WENDY WILDE wrote deliciously wicked novels of the sexual kind. Novels so hot, so prurient, they made her legions of fans. And haters. No subject matter was beyond her writer's fertile but kinky imagination. Her books made her rich and infamous and loved and hated. And now, dead and gone. Tag Bonewell, house dick at the Wellington Hotel, had never heard of her. Until the Wilde woman was found in suite 912 with three very neat, and accurately grouped, holes in her chest . . .
A late November rainstorm finds Pete Hackett while driving to his secluded cottage. Through the darkness, he finds Allison; a girl shivering on the side of the road and offers her a place to wait out the storm. The warmth of the fireplace sparks more than just kindling.
A three-part tale of survival in the Nuclear War of 1961. Survival means meeting each other's needs. If the post-cataclysmic world isn't too apocalyptic, leave it to the Kaffee Klatsches to sort out.
The headmistress got what she wanted, her young orphan pupil got what she wanted, and the nice gentleman who lived a half-mile up the lane certainly got what he wanted. I just hope the reader is as well satisfied.