| 商家名称 | 信用等级 | 购买信息 | 订购本书 |
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Don't Look Now: A Novel |  |
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Don't Look Now: A Novel | |
Defense attorney Clare Westbrook functions very well in crisis mode -- whether taking the media rap for an explosive case or bargaining with her teenaged niece, whom Clare is raising. But a shocking crime -- the murder of her notoriously unethical boss -- is about to test her heart and soul: heading the homicide investigation is irresistibly sexy detective Tony Sonterra. Now, a passion that is as risky as it is addictive pulls Clare into the crosshairs of a deadly mystery from the past. As the truth closes in and it becomes clear someone's targeting her, Clare and Tony embark on a twisting chase in the Arizona heat, where their dangerous desire sparks a determined hunt for a killer.
作者简介 Linda Lael Miller is the bestselling author of more than fifty novels, including New York Times bestsellers High Country Bride, The Last Chance Café, Springwater Wedding, Courting Susannah, and One Wish. Her next novel is Shotgun Bride, a historical romance coming soon from Pocket Star Books. Ms. Miller resides in the Scottsdale, Arizona, area. Visit her website at www.lindalaelmiller.com.
编辑推荐 Midwest Book Review
An exciting romantic suspense thriller....Linda Lael Miller at her intriguing best.
文摘 Chapter One
Cave Creek, Arizona
I didn't kill Harvey Kredd; somebody beat me to it. That night at the Horny Toad, a week after his untimely and gruesome death, my brain fried by an afternoon in the courtroom, where I was hammered by an assistant D.A., I was ready to dig the boss up and empty my trusty .38 into his chest, just in case there was so much as a flutter of life left in him.
Stopping by the Toad for beer and burgers wasn't my idea; all I wanted to do was go home, put up my feet, and knock back a couple of glasses of Chablis. I ended up there because my car was in the shop and my friend Loretta, having picked me up at the courthouse, was behind the wheel and therefore in control of my immediate destiny. I guess she figured neither of us was in any condition to cook; she'd worn herself out taking back-to-back yoga and Pilates classes while I'd argued, and lost, one of the half-dozen crappy cases I'd inherited after Harvey took a bullet between the eyes and ended up facedown in a bowl of yakisoba, breathing noodles. Since his death, everybody in the firm had been scrambling to take up the slack, and we were all stressed out.
Now, I was tired and stressed out, and not just because of Harvey's recent demise and its many and varied ramifications. A year before, I'd defended a guy named Ned Lench on charges of drunken driving and negligent homicide, and won an acquittal on the proverbial technicality. I'd lost a lot in the process -- most notably, my quasi-relationship with Detective Anthony Sonterra, who had busted his very fine butt for eight months to nail Lench in the first place. To make matters infinitely worse, a few days prior to Harvey's murder, Lench, tanked up on coke and booze and God knows what else, had crashed his pickup truck into a minivan at the corner of Scottsdale Road and Chaparral, killing himself in the process.
Thanks to him -- and partly to me -- three others were dead besides, two of them ch
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