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 . . .
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.
Chris has had a long day. All he wants is a beer and some sleep - until he unclogs a naiad from a pipe in his basement. She expects Chris to be struck blind at her beauty. Chances are that neither is going to get the evening they expected.
Imagine you're broke and you have a family to feed. Imagine you are then offered 5 grand to do half a days work. The problem is, you're told it's very illegal, but not what the job is and you're told it'll be fun, that you'll probably enjoy it. What do you do? Do you do it? Dare you trust him? This is the story of a father with this very predicament. / (Reviews)