagination had resulted in his failure to come up with anything more interesting than Tun, the old English word for cask or barrel. Franklin took another sip of his pale ale and belched. Carpenter should have called it the Dun Tavern, he thought, based on the color of the patrons’ clothes, or simply Dung Tavern. After all, the tavern’s proximity to the river cast a malodorous pall across the establishment during these hot days of summer. That’s when he first spotted Price down the street. He was walking with two other gentlemen. Franklin stood up, downed his beer and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. This was it, he thought. The great day had finally arrived.

Henry Price was a thin man with a ferretlike face, bright chestnut brown eyes flecked with green and long straight black hair. He wore a simple dark frock coat and tricorne hat with a low crown, without trimming, that did little to reveal his profession. Born in London in 1697, Price had been admitted to the Freedom of the Company of Merchant Tailors by Patrimony on the first of July, 1719, but had emigrated soon thereafter, in 1723, to the port city of Boston. Only the year before, Franklin had learned, Price had opened his own shop between Water and State streets...

Most helpful customer reviews

22 of 26 people found the following review helpful.
Gripping Action Mystery
By David L. Ross
J Sandom is a born story-teller. In THE GOD MACHINE, from page one, the reader is eager to further rev up and accelerate into a time-traveling thriller whose chapters criss-cross many centuries, each one conjuring up medieval and early modern European history, arcana of freemasonry, religious fanaticism and a bit of engineering magic -- all animated by great contemporary characters from a laconic, double-dealing Scotland Yard detective to grand historical figures such as Ben Franklin.

This is a well-oiled and humming mystery, whose pages fly by in a flurry of action and suspense.

David Lincoln Ross

Highly recommended.

David L. Ross

12 of 14 people found the following review helpful.
MUCH BETTER THAN GOSPEL TRUTHS!!!
By Haze Blackmon
I, personally, didn't care much for Sandom's first religious thriller novel, Gospel Truths, so I wasn't sure what to expect from this one since it was written 15+ years after Gospel Truths. I kind of figured it would be better based solely on the belief that after 15 years and having written several more novels* Sandom's writing ability would have improved and his ideas for a story would be much fresher than then! Indeed, on both counts!

****UPDATE OF CLARIFICATION FOR THOSE WHO DON'T KNOW: J.G. Sandom has written a couple of other novels under the pseudonym T.K. Welsh. One of them, The Resurrection Men, I've read, and it was quite good. He's also written 2 others, besides Gospel Truths, under the Sandom name. According to his website he has written 9 works of fiction total.****

This is not to say Gospel Truths was a bad book, it wasn't. It was really only average, though. But I read it only in the last year or so and had I read it when it was first published back in 1992 I would have thought it was the penultimate thriller. Fastforward to 2009 and we have The God Machine.

I had actually read The God Machine about a month ago as I purchased an Advanced Reader's Copy of it on eBay. The main difference I noticed between this book and Gospel Truths, other than different storylines, is that there seems to be much more intrigue and mystery and mayhem, which in turn makes it much more interesting. This book reminded somewhat of the movie National Treasure, not in storyline, but in the adventuresome spirit of it . Very thrilling! I read this in 2 sittings, which is rare for me with a book that weighs in at 466 pages.

There is an improvement in writing with The God Machine, but not so much it would be noticed like the difference between night and day. What makes it stand out is the presentation and storyline. This novel can definitely stand on it's own two feet amongst the crowded religious thriller genre and not ownly does it stand, it shines among some of the best in the field. This one's got wheels, not feet!

In The God Machine we have mathematician Joseph Koster returning from Gospel Truths for another outing. This time he's paired up with hottie Savita Sajan to find the coded journal of Ben Franklin that may reveal an earth-shattering secret and must race against the clock to decode it before it falls into the hands of religious zealots. This may sound like another ho hum storyline, but not the way Sandom presents. It is incredibly fast paced with many twists and turns. Again, I keep thinking of National Treasure when thinking of this novel. I won't tell you any more about the storyline because I don't want to let something slip and spoil this great read for you.

If you like religious thrillers with secret discoveries, religious nuts and secret societies, conspiracies, mystery and intrigue, well developed characters and a great storyline all presented to you in vivid form then you need to BUY THIS BOOK! Definitely the best religious thriller I've read in a while(years). As with most thrillers of this ilk it will be compared to Brown's Da Vinci Code, which I think is a disservice not just to DVC, but to TGM as well.

I do like this one better than The Da Vinci Code, but still think it's an excellent novel as well. Don't forget The Da Vinci Code, while still in the same genre, is an entirely different storyline than The God Machine. Thus comparisons really shouldn't be made unless they are specific(i.e. writing ability, development of characters, presentation etc.)

If you like or are a fan of the books of Sam Bourne, Scott Mariani, James Twining, James Rollins, Dan Brown, Douglas Weber, Chris Kuzneski, Gregg Loomis, David Gibbins, Raymond Khoury or David Wood you should definitely enjoy this book throughly and quickly devour it up.

I can't really think of a complaint I have with this book and whole heartedly give it my highest recommendation. I give it 5 stars out of 5 or a 10 out of 10! It's rarity among the word of fiction, especially those of this ilk. Buy it now and prepare to be up for an allnighter!!!

8 of 9 people found the following review helpful.
THE GOD MACHINE a great read!
By abdoggett
I just finished reading THE GOD MACHINE and I really enjoyed it! It should be made into a movie. I will definitely be reading GOSPEL TRUTHS.

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! Download PDF Rumor Has It, by Tami Hoag

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In this classic love story from #1 New York Times bestselling author Tami Hoag, fire meets ice when a Yankee heartthrob falls for a resistant proper Southern belle determined to guard her heart.

Katie Quaid could never refuse a dare. It was the quality that had once made her a world-class equestrian. And it was the reason she’d been elected to introduce herself to Briarwood’s intimidatingly gorgeous new resident. It took one week to make Nick Leone the focus of the Virginia town’s rumor mill. So far he was a CIA agent, a male model, a fugitive—maybe all three.

Whatever Nick was, Katie learned one thing right away: she liked him. And that made him the greatest danger she’d faced since the accident that had ended her riding career. In the five years since, she’d buried herself in her business of restoring historic homes, afraid to share her scars with any man—scars that had destroyed more than one dream. Nick had disappointments of his own, but after meeting Katie, he sensed that fate had a better plan all along. And soon he would pose her with the greatest dare of all—to love again.

• Sales Rank: #682559 in Books
• Brand: Bantam
• Published on: 2009-01-27
• Released on: 2009-01-27
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 6.88" h x .78" w x 4.16" l, .35 pounds
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 304 pages

Features

• Great product!

About the Author
Tami Hoag's novels have appeared regularly on national bestseller lists since the publication of her first book in 1988. She lives in Los Angeles.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One


"He can't be single," Mary Margaret McSwain said, adjusting the focus on her binoculars as she peered at the store across the street. "He's too good-looking. It's McSwain's Law: If a man's gorgeous, he has to be married, gay, or a serial killer."

Zoe Baylor shoved a book of wallpaper samples out of her way and leaned across the oak table, bracing her long dark hands against the window frame as she tried to get a better look without benefit of magnifying lenses.

"Mary Margaret," Katie Quaid called in a warning tone as she struggled in the back door of the store, her tiny frame weaving under the weight of books of drapery swatches. After the day she'd had, she wouldn't have refused a hand, but her friends seemed too preoccupied to offer. "I don't want to hear another one of your stories about serial killers. Mrs. Pruitt changed her mind again about the color of the guest room. If you describe to me one more brutal way to do away with somebody, no one is liable to find Mrs. Pruitt for a long, long time."

Katie dropped the drapery samples on her desk with a horrendous crash. Neither of the women staring out the window so much as flinched. The tip of Zoe's nose dotted the plate glass in front of her like that of a hungry kid looking in a bakery window. Katie's business partner, known as Maggie to her friends, was kneeling on her chair, her well-rounded bottom sticking up as she leveled a pair of binoculars at some point across the street.

"Maggie, what on earth are you doing?" Katie asked. She knew her friend already had a solidly established reputation for being a flake. Spying on people with binoculars was not going to improve matters.

"I'm spying on the Adonis in the store across the street." Maggie sighed and moaned, never lowering her binoculars. "Haven't you heard? That old building was sold two days ago."

"Who bought it?"

Maggie sat back with her legs tucked under her and offered the binoculars to Katie, deftly untangling the neck strap from the ends of her bobbed red hair. The smile that tilted her mouth was challenging. "See for yourself."

Katie rolled her eyes and propped a fist on her slender hip. "I will not stoop to window peeping."

"Chicken."

Muttering under her breath, Katie grabbed the field glasses from her friend and raised them to her eyes. Would she always be such a sucker for a dare? Probably. It had something to do with being only five feet one and seven-eighths inches tall. Being the first one to take a dare had always been her way of compensating for her lack of stature. That she was twenty-seven and had long since considered herself a grown woman had no effect on the trait.

"If this isn't the silliest thing you've . . ." The rest of her breath washed out of her on the softest of sighs as she focused the binoculars.

The dark T-shirt might have been painted on him. Even looking through the window of her store and the bay window of the store across the street, Katie could see the outline of his chest muscles, a wide expanse of hard, rippling pectorals. He was dancing as he washed the inside of the window. His breathtaking chest tapered to a narrow waist, and then to hips that were gently gyrating in time to the tune he was listening to on his headphones. He had the kind of body that was made for faded jeans—a flat belly, a perfectly rounded male fanny, slim hips, and muscular thighs.

Before Katie could dwell on any other part of his lower anatomy, she jerked the glasses up to his face. She might have lost her breath again, except she hadn't been breathing. Inky black hair tumbled onto his forehead, lending his male beauty a roguish quality. Maggie hadn't been far wrong calling him an Adonis. His was the kind of face ancient Greek sculptors would have fought over to immortalize in marble.

"His name is Nick Leone," Maggie said, as if it were the most dangerously mysterious name she'd ever heard. "He's from New Jersey. Lee Henry Bartell heard it from Dee Roberts, the real estate agent who sold him the property."

"What's he doing in Briarwood?" Zoe asked suspiciously. In a nervous habit she ran a forefinger back and forth over the plastic name tag on her nurse's uniform.

Katie forced herself to plunk the binoculars down on the table, embarrassed over her own involuntary reaction to the handsome stranger. She was no drooling man watcher; she had a business to run. "He must not know about the law against people from New Jersey moving to Virginia," she said in a teasing voice.

Zoe was too wrapped up in her musings to hear. "I thought he sounded like a Yankee," she murmured.

Maggie jumped on the comment like a cat on a june bug. "You heard him talk? You met him? Where? What's he like? He doesn't have a funny voice, does he? That would just ruin it for me if he had a funny voice. Where'd you see him?"

A horrified look came over Zoe's long, thin face. "Nowhere."

"The hospital." Maggie nodded, her brown eyes narrowing in thought. "Hmmm, that's interesting. What was he there for?"

"Maggie!" Zoe exclaimed. "You know I can't talk about patients. It's not ethical."

"And it's none of your business, Mary Margaret," Katie added pointedly. "Have you called in the order for that grass paper John Harris wants in his office?"

"Yes. You know what the rumor is about him?"

"I don't want to hear any rumors about John Harris," Katie said, deliberately misinterpreting Maggie's question. She had a feeling the less she knew about the gorgeous arrangement of masculinity across the street, the better off she'd be. She scooped a couple of wallpaper books off the long table and returned them to their proper slots in the oak case along the wall.

"Not John Harris, Nick Leone!"

"Lord, Mary Margaret, the man hasn't been in town a week, and already there's gossip about him?" Katie pulled out a book of miniature country prints and headed for her desk. "I wonder if he knows what he's in for, moving to a small town."

"Rumor has it he's a mole." She raised her carefully plucked eyebrows for emphasis.

Katie ignored her, sitting down to page through the book, concentrating on paisley prints in order to get her mind off perfect male pectorals. Zoe shrugged. "I don't get it."

Maggie heaved a sigh. "A spy for the Company, an agent for the CIA. You know, double O, licensed to kill. They're called moles. Don't you ever go to the movies?"

"The CIA," Zoe whispered, rubbing her name tag. "I heard he was a fashion model."

"Oh, please," Katie said, laughing at her friends' wild imaginations. "I don't know which one of you is worse. Maggie, how can you make such a ridiculous remark?"

"I'm only telling you what I heard, sugar. Lee Henry told me that Dee said the man was very reluctant to discuss himself, and when she asked him what he used to do up in New Jersey, he wouldn't exactly say."

"That's all?" Katie questioned, trying to suppress a grin. "Lee Henry didn't see him talking into the secret phone in the heel of his shoe?"

Zoe muttered to herself, "So that's how he came by that gunshot wound."

"Gunshot wound!" Maggie bolted out of her chair to lean across the table and over her friend.

"Oh, damn! Don't tell anyone I told you!"

"A gunshot wound. What do you have to say about that, Katie Quaid?"

Katie wouldn't have shown her surprise at the news for anything. She kept her eyes glued to the flowered paper in front of her. "He was probably shot by some flighty woman who heard a wild rumor he was a secret agent. Maybe he had a hunting accident. Maybe he's a retired police officer. Maybe—"

"—we should find out for ourselves," Maggie interrupted smoothly, lifting the binoculars to her eyes again. She zoomed them in on Katie. "I'm leaning toward the story that he's in the federal witness-protection program. But in the interest of truth, I vote Katie our official ambassador and spy."

"I second," Zoe said, nodding enthusiastically as she caught Maggie's wink.

"Nominations cease. Go check him out, Katie."

"Don't be absurd." She shot Maggie a look from beneath lowered brows. They had been friends since their freshman year at William and Mary. Katie had no doubt that Maggie had caught her automatic response to Nick Leone and had decided to exercise her self-appointed role of fairy godmother.

"What? Are you scared? Do you secretly believe he's a double agent?" Maggie asked, pushing all the right buttons inside Katie without the slightest compunction. "I dare you to go find out."


Nick was happily lost in thought as he washed the dirt off the panes of the bay window. Wash, rinse, polish dry, move a little to the tunes from his favorite musical group—what a great life. Not many guys _thirty-_two years old were able to say they were living out one of their life dreams. He hadn't made it big on Broadway—that had been his first dream—but he'd given it his best shot. His second dream had been to start his own restaurant in a small, quiet town. He'd signed the papers on the beginning of that dream two days ago.

A lot of people thought he was nuts. His friends back home had been sure he would be massacred by wild men if he moved to Virginia. They had seemed genuinely uncertain as to whether Briarwood, Virginia, had as yet benefited from electricity and indoor plumbing.

As far as Nick was concerned, Briarwood had it all over any big city. He had been born and raised in Atlantic City and had spent much of his ...

From AudioFile
Katie Quaid, scarred in an accident years before, is reluctant to risk loving mysterious Nick Leone, who has moved to Virginia from New Jersey to open a restaurant. Lyssa Brown struggles with this ho-hum story about love overcoming all obstacles. Her portrayal of Nick misses the mark, making him sound more like a none-too-bright sidekick than the handsome, physically powerful but sensitive romantic lead he is described as. Her portrayals of the various characters who have Southern accents also miss the mark, making the males sound artificial and the females sound whiny or just plain irritating. All in all, a big let down for Hoag fans. A.C.P. © AudioFile 2009, Portland, Maine

Most helpful customer reviews

11 of 13 people found the following review helpful.
rumor has it
By Amazon Customer
a poor plot, early romance, very perdictable. I am a big fan of Tami Hoag, but was really disapointed in this book. Looks like an early effort, she has come a long way.

9 of 11 people found the following review helpful.
Awful
By B Richardson
Seeing Tami Hoag's name on the front of this book may give you the false impression that it's going to be at least a halfway ok book... don't be fooled. It's not. It's a wonder she kept writing.

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Unlikeable Heroine
By Danielle Taylor
This was a very early book that Tami Hoag wrote and well you can tell. I like Tami Hoag she's written some really good books, this is not one of them.

I just couldn't get past my dislike of the main heroine. She was so selfish and spent so much time feeling sorry for herself I don't see how the hero could possible fall in love with her.

Katie had a riding accident that stopped her from pursuing her dream of riding in the Olympics and left her with some physical limitations and the inability to have children. She cuts herself off from just about everyone and decides she will never be in a relationship until she meets our hero who breaks down some of her walls. However, she leaves him when she finds out he wants a family and loves kids. Even though he is willing and wants to compromise she isn't. I found myself wanting the hero to find a woman that would love him for who he was and his dreams and that wasn't Katie.

I had a hard time even finishing this book, so if you want to read an earlier Tami Hoag please don't start with this book. Try Still Waters or Cry Wolf.

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* PDF Download Till Human Voices Wake Us, by Mark Budz

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In such groundbreaking novels as Crache and Idolon, Mark Budz established his reputation as one of science fiction’s most exciting and innovative writers. Now he surprises us again with an ambitious new thriller set in three realities at once, where three different lives hang in the balance….

What if your world were rapidly running out of tomorrows? And what if the only way to save the future was to relive the past? But which past holds the key to survival? That’s the life-and-death question faced by three desperate people separated by the past, present, and future but who share a single terrifying reality. A tortured soul, brain-damaged in a motorcycle accident, issues a pirate broadcast out of a van in near-future California. In Depression-era San Francisco an architect with an inoperable brain tumor seeks a mystical cure. A post-human space traveler caught in a cosmic accident searches for a way to reconstruct himself and the future. In Mark Budz’s spellbinding narrative, their lives–and deaths–are drawn together by a force even more powerful than destiny.

• Sales Rank: #3993867 in Books
• Published on: 2007-07-31
• Released on: 2007-07-31
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 6.30" h x 1.10" w x 4.19" l, .43 pounds
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 400 pages

From Booklist
In three different eras, three protagonists struggle with the spectre of death and grasp for a means to survival. During the Depression, an architect communes with mystics for the key to healing. In the near future, a traveller who believes he has found the answer with Jesus broadcasts his story from a church van. Far in the future, a post-human space explorer who has lost vital parts of his programming because of an accident fights to maintain coherence. Each character struggles for truth and life, their fates becoming more closely linked with every passing moment. Discovering the truth behind their fates and choosing the right set of memories constitute the only path to survival for all three. Budz's fascinating thriller made up of three disparate stories crucially connected and eventually converging on a conclusion perhaps not entirely unexpected satisfies through the exploration of mind and choice that is its mainspring. Schroeder, Regina

About the Author
Mark Budz lives in northern California with his wife, fellow author Marina Fitch. His short stories have appeared in Amazing Stories and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. He is the author of four novels, Clade, Crache, Idolon, and, most recently, Till Human Voices Wake Us.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One

Santa Cruz, September 12


The singing was back.

Rudi Lauchman paused on the sidewalk, trying to isolate the precise source of the sound. The voice was soft, melodic. He couldn't make out any words. It was more like humming, vaguely choral. And not, he felt reasonably sure, coming from inside his head.

He had been hearing the voice around town, off and on, for a week. Close to the Cafe Pergolesi one day, the library the next. Elusive. More imagined than real.

This time it seemed to be coming from a recessed doorway partly concealed by a juniper bush dotted with small blue-purple berries. A FOR LEASE sign hung in one window of the small office building.

Rudi found himself standing next to it, his hands thrust into his pockets, unable to remember how he got there. He couldn't recall turning onto the walkway, or making his way up the path. Another lapse.

He shut his eyes. He'd heard the song before, he was sure of it. Church, possibly. But maybe not. He got confused. Sometimes, voices didn't match faces. He heard one person talking and saw another.
The music could be the accident talking . . . his old life--before the crash--bleeding into this one. But this song wasn't the one he was running from. This full-bodied contralto was different from the sinuous soprano that slithered into his head and spoke to him in a flicking, unintelligible whisper, raspy as scales against dry grass.

The singing stopped. Rudi opened his eyes.

"What are you doing here? Peeping on me?" A large woman with a metal cane and a blue knitted cap stood in the doorway. She glared at Rudi with bloodshot eyes before cutting a glance at his hands. Rudi jerked his hands from his pockets. "I wasn't--"

The woman sniffed. "Why don't you play with yourself someplace else? Before I call the cops." Rudi adjusted his baseball cap, careful not to disturb the lining. In the doorway behind her, he could make out a shopping cart, blanket, and scuffed black boom box. "I heard you singing. That's all." The woman leaned forward, her forehead creased by a frown. "What have you got under there? Reynolds Wrap?"

"You've been drinking," Rudi said. His scalp prickled.

The woman chuckled. Her shoulders rocked like two sofa cushions jiggling in an earthquake. "Not enough."

"I've been hearing you a lot. Do you always sing when you're drunk?"

"Singing's cheap. It don't cost nothin'. Which is exactly what I got right now. In case you were wondering."

"Except for a broken heart," he said. "Or an empty soul."

The crease in the woman's brow deepened briefly, then relaxed, as if overcome by sudden weariness. "You're crazy," she said.

"Rudi." He held out his hand, then snatched it back when it looked like she might whack it with the cane.

"Get a move on. Before you get any wrong ideas." She wavered, eerily insubstantial despite her size. "You hear?"

Rudi tilted his head. Barely audible music from the boom box scratched at the air. The woman followed his lopsided gaze. "Aretha," she said. " 'This Bitter Earth.' Now, leave me be." She shifted her weight. "My knees are givin' me hell."

"I have a radio show," Rudi said. "I play music sometimes and talk about stuff. I always do one Sunday mornings." He told her the A.M. frequency. "It's for people who can't make it to church."

"I'll be sure to listen. Now get outta here." She waved him on with the cane then hobbled into the shadows of her makeshift cave.

The next morning, at six-thirty, Rudi was transmitting from behind the Safeway on Mission Street.
Radio Baptiste. That was how he thought of himself: baptizing anyone who would listen with radio waves instead of water.

Sitting at the console in the back of the sound van, Rudi's skull felt like a pressure cooker ready to explode. He'd kicked off the hour-long program, The Rod of God, with a classic Greg Brown tune, "Lord, I Have Made You a Place in My Heart." It had been a favorite of his before the motorcycle accident, and like everything else associated with his old life he kept it around as a reminder of history not to repeat. From whiskey and bare-naked women, he launched into a rambling sermon that equated faith to the sound of one hand clapping.

"Belief can't be explained," Rudi said, winding down. "You don't have to see the tree to hear the sound it makes when it falls."

That was what he clung to since being released from the Lakeshore Foundation facility in Birmingham. Back in the apartment he'd been renting before the accident, he had found several joss sticks that had once belonged to his sister, a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and a book called The Blue Cliff Record, with the Zen koans circled like points on a map he couldn't remember. Linnea. He hadn't thought about her for years. That part of his life was like an old well sitting in the back of his head. One misstep, and he'd fall in. Never see light again.

As usual, he wrapped up with a confessional, beamed out to the world via the dish atop the van.
"My mother knew I was a worthless sinner the day I was born." Rudi cleared his throat. "She said she could tell from the way I whined. I wasn't like my big sister. When I heard that, all I wanted to do was crawl back into the hole that spat me out. Not that she'd ever take me back. According to her, after all the problems I caused her those first nine months, she was glad to get rid of me. Her only regret was she didn't do it sooner."

The words, close to fifteen years old now, still hurt to repeat. But pain, as he'd reminded his listeners many times, could be a blessing. Lance a boil and it would heal. Exhausted, his face sweaty and his hands shaking, Rudi slumped into the wrinkled bosom of the sleeping bag in the back corner of the van.

He woke two hours later, roused by a heavy-fisted thrombosis of sound. Someone hammering on the back of the van. His brain felt pureed, Gerber baby food in a cracked jar. Drained, empty of the euphoria that gripped him during a broadcast, he sat up and pressed his fingers to his temples.
Food. That was what he needed.

He checked the time. Just after nine. Maybe the woman he'd met would be at the soup kitchen. Maybe she'd listened to his broadcast. Maybe the radio waves had washed over her like the waves of the River Jordan, leaching the hurt from her heart and the alcohol from her veins.

Rudi opened the back doors to the van and staggered out. The coastal fog was burning off, retreating under an unfocused sun. Mottled patches of melanoma blue shone through the haze. Rudi squinted at himself in the passenger's side mirror. He needed a shave and haircut. He ran his fingers through the lank strands plastered to his forehead, smoothing them into place. His eyes were red-rimmed around glossy black pupils. This morning they seemed to radiate as much light as they let in.

Turning from his reflection, his gaze skittered across the rust-scabbed side of the van. Despite several glossy applications of white enamel spray paint, a school of Jesus Saves fish with crosses for eyes, and a three-foot gash left by Hurricane Anika, the van's corporate logo was still barely visible:
RAD I/O.

The outline of the letters, tintype gray under the patchy paint, resurrected the dusty memory of a Greek bas-relief he'd seen during a fifth-grade field trip to a museum.

Rudi didn't think of the van as stolen. More like borrowed . . . or on temporary loan. He'd refused to hole up with his traveling companions when the hurricane hit and they'd opted to wait for the storm to abate before continuing on to Mobile. After they'd hunkered down in a cable-ready Pascagoula motel, playing it safe, he'd decided to go on without them.

"I'll be back in a day or two," he said before leaving.

"You're crazy." Bethel eyed the low-slung clouds and the apoplectic thrashing of sycamore trees. "You're gonna die."

"If that's God's will."

"Suicide is a sin," Travis had reminded him.

"Not if it's in the service of the Lord," Rudi quipped with blithe, practiced fatalism. Besides, he suspected they had an ulterior motive for wanting to spend the night in a motel. He didn't want any part of it.

In the days leading up to landfall, the Scion of Adam congregation had decided to dispatch the sound van from Prattville, Alabama, to Mobile and vicinity. The little strip mall church rented the van on weekends to spread the Gospel to people who couldn't make it into town for services. With the storm coming, they wanted to be there on the front lines when it hit.

"Eye of the devil," Bethel had said when the hurricane was still a couple of hundred miles offshore.

"That's right." Jim Odette's head bobbed as if attached to a spring. "People are gonna need hope. They're gonna need to hear the Lord is with them."

"Amen," Marilee Odette echoed. "If things get as bad as they say, we've got a duty to help lift them up."

On the drive down, along I-65, Rudi had been consumed with thoughts of Ezekiel; of dead bones rising up out of the earth, coming together, and putting on flesh. He kept his Bible on the seat next to him, within easy reach, and vowed to do whatever it took to make that happen. People would hear the Scripture, and if their spirit was broken it would be mended. If their bodies were injured, they would be healed. If their hope was spent, it would be replenished.

In retrospect, zeal had gotten the best of him. Proverbs warned that "pride goeth before destruction." There was too much fury, during the storm and after, to make it to ground zero. But at that point he was on a mission, stopped only whe...

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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
At last - literary science fiction!
By Avid Reader
What I find tragic is that excellent novels like this receive little attention while utter trash revels in popularity. I'm talking about books with no editing, bad spelling, grammar and punctuation, cardboard characters, absurd plots, farcical science and dialogue straight from high school. Discovering a literary jewel in science fiction is indeed a prize. Let's face it - most scifi books are weak on character, dialogue, plot and anything relating to literary quality. But Mark Budz is different. This is a superior novel of great ideas, a flower that slowly opens until the ultimate beauty comes forth.

The idea of a technological life after death has been done before (nowhere better than the Inquisitor's Progress by Paul Hardy) but this take is very, very good. The slow synchronizing of the three stories is a beauty unto itself as the reader gradually becomes aware that something else is going on, something they can't put their finger on but yet feel its presence. The quality (perhaps I should say "interest factor") of the three separate stories within the story vary. Rudi was, of course, the best. And the noire machinations were a close second. The futuristic world lacked the depth of those in the past and this is understandable since the past is far easier to realize in all its intricate detail than a projected future.

My Grade - A-

3 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
One of the best books I've read this year.
By A. J. Luxton
I first saw this book in my local bookstore. As soon as I read the blurb, I picked it up. "T.S. Eliot, transhumanism and mystic neurology?" It was as if someone had written a novel just for me, and I hoped against hope that it would fulfill its promise.

In fact, it did.

Some of my favorite things in the world include the clinical tales of Oliver Sacks, and the interstitial territory where the experience of neurological events blends into the experience of self and mystical reality. Yeah, a mouthful, that. This may not be your sort of book if a few thousand-dollar words throw you off. But if this sort of thing fascinates you too, read ahead. This is the first piece of science fiction I've encountered which has a full handle on these boundaries and realities.

There is a point towards the middle of the book where a present-day character admits to experiencing a sense that his life is being recorded by cameras in his brain, and in the context of the three interlaced plotlines of the book, it is a moment of wonderful and startling ambiguity. Budz leads us to a place where the possibilities are balanced on a perfect edge: that this character is experiencing schizophrenic hallucinations and that his life *is*, in fact, being recorded by cameras in his brain.

It's a wonderful place to be, a place where it's possible for a thought to be insane and also true, where these qualities are not mutually exclusive. This is a theme throughout the narrative: another character experiences a brain tumor and a series of spiritual revelations, and the relationship between these things is not held to invalidate his experiences...

The situations of the characters in the book are often harsh and dark, but approached with empathy: a kind of open-eyed attitude toward all human experience that drew me deeply into the story. I found myself following every word with deep fascination.

The breadcrumb trail may be a little hard to follow at first, and the author assumes a background knowledge of "post-singularity" fiction conventions on the part of the reader, but it's well worth sticking with for the follow-through. "Human Voices" is a high-bandwidth book; as the pieces come together, it blows the mind, literally and figuratively. This one's a keeper.

4 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
Three strong stories that are stronger together
By Greg Wilson
The three threads are all strong enough to stand alone; they don't start to tie together 'til the middle of the book, but the end more than makes up for earlier confusion.

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> Ebook Free Once a Thief, by Kay Hooper

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With a priceless collection at stake...Is everything for the taking?

It had taken centuries for Max Bannister’s family to acquire their treasures, and now he’s been asked to risk his collection as bait for a master criminal. For his own reasons, Max allows a public exhibition, and to protect the family fortune he must rely on the skills of his half brother—a world-class security expert—and his smart and savvy exhibit director, Morgan West.

But almost immediately, Morgan comes face-to-face with the mysterious Quinn, Interpol’s most wanted thief for the past decade—and a man who makes it very clear he has an eye on the Bannister collection. And if that’s not enough, Morgan begins to realize that she’s surrounded by secrets and lies, and that someone very close to Max is moving behind the scenes, intent on murder as well as robbery...someone whose ultimate plan threatens to ruin them all.

• Sales Rank: #1080060 in Books
• Published on: 2002-10-01
• Released on: 2002-10-01
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 6.88" h x .92" w x 4.17" l, .41 pounds
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 352 pages

From the Inside Flap
With a priceless collection at stake...Is everything for the taking?
It had taken centuries for Max Bannister's family to acquire their treasures, and now he's been asked to risk his collection as bait for a master criminal. For his own reasons, Max allows a public exhibition, and to protect the family fortune he must rely on the skills of his half brother--a world-class security expert--and his smart and savvy exhibit director, Morgan West.
But almost immediately, Morgan comes face-to-face with the mysterious Quinn, Interpol's most wanted thief for the past decade--and a man who makes it very clear he has an eye on the Bannister collection. And if that's not enough, Morgan begins to realize that she's surrounded by secrets and lies, and that someone very close to Max is moving behind the scenes, intent on murder as well as robbery...someone whose ultimate plan threatens to ruin them all.

About the Author
Kay Hooper, who has more than six million copies of her books in print worldwide, has won numerous awards and high praise for her novels. Kay lives in North Carolina, where she is currently working on her next novel.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One


“Somebody ought to put her in one of the display cases. Talk about an eye-poppin' show."

Morgan West stopped in her tracks to lift an eyebrow at a suddenly flustered workman. "Voices carry in museums," she said gently. "You might want to keep that in mind."

"Yeah. I mean--yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. No offense meant."

"None taken. It's always been my ambition to be a museum display."

He cleared his throat. "Priceless things. That's all I meant. Treasures. Works of art." He eyed her, then sighed. "I'm not gonna win, am I?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"I'm a sexist pig."

"Pretty much."

"Objectifying women."

"This woman anyway. Yes, I'd say that was what you were doing."

"I apologize, Miss West."

Perfectly aware that the other workmen near enough to overhear this exchange were hiding grins, Morgan knew when it was time to let her prey off the hook on which he'd impaled himself. "Accepted. Have a nice day."

"Yes, ma'am. You too."

Morgan strolled away, knowing that laughter would erupt the moment she was out of sight. Which it did.

She sighed.

Her measurements had been causing her problems since her thirteenth birthday, so by now she should have been at least somewhat accustomed to it.

She wasn't.

There were men who admitted that long, shapely female legs inspired amorous fantasies; there were those who had the same basic response to the rich curves of swaying hips. But men whose primitive instincts were aroused by an ample bust, Morgan had found, undoubtedly outnumbered the rest.

Probably something Freudian about it.

Or something infantile.

At any rate, her centerfold measurements had caused her more trouble than joy. A lot more. Her dates during high school and college had been so entranced by her charms, she often wondered if they knew what her face looked like. Even the Rhodes scholar she'd briefly gone out with--hoping his mind was on a higher plane--had stuttered dreadfully whenever his gaze strayed to her chest.

Which was often.

And that explained one reason why Maxim Bannister had won her intense and total loyalty. He had, to be sure, gulped visibly when she'd first walked into his office, but he had also conducted the hour-long interview without allowing his gaze to stray to her chest--and without making her feel it required all his concentration to avoid staring. And since that time, he had managed not only to make her feel completely comfortable in his presence but had even responded with genuine sympathy when a particularly degrading experience with a date had caused her to unburden herself in an explosion of temper.

She liked Max a lot. He was one of the very few male friends she'd ever had, and she was delighted by the knowledge that, while he was no less appreciative of nature's bounty than the next man, his awareness and interest were detached rather than hormonal. He also had an unerring eye for color and style, and during the months of preparation for the Mysteries Past exhibit, she had gradually abandoned her dark-colored, loose blouses and multilayered outfits in favor of more elegant and flattering clothing.

When Max told her she looked good in something, she knew it was the truth. He'd said once that she was a queenly woman, the observation made in an assessing rather than complimentary tone, and Morgan had, quite unconsciously, begun walking without the slump she had just as unconsciously adopted in her teens. In a few short months, he had very quietly and gently and unobtrusively eradicated both Morgan's bitterness and the chip on her shoulder. Thanks to him, she was as proud of her body as she was of her mind.

Well, nearly.

Which wasn't to say it no longer caused her problems. In fact, masculine appreciation of her measurements was, indirectly, to blame for a predicament that was destined to occupy her for quite some time.

But on this mild Thursday afternoon, Morgan was blessedly unaware of the storm clouds building up on her own personal horizon. As the director of the forthcoming Mysteries Past exhibit, her mind was entirely focused on business.

"You're frowning," Wolfe Nickerson noted when they encountered each other in the lobby. He was the security expert Lloyd's of London had sent to oversee both the preparations for the exhibit and the two-month showing itself.

"I'm not surprised. Do you believe in intuition?" she asked.

"I've been known to get a hunch now and then. Why? Are you feeling intuitive?"

"Yeah. At least--I guess that's what it is. There's something out of focus, Wolfe. Something not right."

"With the preparations for the exhibit?"

"I don't know. Maybe." She sighed. "God, I hate it when I get one of these feelings. It's like I saw something out of the corner of my eye, you know? Something I didn't look at as closely as I should have."

Wolfe nodded. "Yeah, I've been there. But you know as well as I do that it's pretty much impossible to guard against a threat when all you've got to go on is a feeling. We're doing everything we can to protect the collection."

"Maybe not everything. Would pulling up the drawbridge and flooding the moat be out of order?"

"Well, it might make things a bit difficult for visitors."

Morgan hugged her ever-present clipboard and rested her chin on the top, matching his gravity when she said, "Yeah, but do we really need visitors? They come, they gawk--big deal."

Smiling, Wolfe said, "You really are bothered, aren't you?"

"A little bit, yeah."

"But there's nothing here yet to steal, remember? I mean, none of the collection. All those nice display cases the workmen are building are going to be empty for weeks yet."

"I know, I know."

"But?"

"But . . . something's wrong." Morgan shook her head with a faint grimace. "The place just doesn't feel right. I did a walk-through a little while ago, and I could swear I was being watched."

Wolfe eyed her, a little amused. "Well, you usually are."

"No, not that way." Morgan was intent on making sense of her own feelings and hunches. "Watched. Almost . . . I was going to say stalked, but I don't mean it in the modern way, with some half-crazed guy who thinks he's in love with me dogging my every step."

"How do you mean it, then?"

"More of a . . . predatory thing. As if I was being tracked, shadowed, my strengths and weaknesses sized up."

Wolfe's eyebrows rose, but more in surprise than disbelief. "That's a fairly primitive image. And a very specific threat to feel intuitively."

"I know. That's why it's creeping me out, big time."

He frowned. "All right, Morgan. I'll have the extra guards do a sweep of the building at the beginning of each shift, as well as halfway through the shift. Good enough?"

"I hope so." She shook her head again, obviously annoyed by worries too elusive to put into words, then added, "I'll be in my office. I'm going to go study the museum blueprints again."

"Listen," Wolfe said, "don't let the responsibility of being in charge while Max is off on his honeymoon blow anything out of proportion, okay? Whether you're right about somebody watching you or the preparations for the exhibit, the collection is safe and we are doing everything possible to make damned sure it stays that way."

Morgan squared her shoulders and nodded. "You're right. But I still want to study those blueprints."

"Have at it. If you see anything that'll help increase or perfect security, I'll be the first to thank you for it."

"I just want to be sure," Morgan said.

"I know."

"It's not that I'm questioning your competence--"

He waved that away. "I never thought you were. We're both responsible for protecting the collection, Morgan, so don't think you're stepping on my toes by double-checking everything, including your own hunches. I'll do the same."

"Okay. Just so we're clear."

"We are." Wolfe watched her head off toward her office, and added under his breath, "We're also both worried. I know why I am . . . but why are you?"

Carla Reeves was still astonished she'd been able to get a job with a security company. And somewhat amused.

Security? Yeah, right.

But unless she wanted to flip burgers or bag groceries, she'd had to take the chance and apply. It was her good luck that Ace Security had been in crying need of a few employees with a security background--and that a guy at her last place of employment had owed her a big, big favor, and had provided a glowing recommendation for her.

Still, you'd think a fucking security company would have at least checked for a police record before they hired somebody.

Thanking the universe for small favors and large ones, Carla settled happily into the new job, and within a number of weeks was feeling quite at home there. She was also trusted and given increasing responsibility, which was another amusement but nevertheless appreciated, since it led to a raise.

Carla liked her job. And she had no plans to fuck things up by doing anything she shouldn't have. She had learned the hard lesson that a one-time big score was seldom worth the risk of getting caught. Besides, she didn't need to do that anymore.

No, Carla's life was progressing nicely. So nicely, in fact, that she had absolutely no suspicion that everything was about to hit the fan.

She left work a bit later than usual that evening, mostly because she'd wanted to earn a few employee bonus points by doing some extra work on a security system being designed for a private home--of a personal friend of her boss.

She walked around the corner to where she'd left her car parked, smiling as she thought of the praise that would be heaped on her in the morning. Bonus points were fun.

She was fumbling in her purse for her key ring with its remote keyless entry gadget when a pleasant voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Hello, Carla."

It wasn't a familiar voice, but Carla had grown up literally on the streets, and she recognized a threat when she heard one. Still too far from her car to make a break for it, she turned very slowly and looked at him.

He was smiling at her. He was also holding an elegant little gun in one gloved hand.

"Oh, don't worry, Carla. I don't have rape in mind. Or even robbery."

She swallowed hard. "Then what do you want?"

"Just a little information, that's all."

"Information?"

"Come now, Carla, let's not pretend. You know what I want. And you know how to get it. After all--you've done it before, haven't you?"

Carla stared at him, understanding everything he didn't say. "Yeah," she answered dully. "So I do know what you want."

It was Morgan's habit to be at the museum very early each morning, long before it was open for business, and the next morning was no exception. Also as usual, the first thing she did was to conduct her own sweep of the building.

It wasn't that she didn't trust the guards, it was just that she trusted her own eyes and other senses more.

After all the months of preparation for the exhibit, she was very familiar with the cavernous halls and labyrinthine corridors of the museum. So much so, in fact, that she probably could have found her way through with the aid of a flashlight--no mean feat, given the size and complexity of the building.

Until very recently, she had never felt uneasy being alone in any area of the museum. But as her heels clicked against the polished marble floors, she once again had the oddest feeling that she wasn't as alone as she should have been. She stopped several times, gazing around her with a frown, but no one was there. She was sure no one was there.

"Morgan, you're losing it," she muttered finally.

Since this was a museum of historical art, it wasn't nearly as creepy as some she'd worked in. No stuffed or skeletal beasts loomed, and there weren't any exhibits such as Prehistoric Man at the Hunt with figures of man and beast frozen in bloody confrontational poses.

There was statuary, however, and more than once Morgan caught herself frowning uneasily at a manlike figure in a dim corner that she only belatedly recognized as some artist's work in marble or bronze.

"Definitely losing it." The sound of her own voice startled her somewhat, and Morgan quickened her steps, even though she kept searching for whatever was bothering her. And found nothing. Or at least found nothing that looked like anything.

"I don't even know what I'm looking for," she admitted half under her breath.

But as she turned to retrace her steps, Morgan's uneasiness intensified. The place still didn't feel right to her. She tried to focus on what she was feeling, but it was vague and unformed. Just anxiety and an odd sense of apprehension.

Morgan stopped at the entrance of the wing and looked back down the echoing corridors. A little laugh escaped her. "We're about to bring a priceless collection of art treasures into this place," she reminded herself aloud. "Of course I'm uneasy about it. That's all. That's all it is."

With those reassuring words, she turned and headed back for the lobby, her heels once more clicking briskly against the marble floor.

The sounds were fading away when, in a dim corner Morgan had passed by twice, one of those manlike figures stirred and stepped out of the shadows. He stood gazing after Morgan for several moments, then turned and headed deeper into the museum, his movements utterly silent and almost feline in their fluid grace.

If anybody had been there to hear, they wouldn't have heard a footstep. But they would have heard a soft, amused chuckle.

At thirty-six, Wolfe was two years younger than Max Bannister; they were half brothers, raised by their fathers on opposite coasts of the country, and had gotten to know each other well only as adults. But even though their knowledge of each other went back less than fifteen years, there was an unusually strong bond between them. It was one of the reasons Max had specifically requested Wolfe when Lloyd's, which insured the Bannister collection, had insisted on having one of their representatives on the scene during the exhibit and the preparations leading up to it.

One of the reasons. The other reason was that Wolfe was very, very good at his job. Good enough so that he took the worries of the Mysteries Past director seriously--even if she didn't think so.

"Morgan, all I said was--"

"All you said was that I'm nuts." She planted both hands on her hips and glared at Wolfe.

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0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Five Stars
By Edward Matty
I enjoyed the story

10 of 12 people found the following review helpful.
no story and no ending
By S. Gould
I have to agree with those readers who are insulted by the poor writing in this latest effort by Kay Hooper. In addition to there being very little plot we are expected to shell out [more of our hard earned cash] to find the conclusion of this story. If Hooper wanted to receive [profit] for her book it would have been more honest had she produced one volume and allowed readers to decide wether to pay for her story. She might also have let readers know that this is a reissue. I will not pay for the second installment of this reissued garbage.

0 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Confused and bewildered....
By Michelle
I like Kay Hooper's books. The characters are always very interesting and the plots always keep me guessing.
However, this time I was disappointed.
It said this was a remake of one of her older books. Well, unfortunately, I didn't read the original and I feel as if I'm missing huge chunks of the story. Ms Hooper says she has expanded several characters that she found intriguing and totally deleted characters she felt were unimportant.
Personally, I feel she has made a mistake somewhere in what she felt was important.
There are characters that seem to have an important impact on the storyline, but you never meet them.
Max for example. He's showing his huge collection of priceless artifacts in an attempt to lure some special someone into trying to steal it. Ok. Fine. Max is on his honeymoon, though, so instead of the story centering around him it centers around his employees. HUH? Why bother mentioning him at all then? We have scenes of him on the phone to his employees (Morgan and Wolfe) or scenes where he's having conversations with other mysterious characters that we never get to actually meet.
The whole experience of reading this left me so confused I don't know if I'm ever going to finish this book.
Well, I did finish the book. But I had to force myself to do it. I have to say now that I'm even more disappointed than ever. If I could give it less than 1 star, I would.
The ending left me even more confused as to why this story even needed to be told. There is no real ending. The story just stops suddenly, making you suspect there is a sequel in the works. Thanks, but no thanks. It's headed to the used book store. I won't be buying a sequel either. And you can be sure that from now on I will read the covers of all Kay Hooper books very carefully just so I won't go through this again.
As for the fact that this was condensed from 4 previous books...
Why not just reprint the original stories and then maybe those of us who didn't read the originals wouldn't be so disappointed and confused?

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