2013, ISBN: 9781843548652

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Used - Good. Item in good condition. Textbooks may not include supplemental items i.e. CDs, access codes etc..., 2.5, Used - Acceptable. Item in good condition. Textbooks may not include supplemental items i.e. CDs, access codes etc..., 2.5, Workman Publishing, 2006. Ex-Library. Trade Paperback. Very Good. NICE BOOK! NO SPINE CREASES & MILD WEAR ON PINK LAMINATED COVER. A FEW LIBRARY STAMPS, NO MARKS IN TEXT. Description: Rebecca Apsan is the lingerie evangelist. She knows that intimate apparel has the power to transform. That the right bra affects not only look, but outlook. That sexy silk or lace are feminine armour, offering a soft layer of protection against life's vicissitudes. "The wall street Journal" wrote up her role in catapulting hanky-Panky thongs onto every well dressed woman's must have list on their front page! She provided all the intimate apparel for "Sex and The City" and now she is ready to divulge thirty years of wisdom and insider information about how underclothes can make the woman. There's more to underwear than meets the eye. It has the power to transform, to make a woman look a thousand times better, to boost her self-esteem. It's a little thing a woman can do to make herself feel great (which helps explain why lingerie is a multi billion pound business)., Workman Publishing, 2006, 3, Candlewick. Fair. 5.31 x 0.89 x 7.81 inches. Paperback. 2010. 352 pages. Cover worn and dog-eared.<br>Three adolescent boys wit h a single goal: see a real-live naked girl. The result? Razor-sh arp, rapid-fire, and raunchy, of course. And beyond hilarious. F ifteen-year-old Matt Gratton and his two best friends, Coop and S ean, always set themselves a summertime goal. This year's? To see a real-live naked girl for the first time -- quite a challenge, given that none of the guys has the nerve to even ask a girl out on a date. But catching a girl in the buff starts to look easy co mpared to Matt's other summertime aspiration: to swim the 100-yar d butterfly (the hardest stroke known to God or man) as a way to impress Kelly West, the sizzling new star of the swim team. In th e spirit of Hollywood's blockbuster comedies, screenwriter-turned -YA-novelist Don Calame unleashes a true ode to the adolescent ma le: characters who are side-splittingly funny, sometimes crude, y et always full of heart. Editorial Reviews About the Author Don Calame has been a professional screenwriter for the past fifteen years. Among the films he has had produced are Employee of the M onth and Hounded. Swim the Fly is his first book. He lives in Los Angeles. Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved . CHAPTER ONE SWIM TEAM Movies don't count, Cooper says. The Inte rnet -doesn't count. Magazines don't count. A real, live naked gi rl. That's the deal. That's our goal for this summer. Been there, done that, Sean says. Taking baths with your sister -doesn't cou nt, either, Sean. Cooper snorts. Screw you, meat stain. I haven't done that since I was, like, two, okay. And that's not what I wa s talking about, Sean says. We're walking up to the pool. Cooper, Sean, and me. Bare feet tucked into untied sneakers, ragged towe ls draped around our necks. It's our first day of swim practice, which means that summer's really started. We've been friends sinc e kindergarten. We've been on swim team since third grade. The Ro ckville Swimming Association. Six years as Lower Rockville Razorb acks. He's talking about Tina Everstone's left boob, I say as we turn onto Maple Drive and walk along the curb. Oh, please. Not th at again. Cooper rolls his eyes. It's true. I saw the whole thing when she was taking off her sweatshirt during gym. Her T-shirt c ame up just enough And she wasn't wearing a bra and her left one popped out and you saw the entire thing, nipple and all, and even if I didn't think you were lying to us, it still wouldn't count, Cooper says. I'm talking totally naked. Not a quick flash, okay? Whatever. Sean shrugs and looks off at the rundown ranch houses like he doesn't care what we think. How are we supposed to see a live naked girl? I say. Maybe we better set a more realistic goal for the summer. Like finding Atlantis. Matt, Matt, Matt. Cooper puts his arm around me like he's my wise uncle. That kind of atti tude will get you nowhere in life. Don't you get it? You have to follow the natural way of things. It's like that picture in our b io textbook. First there's the monkey. Then there's the caveman. Then there's the human. It's the same with sex. First there's Int ernet porn, then there's seeing your first real naked girl, and f inally it's the dirty deed. You do want to have sex someday, don' t you, Matt? Every summer there is a goal. It's tradition. I don' t remember when it started or why. But as long as I can remember, we've always come up with something we had to accomplish before the start of the new school year. When we were ten, it was riding our bikes fifteen miles away to Perry Lake and skinny-dipping. W hen we were twelve, it was going to the Fern Creek Golf Course ev ery day until we collected a thousand golf balls. Over the past f ew years, the goals have become more centered around girls and se x. Two years ago, each of us had to get our hands on a Playboy an d show it to the others. Last year the ante was upped to finding an illegal password for a porn site. And now, Cooper's challenge for this summer. Which I can't see ever happening. Maybe if we we re even a little bit cool, or had any chance of getting girlfrien ds. But that's just not the case. By the time you're fifteen, you 've either had a girlfriend - maybe even had sex - or, like Coop, Sean, and me, you haven't even mustered the courage to ask a gir l out. There's also a third group, I guess. Guys who say they've had girlfriends but who nobody really believes. Which just means they're liars who fit into the second category. We make it to Roc kville Avenue Pool just in time to hear Ms. Luntz, our swim coach , calling the team over for a meeting. Ms. Luntz is a gourd-shape d woman who wears her blue-and-white Speedo stretched to capacity underneath denim short-pants overalls. Her legs are thick and po ckmarked, and purple worm veins bubble up beneath the see-through skin on her thighs. She doesn't make things much better for hers elf with her Campbell's Soup Kid haircut and gigantic pink-tinted glasses. You could almost feel sorry for her, if she wasn't so n asty to everyone. Hurry up, people, Ms. Luntz squawks. Let's go, let's go. Before winter comes. We've got important business to di scuss. Cooper, Sean, and me make our way around the toilet - a sh allow, oval kiddie pool that's always suspiciously body-temperatu re warm. My mom says it's warm because there's less water in ther e and the sun can heat it up faster, but nobody's buying that. La st year, Cooper bet Sean ten bucks he wouldn't bob for a Life Sav er over the painted picture of Elmo, which is where most of the l ittle kids hang out, and Sean did it without blinking an eye. It was pretty sick. Sean kept saying how they put chemicals in the p ool for a reason, but there's no way I could have done that. I fe el my stomach lurch now just thinking about it. We walk along the edge of the adult pool toward the deep end where the diving boar ds are. I breathe in the sharp chlorine smell and watch the swimm ers stringing the swim lane dividers, and it's like Yeah, I know this mixed with Oh, God, not this again. We hang back at the edge of the crowd that forms around Ms. Luntz. It's all the same peop le from last year. A sea of blue and white Lycra. Guys and girls from seven to seventeen. All of them serious about swim team. It' s different for Coop, Sean, and me. We do swim team because we've always done swim team. Between the three of us, I bet that we ha ve the largest collection of green fifth-place ribbons in the ent ire league. It's not like we try to lose. It's just that we happe n to be the three least athletic kids on the team. Maybe even in all of Rockville. Okay, so, welcome back and all that crap, Ms. L untz says, tapping her pen on her clipboard. It's another summer, which means another chance to make a run for gold. Our first mee t is in three weeks. I want us to set the bar high right away. I want us to take first in this year's relay challenge. Coop leans over to me and whispers, Yeah, and I want to take a whipped-cream bath with... ., Candlewick, 2010, 2, Wide Eyed Editions. Used - Good. Good condition. A copy that has been read but remains intact. May contain markings such as bookplates, stamps, limited notes and highlighting, or a few light stains., Wide Eyed Editions, 2.5, Ballantine Books. Good. 4.2 x 1.1 x 6.73 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2009. 416 pages. <br>I am Meredith, princess of faerie, and at long las t, I am with child-twins, fathered by my royal guard. Now I must stay alive to see my children born, as conspirators from every co urt plot against me and mine. They seek to strip my guards, my lo vers, from me by poisoned word or cold steel. But I still have su pporters, and even friends, among the goblins and the sluagh who will stand by me. Those who would defy and destroy me are destine d to pay a terrible price. To protect what is mine, I will sacrif ice anything-even if it means waging a battle against my darkest enemies and making the most momentous decision ever made as princ ess of faerie. Editorial Reviews Review An emotionally charged and suspense-filled tale . . . with enough surprises, twists and turns to keep you guessing.-Romance Reviews Today Wild magic and wilder sex.-Publishers Weekly Nearly nonstop action.-St. Louis Post-Dispatch About the Author Laurell K. Hamilton is the New Yo rk Times bestselling author of the Meredith Gentry novels: A Kiss of Shadows, A Caress of Twilight, Seduced by Moonlight, A Stroke of Midnight, Mistral's Kiss, A Lick of Frost, and Divine Misdeme anors, as well as seventeen acclaimed Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter , novels. She lives in St. Louis, Missouri. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Hospitals are w here people go to be saved, but the doctors can only patch you up , put you back together. They can't undo the damage. They can't m ake it so you didn't wake up in the bad place, or change the trut h to lies. The nice doctor and the nice woman from the SART, Sexu al Assault Response Team, couldn't change that I had indeed been raped. The fact that I couldn't remember it, because my uncle had used a spell for his date-rape drug, didn't change the evidence- the evidence that they'd found in my body when they did the exam and took samples. You would think being a real live faerie princ ess would make your life fairy-tale-like, but fairy tales only en d well. While the story is going on, horrible things happen. Reme mber Rapunzel? Her prince got his eyes scratched out by the witch , which blinded him. At the end of the story, Rapunzel's tears ma gically restored his sight, but that was at the end of the story. Cinderella was little better than a slave. Snow White was actual ly nearly killed four different times by the evil queen. All anyo ne remembers is the poisoned apple, but don't forget the huntsman , or the enchanted girdle and the poisoned comb. Pick any fairy t ale that's based on older stories, and the heroine of the piece h as a miserable, dangerous, nightmarish time of it. I am Princess Meredith NicEssus, next in line to a high throne of faerie, and I'm in the middle of my story. The happy-ever-after ending, if it 's coming at all, seems a very long way away tonight. I was in a hospital bed, in a nice private room, in a very nice hospital. I was in the maternity ward, because I was pregnant, but not with my crazy uncle's baby. I had been pregnant before he stole me awa y. Pregnant with the children of men I loved. They'd risked every thing to rescue me from Taranis. Now, I was safe. I had one of th e greatest warriors that faerie had ever seen at my side: Doyle, once the Queen's Darkness, and now mine. He stood at the window, staring off into the night that was so ruined by the lights from the hospital parking lot that the blackness of his skin and hair was much darker than the night outside. He'd removed the wraparou nd sunglasses that he almost always wore outside. But his eyes we re as black as the glasses that hid them. The only color in the d im light of the room was the glints from the silver rings that cl imbed the graceful line of one ear to the point that marked him a s not pure blood, not truly high court, but mixed blood, like me. The diamonds in his earlobe sparkled in the light as he turned h is head, as if he'd felt me staring at him. He probably had. He h ad been the queen's assassin a thousand years before I was born. His ankle-length hair moved like a black cloak as he came toward me. He was wearing green hospital scrubs that he'd been loaned. They had replaced the blanket from the ambulance that had brought us here. He'd entered the golden court, to rescue me, in the for m of a large black dog. When he shape-shifted he lost everything, clothes, weapons, but strangely never the piercings. The many ea rrings and the nipple piercing survived his return to human form, maybe because they were part of him. He came to stand beside th e bed, and take my hand-the one that didn't have the intravenous drip in it, which was helping hydrate me, and get me over the sho ck I'd been in when I had arrived. If I hadn't been with child, t hey'd have probably given me more medicine. For once I wouldn't h ave minded stronger drugs, something to make me forget. Not just what my uncle, Taranis, had done, but also the loss of Frost. I gripped Doyle's hand, my hand so small and pale in his large, dar k one. But there should have been another beside him, beside me. Frost, our Killing Frost, was gone. Not dead, not exactly, but lo st to us. Doyle could shape-shift to several forms at will and co me back to his true form. Frost had had no ability to shape-shift , but when wild magic had filled the estate where we'd been livin g in Los Angeles, it had changed him. He had become a white stag, and run out the doors that had appeared into a piece of faerie t hat had never existed before the magic came. The lands of faerie were growing, instead of shrinking, for the first time in centur ies. I, a noble of the high courts, was with child, twins. I was the last child of faerie nobility to be born. We were dying as a people, but maybe not. Maybe we were going to regain our power, b ut what use to me was power? What use to me was the return of fae rie, and wild magic? What use was any of it, if Frost was an anim al with an animal's mind? The thought that I would bear his chil d and he would neither know nor understand made my chest tight. I gripped Doyle's hand, but couldn't meet his eyes. I wasn't sure what he would see there. I wasn't sure what I was feeling anymore . I loved Doyle, I did, but I loved Frost, too. The thought that they would both be fathers had been a joyous one. He spoke in hi s deep, deep voice, as if molasses, and other, thick, sweet thing s, could be words, but what he said wasn't sweet. I will kill Tar anis for you. I shook my head. No, you will not. I had thought a bout it, because I had known that Doyle would do just what he'd s aid. If I asked, he would try to kill Taranis, and he might succe ed. But I could not allow my lover and future king to assassinate the King of Light and Illusion, the king of our enemy court. We were not at war, and even those among the Seelie Court who though t Taranis was mad or even evil would not be able to overlook an a ssassination. A duel, maybe, but not an assassination. Doyle was within his rights to challenge the king to a duel. I'd thought ab out that, too. I'd half liked that idea, but I'd seen what Tarani s could do with his hand of power. His hand of light could char f lesh, and had nearly killed Doyle once before. I had let go of a ny thought of vengeance at Doyle's hand when I weighed it against the thought of losing him too. I am the captain of your guard, and I could avenge my honor and yours for that reason alone. You mean a duel, I said. Yes. He does not deserve a chance to defen d himself, but if I assassinate him, it will be war between the c ourts, and we cannot afford that. No, I said, we can't. I looked up at him then. He touched my face with his free hand. Your eye s glow in the dark with a light of their own, Meredith. Green and gold circles of light in your face. Your emotions betray you. I want him dead, yes, but I won't destroy all of faerie for it. I won't get us all kicked out of the United States for my honor. Th e treaty that let our people come here three hundred years ago st ated only two things that would get us kicked out. The courts can 't make war on American soil, and we can't allow humans to worshi p us as deities. I was at the signing of the treaty, Meredith. I know what it said. I smiled at him, and it seemed strange that I could still smile. The thought made the smile wilt a little aro und the edges, but I guess it was a good sign. You remember the M agna Carta. That was a human thing, and had little to do with us . I squeezed his hand. I was making a point, Doyle. He smiled, and nodded. My emotions make me slow. Me, too, I said. The door behind him opened. There were two men in the doorway, one tall a nd one short. Sholto, King of the sluagh, Lord of that Which Pass es Between, was as tall as Doyle, and had long, straight hair tha t fell toward his ankles, but the color was white-blond, and his skin was like mine, moonlight pale. Sholto's eyes were three colo rs of yellow and gold, as if autumn leaves from three different t rees had been melted down to color his eyes, then everything had been edged in gold. The sidhe always have the prettiest eyes. He was as fair of face as any at the courts, except for my lost Fros t. The body that showed under the t-shirt and jeans he'd worn as part of his disguise when he came to save me seemed to cling to a body as lovely as the face, but I knew that at least part of it was illusion. Starting at his upper ribs, Sholto had extra bits, tentacles, because, though his mother had been high-court nobilit y, his father had been one of the nightflyers, part of the sluagh , and the last wild hunt of faerie. Well, the last wild hunt unti l the wild magic had returned. Now, things of legend were returni ng, and Goddess alone knew what was real again, and what was stil l to return. Until he had a coat or jacket thick enough to hide the extra bits, he would use magic, glamour, to hide the extras. No reason to scare the nurses. It was his lifetime of having to h ide his differences that had made him good enough at illusion to risk coming to my rescue. You do not go lightly against the King of Light and Illusion with illusion as your only shield. He smil ed at me, and it was a smile I had never seen on Sholto's face un til the moment at the ambulance when he had held my hand, and tol d me he knew he would be a father. The news seemed to have soften ed some harshness that had always been there in his handsome body . He seemed the proverbial new man, as he walked toward us. Rhys was not smiling. At 5'6, he was the shortest full-blooded sidhe I'd ever met. His skin was moonlight pale, like Sholto's, like mi ne, like Frost's. Rhys had removed the fake beard and mustache he 'd worn inside the faerie mound. He'd worked at the detective age ncy in L.A. with me, and he'd loved disguises. He was good at the m, too, better than at illusion. But he'd had enough illusion to hide the fact that he only had one eye. The remaining eye was thr ee circles of blue, as beautiful as any in the court, but where h is left eye had once lain was white scar tissue. He usually wore a patch in public, but tonight his face was bare, and I liked tha t. I wanted to see the faces of my men with nothing hidden tonigh t. Doyle moved enough so Sholto could put a chaste kiss against my cheek. Sholto wasn't one of my regular lovers. In fact, we'd o nly been together once, but as the old saying goes, once is enoug h. One of the children I carried was part his, but we were new ar ound each other, because in effect we'd only had one date. It had been a hell of a first date, but still, we didn't really know ea ch other yet. Rhys came to stand at the foot of the bed. His cur ly white hair, which fell to his waist, was still back in the pon ytail he'd worn to match his own jeans and t-shirt. His face was very solemn. It wasn't like him. Once he'd been Cromm Cruach, and before that he'd been a god of death. He wouldn't tell me who, b ut I had enough hints to make guesses. He'd told me that Cromm Cr uach was god enough; he didn't need more titles. Who gets to cha llenge him to the duel? Rhys asked. Meredith has told me no, Doy le said. Oh, good, Rhys said. I get to do it. No, I said, and I thought you were afraid of Taranis. I was, maybe I still am, bu t we can't let this go, Merry, we can't. Why? Because your pride is hurt? He gave me a look. Give me more credit than that. I w ill challenge him, then, Sholto said. No, I said. No one is to c hallenge him to a duel, or to kill him in any other way. The thr ee men looked at me. Doyle and Rhys knew me well enough to be spe culative. They knew I had a plan. Sholto didn't know me that well yet. He was just angry. We can't let this insult stand, princes s. He has to pay. ., Ballantine Books, 2009, 2.5, Harlequin Teen. Good. 5.38 x 1.2 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2011. 432 pages. Ex-library. Cover worn<br>Savannah Colbert has never k nown why she's so hated by the kids of the Clann. Nor can she den y her instinct to get close to Clann golden boy Tristan Coleman. Especially when she recovers from a strange illness and the attra ction becomes nearly irresistible. It's as if he's a magnet, pull ing her gaze, her thoughts, even her dreams. Her family has warne d her to have nothing to do with him, or any members of the Clann . But when Tristan is suddenly everywhere she goes, Savannah fear s she's destined to fail. For years, Tristan has been forbidden to even speak to Savannah Colbert. Then Savannah disappears from school for a week and comes back...different, and suddenly he can 't stay away. Boys seem intoxicated just from looking at her. His own family becomes stricter than ever. And Tristan has to fight his own urge to protect her, to be near her no matter the consequ ences.... Editorial Reviews About the Author Melissa Darnell is the author of a growing list of adult and YA fiction and nonfict ion books, including The Clann Series #1: Crave, The Clann Series #2: Covet, The Source, and The Ultimate Guide to Making Cheer/Da nce Gear & Gifts. Born in California, she grew up in Jacksonville , Texas and has also called the following states home since then: Utah, West Virginia, Louisiana, Alabama, Kentucky, Iowa and Sout h Dakota. She currently lives in Nebraska with her husband Tim an d two children, Hunter and Alexander, where she enjoys watching W hale Wars, Glee and True Blood, designing digital graphic product s for the virtual world of Second Life, and of course writing her latest book. Visit her websites for news, online playlists for e ach of her books, and more at MelissaDarnell com and TheClannSeri es com. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Savannah The last day I was fully human started off like any o ther April Monday in East Texas. Oh, sure, there were all kinds o f warning signs that my entire world was about to come crashing d own around me. But I didn't recognize them until it was too late. I should have known something major was wrong when I woke up th at morning feeling like utter crap, even though I'd just snagged a full nine hours of sleep. I'd never been sick before, not even with the flu or a cold, so it couldn't be anything like that. Go od morning, dear. Your breakfast is on the table, Nanna greeted m e as I shuffled into the kitchen. As usual, she was the ultimate in contradictions, her voice and smile a Southern mixture of swee tness and steel. Like your favorite old baby blanket wrapped arou nd a mace. Eat up. I'm going to go find my shoes. I nodded and p lopped down into one of the creaky chairs at the table. When it c ame to cooking, Nanna rocked. And she made the absolute best oatm eal in the world, maple and brown sugar with a ton of butter just the way I liked it. But it tasted like flavorless mush today. I gave up after two bites and dumped it in the trash can under the sink seconds before she came back. Finished already? she asked b efore slurping her tea. The sound grated over my nerves. Um, yea h. I set the bowl and spoon in the sink, keeping my back turned s o she couldn't see the blush burning my cheeks. I was a horrible liar. One look at my face and she'd know I'd just thrown out the breakfast she'd made me. And your tea? Oops. I'd forgotten my d aily tea, a blend that Nanna made just for me from the herbs she spent months growing in our backyard. Sorry, Nanna, there's no ti me. I still have to fix my hair. You can do both. She held out m y mug, her cheeks bunched into a bright smile that didn't do much to disguise the snap in her eyes. Sighing, I took the cup with me to the bathroom, setting it on the counter so I could have bot h hands free to do battle with my wild, carrot-colored curls. Dr ink your tea yet? she asked ten minutes later as I finished tamin g my hair into a long ponytail. Nag, nag, nag, I mumbled. I hea rd that, missy, she called out from the dining room, making me sm ile. I chugged the cold tea, set down the empty mug with a loud thump she'd be sure to hear, then headed for my bedroom to grab m y backpack. And nearly fell over while trying to pick it up. Jeez . I must have forgotten to drop off a few books in my locker last week. Using both hands, I hefted a strap onto my shoulder and tr udged back down the hall. Nanna was at the dining table digging through her mammoth purse for her keys. That would take a while. Meet you at the car? I said. She gave an absentminded wave, whic h I took for a yes, so I headed through the living room for the f ront door. As usual, Mom had been on the couch for hours already , talking on her cell phone while drowning in stacks of paperwork and pens she'd be sure to lose under the sofa cushions by the en d of the day. Why she couldn't work at a desk like every other sa fety product sales rep was beyond me. But the chaos seemed to mak e her happy. Even as she ended one call, her phone squalled for attention again. I knew better than to wait, so I just waved good bye to her. Hang on, George. She hit the phone's mute button the n held out her arms. Hey, what's this? No 'good morning, Mom,' no hug goodbye? Grinning, I crossed the room and bent over to hug her, resisting the urge to cough as her favorite floral perfume f looded my nose and throat. When I straightened up again, my back popped and twinged. Was that your back? she gasped. Good grief, you sound worse than your nanna today. I heard that, Nanna yelle d from the dining room. Smothering a smile, I shrugged. Guess I practiced too much this weekend. My beginner ballet and jazz clas ses would be performing in Miss Catherine's Dance Studio's annual spring recital soon. As the days ticked down to my latest impend ing public humiliation, I'd kind of started freaking out about it . I'll say. Why don't you take it a little easier? You've still got two weeks till the recital. Yeah, well, I need every second of practice I can get. That is, if I wanted to improve enough to avoid disappointing my father yet again. You know, killing your self in the backyard isn't going to impress your father, either. I froze, hating that I was so transparent. Nothing impresses him . At least, not enough to earn a visit from him more than twice a year. Probably because I was such a screwup at sports. The man m oved like a ballroom dancer, always light and graceful on his fee t, but I didn't seem to have gotten even a hint of those genes in my DNA. Mom had tried enrolling me in every activity she could t hink of over the years to help me develop some grace and hand-eye coordination...soccer, twirling, gymnastics, basketball. Last ye ar was volleyball. This year it was dance, both at Miss Catherine 's Dance Studio and at my high school. Apparently my father was fed up with my lack of athletic skill, judging by Mom's argument with him over the phone last September when I began dancing. He r eally didn't want me to take dance lessons this year. He must hav e thought they were a waste on someone as uncoordinated as me. I was out to prove him wrong. And so far, failing miserably. Mom sighed. Oh, hon. You really shouldn't worry so much about making him happy. Just dance for yourself, and I'm sure you'll do fine. Uh-huh. That's what you said last year about volleyball. And yet , in spite of taking her advice to just have fun, I'd still ended up hitting a ball through the gym's tile ceiling during a tourna ment. When the broken pieces had come crashing down, they'd almos t wiped out half my team. That had sort of ended the fun of volle yball for me. Mom bit her lip, probably to keep from laughing at the same memory. Found 'em! Nanna sang out in triumph from the dining room. Ready to rock and roll, kid? Sighing, I pulled up m y backpack's slipping strap onto my shoulder again. It scraped at my skin through my shirt, forcing a hiss out of me. Youch. Maybe I should grab an aspirin before we go. Absolutely not. Nanna st rode into the room, keys jingling in her hand. Aspirin's bad for you. Huh? But you and Mom take it all the t- But you don't, Nan na snapped. You've never taken that synthetic crap before, and yo u won't start polluting yourself with it now. I'll make you more of my special tea instead. Here, take my purse to the car and I'l l be right there. Without waiting for a reply, she shoved her fo rty-pound purse into my hands and headed for the kitchen. Great. I'd be late for sure. Again. Why can't I just take an aspirin li ke everyone else in the world? Mom smiled and picked up her phon e. Four very long minutes later, Nanna finally joined me in the car. She thrust a metal thermos into my hand. There, that ought t o fix you right up. Be careful, though. It's hot. I had to nuke i t. I bit back a groan. Nanna hated the microwave. The only butto n she'd learned how to use was the three-minute auto-heat. I'd be lucky if the tea cooled off at all before we reached my school, even if it was a ten-minute drive. We lived in a small, somewhat isolated nest of houses five miles outside of town. As I blew on my tea to cool it, I watched the rolling hills pass by, dotted h ere and there with solitary houses, big round bales of hay, and c ows in all shades of red, brown and black. Out here, the thick pi ne trees that had once covered all of East Texas had been cut bac k to make room for ranches that were now broken only by rows of f ences, mostly of barbed wire, sometimes wide slats of wood turned gray by time and the weather. You could breathe out here. But a s we neared the city limits, the strips of trees became thicker a nd showed up more often, until we passed through a section of not hing but pines just before reaching the junior high and intermedi ate schools. The first traffic-light intersection marked the star t of downtown Jacksonville, where all of a sudden it became nothi ng but streets and business after business, mostly single-story s hops and a few three- and four-story buildings for the occasional bank, hotel or hospital. And more pines winding around and throu gh every area of housing large and small, even butting up against the edges of the basket factory and near the Tomato Bowl, the br ownstone open-air stadium where all the home football and soccer games were held. I used to love my hometown with its cute boutiq ues and shops full of antiques where Nanna sold her crocheted des igns. I even used to love the town's ribbons of pines and the way the wind in the trees added a subtle sighing to the air. When th e fields of grass and hay turned brown and dead in the winter, yo u could always count on the pines to keep Jacksonville colorful a ll year long. But the town's founding families, locally referred to as the Clann due to their Irish ancestry, had ruined it for m e. Now when I heard the wind in the trees, it sounded like whispe ring, as if the trees themselves had joined the town's grapevine of gossips. Those gossips had probably produced the long line of famous actors, singers, comedians and models that Jacksonville's relatively small population of thirteen thousand residents was so proud of. Growing up here, where everybody talked about everybod y else, either made you want to live here forever or run away and become something special just to prove the gossips and the Clann wrong. I wasn't sure I wanted to be famous. But I definitely wa nted to run away. We made the daily turn through the neighborhoo ds that led to Jacksonville High School, the drive made shady by still more pines and a few hardwoods that lined the modest street s. And then the blue-and-yellow home of the JHS Indians exploded into view, its perimeter choked by woods thick and shadowed, and I felt my shoulders and neck tense up. Welcome to my daytime pri son for the next four years, complete with a guard shack and a gu ard who lowered a heavy metal bar across the driveways on the dot of 8:00 a.m. every weekday, forcing you to accept a tardy slip i n order to gain entrance when you were late. Unlike a teacher who might be convinced to let you slide, the guard was notoriously w ithout mercy, ruling our school's entrance as if it were the gate s to some medieval castle. If JHS were a castle, then its royalt y would definitely be the twenty-two equally merciless Clann kids who ruled the rest of the campus. The Clann kids had probably l earned their bullying tactics from their parents, who ran this to wn and a good portion of Texas, inserting themselves into every p ossible leadership role from county and state even to federal gov ernment levels. Local rumor had it that the only way the Clann co uld do this was by using magic, of all things. Which was total bu ll. There was nothing magical about the Clann's power-hungry meth ods. I should know. I'd had more than enough of their kids' idea of magical fun at school. After graduation, I was so out of here. While Nanna pulled up to the curb by the main hall doors, I suc ked down a quick slurp of tea, adding a burnt tongue to my list o f pains for the day. Better take that with you. Nanna nodded at the thermos. You should feel it kick in pretty soon, but you migh t need more later. Okay. Hey, don't forget, today's an A day, an d I have algebra last period, so- So pick you up in the front pa rking lot by the cafeteria. Yeah, yeah. I'm old, not senile. I th ink I can keep up with your alternating A-B schedule. Her twinkli ng green eyes nearly disappeared as her plump cheeks bunched high er into a wry smile. The front parking lot was closer to my last class on A days. The first class in five years that I'd shared w ith Tristan Coleman... Savannah? She shifted the car into Drive then looked at me with raised eyebrows, a silent prod to get movi ng. I climbed out into the pine-scented warmth of the morning, sh ut the door and gave her a wave goodbye. Tristan. His name echo ed through my head, fuzzing up my mind with old memories and emot ions. An answering tingle rippled up the back of my neck and over my scalp. Ignoring it, I stuffed the forbidden thoughts back int o their imaginary box and turned to face the main hall doors. The day was sure to be miserable enough without my stewing over back stabbing traitors like him. Sure enough, I shoved through the ma in hall's heavier-than-normal glass front doors and slammed right into the Brat Twins, two of the Clann's worst members. Yep, the perfect start to a fabulo, Harlequin Teen, 2011, 2.5, Pocket Star. Good. 4.13 x 1.4 x 7.5 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2010. 672 pages. Cover worn.<br>#1 New York Times bestselling author of American Assassin-now a major motion picture America's most pow erful leader becomes its prime target, a nightmarish (Booklist) s cenario made all-too-real in this Mitch Rapp thriller from #1 New York Times bestselling author Vince Flynn. The stately calm of a Washington morning is shattered when a group of terrorists desc ends, killing dozens and taking nearly one hundred hostages as th ey massacre their way into the White House. The Secret Service ev acuates the president to an underground bunker-and while official s argue over how to negotiate with the enemy, Mitch Rapp, the CIA 's top counterterrorism operative, moves stealthily among the hid den corridors and secret passageways of the executive mansion, to save the hostages before the terrorists reach the president. But another adversary-someone within Washington's elite-is determine d to see Rapp's rescue mission fail. Editorial Reviews Review A bilene Reporter-News (TX) Recommended.... Flynn again proves his expertise with technical details in this new political thriller. BookpageTransfer of Power emerges in its sense of authenticity, depth of research, and almost seamless dramatic scenario....One o f Flynn's finest skills as an up-and-coming young master of the g enre of political thrillers is his ability to create a cast of co mpelling characters. Discus Like Term Limits, Transfer of Power is a feverishly paced, ingeniously plotted political thriller tha t vivdly dramatizes a stunning premise. Filled with authentic tec hnical details....it takes readers inside America's highest polit ical and military circles while placing the president of the Unit ed States squarely in the line of terrorist fire. Pioneer Press (St. Paul) Flynn knows how to deliver action in his novels, and T ransfer of Power has all the earmarks of a story headed for the m ovie screen. Publishers Weekly Endless intrigue...Flynn mixes in a spicy broth of brutal terrorists, heroic commandos, and enough secret-agent hijinks to keep the confrontation bubbling until it s flag-raising end. Times Record News (Wichita Falls, TX) A slic k political thriller...moves at breakneck speed...you won't be ab le to put it down. Times Record News (Wichita Falls, TX) Rapp is a most appealing hero. He's rugged, tough, and deadly on his qua rry, but humane and sensitive when the situation requires it. Ab out the Author #1 New York Times bestselling author Vince Flynn ( 1966-2013) created one of contemporary fiction's most popular her oes: CIA counterterrorist agent Mitch Rapp, featured in thirteen of Flynn's acclaimed political thrillers. All of his novels are N ew York Times bestsellers, including his stand-alone debut novel, Term Limits. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights res erved. Transfer of Power 1 Washington, D.C. A FINE MIST fell from the darkening spring sky as the black limousine turned off o f E Street. The armor-plated car wove through the concrete-and-st eel barricades at a speed suggesting urgency. As the limousine tu rned onto West Executive Drive, it slowed briefly for the heavy b lack gate to open, and then sped forward. After splashing through several puddles, the limo came to an abrupt stop in front of the ground-floor entrance to the West Wing of the White House. The rear passenger door opened immediately, and Dr. Irene Kennedy ste pped from the car. She walked under the long off-white awning tha t extended from the building to the curb and paused to let her bo ss catch up. Thomas Stansfield slowly climbed out of the limo and buttoned the jacket of his charcoal gray suit. At seventy-nine y ears of age Stansfield was an icon in the intelligence community. His career dated all the way back to World War II and the OSS, t he precursor to the CIA. Stansfield had been one of Wild Bill Don ovan's recruits almost sixty years earlier-a different war fought by a different breed. Stansfield was the last one. Now they were all gone, retired or dead, and it wouldn't be much longer before he turned over the reins of power at the much-maligned and embat tled intelligence agency. The CIA had changed during his tenure. More precisely, the threats had changed, and the CIA was forced to change with them. The old static days of a two-superpower worl d were long gone, replaced by small regional conflicts and the ev er-growing threat of terrorism. As Stansfield closed out his care er, this was what bothered him most. The threat of one individual bringing biological, chemical, or nuclear annihilation to Americ a was becoming more and more plausible. Stansfield looked up at the lazy mist that was falling from the early evening sky. A ligh t spray dusted his face, and the silver-haired director of the CI A blinked. Something was bothering him, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Stansfield gave the darkening sky one last loo k and then stepped under the awning. Kennedy continued through t he double doors, where two uniformed Secret Service officers were standing post, and started down the long hall. This was the firs t floor of the West Wing. The president's office was located on t he floor above, but that was not where they would be meeting. Ire ne Kennedy sped ahead, while Stansfield followed at his always ev en pace. Down the hallway, on the right, a U.S. Navy officer sto od in his cleanly pressed black uniform with his hands clasped fi rmly in front of him. Good evening, Dr. Kennedy. Everything is re ady. The generals and the president are waiting for you. The watc h officer of the White House Situation Room gestured to his left. Thank you, Commander Hicks, replied Kennedy as she walked past the naval officer. They went down several steps, took a right, a nd came to a secure door with a camera mounted above it. To the l eft was a black-and-gold plaque with the words White House Situat ion Room: Restricted Access. The lock on the door buzzed, and Ke nnedy pushed the door open. She entered and turned to her left, i nto the Situation Room's new conference room. Director Stansfield followed her, and Commander Hicks closed the soundproof door beh ind them. President Robert Hayes, dressed in a tuxedo, stood at the far end of the room and listened intently to the two men in f ront of him. The first, General Flood, was the chairman of the Jo int Chiefs. Flood was six four and weighed almost two hundred sev enty pounds. The second man was General Campbell, a half foot sho rter than his superior and one hundred pounds lighter. Campbell w as the commander of the U.S. military's Joint Special Operations Command, or JSOC. Before taking his most recent job, he had proud ly commanded the famous 82nd Airborne Division and the 18th Airbo rne Corps. President Hayes had been in office for only five mont hs, and thus far had a decent working relationship with both the Pentagon and the CIA. Before being elected president, Robert Xavi er Hayes had served as both U.S. congressman and senator. The Dem ocrat from Ohio had been elected to the highest office in the lan d largely because he had a very clean personal life and was seen as someone who could mend the ever-deepening divide between the t wo parties. The previous administration had been rife with scanda l, so much so that the American people had overwhelmingly picked someone whose personal life could pass the rigorous scrutiny of t he press. Hayes was happily married and had three children in the ir thirties, all of whom had managed to stay off the tabloid cove rs and live relatively normal lives. Kennedy set her briefcase o n a chair near the end of the long table and said, If everyone wi ll be seated, we can get started. She felt rushed. Things were co ming together at a frantic pace. Director Stansfield greeted the two generals and the president. No one was in a talkative mood. The president worked his way around to the opposite end of the ta ble and sat in his high-backed leather chair. All four walls of t he room were covered with dark wood except a square section behin d the president. That portion of the wall was white, and in the m iddle of it was the circular seal of the president of the United States. With the president at the head of the table, the two gen erals sat on his right and Director Stansfield on his left. Kenne dy handed each of the men identical folders that were sealed with red tape and marked Top Secret. Please feel free to open the fi les while I get the rest of the materials ready. Kennedy pushed s ome of her shoulder-length brown hair back behind her ear. After several seconds of digging through her briefcase, she found the r ight disk and inserted it into the A drive of the computer under the podium. About sixty seconds later the director of the CIA's C ounterterrorism Center was ready to start. A map of the Persian Gulf appeared on the large screen to Kennedy's right, and she beg an, Mr. President, four days ago we inserted one of our people in to the Iranian city of Bandar Abbas. Our man was operating on som e information he received that Sheik Fara Harut might be in the c ity. Kennedy pressed a button, and the screen changed from the ma p to a grainy black-and-white photograph of a bearded man in a tu rban. Fara Harut, shown here in this 1983 photograph, is the reli gious leader of the militant Islamic group Hezbollah. He has very strong ties to the religious conservatives in Iran. Kennedy glan ced sideways at the president and added, You may have noted some mention of him in your PDB. Kennedy was referring to the Presiden t's Daily Brief, an intelligence summary given to him every morni ng by the CIA. The president nodded. I recall the name. Kennedy pressed a button, and a new photo appeared on the screen, this t ime of a much younger, clean-shaven, and handsome individual. Thi s is Rafique Aziz. It was taken in the late seventies, when Aziz was obtaining a degree in electrical engineering from American Un iversity in Beirut. The president nodded reluctantly and said, I am definitely familiar with this individual. Kennedy nodded. We ll, you might not be familiar with this most recent development. The doctor pointed to the screen at the front of the room, and a series of photos played out showing charred buses and grotesque, bloody bodies. These bombings have all been linked to the fundame ntalist Palestinian group Hamas. Hamas has stepped up its attacks recently in an effort to derail the Middle East peace process. H ezbollah and Hamas have done very little to help each other's cau ses. Kennedy looked down the long table and added, That is, until recently. Aziz and Harut have been looking for a way to continue their fight as things have calmed in Beirut. They found their op portunity after Israel assassinated Hamas leader Yehya Ayyash in 1996. Hamas turned even more militant, stepping up its efforts to drive Israel from the West Bank and Gaza Strip. In this most rec ent period, the Israelis have noted a marked increase in the soph istication of Hamas bombs and tactics. It is our belief that Rafi que Aziz is responsible for this. Kennedy paused and got ready to drop the bombshell. To make matters even worse, we have also lea rned that Saddam Hussein has offered to help fund some of the gro up's actions. President Hayes shook his head slowly and scowled. It gets worse, Kennedy continued. The stipulation that Saddam h as put on the money is that it be used to attack the United State s domestically. Kennedy emphasized the last word. The informatio n caused Hayes's left eyebrow to rise a half inch. Where did we g et this? Kennedy looked to Stansfield, and the director of the C IA replied, The NSA intercepted some communications, and we verif ied them through several of our foreign contacts. That's just gr eat. Hayes shook his head. Looking to Kennedy with dread in his e yes, he asked, What else? Two nights ago our man in Iran informe d us of a probable ID on Harut, and earlier this evening he made a positive ID. The president folded his arms across his chest. C an we be sure your guy has the right man? Yes, Mr. President, an swered Kennedy confidently. Hayes looked from Kennedy to the map of Iran and then back. I assume you didn't interrupt my dinner p lans just to tell me you may have found this fellow. You are cor rect, Mr. President. We have been waiting for this chance for a l ong time. If we don't grab him now, we may never get another chan ce. Kennedy stopped to make sure the president understood how ser ious she was. General Campbell and I have put together a plan to grab Harut. Kennedy changed the main screen. A second map of the Persian Gulf appeared, this one with a half dozen new markings on it. Kennedy looked to General Campbell and nodded. Campbell ro se from his chair, and with his ramrod posture, he marched to the front of the room. Once firmly in position behind the podium, he started. Mr. President, Harut, like Saddam, never stays in the s ame place for more than three or four nights at a time. This is t he first time in over a decade that we have been able to track hi s whereabouts for more than a day and be in a position to do some thing about it. Campbell gestured to the map. We have two helicop ters from the First Special Operations Wing that have left Saudi Arabia and are in the process of hooking up with the Independence , which is on patrol in the Persian Gulf. The general tapped the spot on the map that marked the location of the nuclear-powered a ircraft carrier. And over here-the general moved his finger acros s the Persian Gulf to a spot just off the Iranian coast that was marked by a blue cigar-shaped object-we have the USS Honolulu. As I'm sure you have already noted, she is no longer in internation al waters. Right now she is about two miles offshore and waiting for the orders to off-load her cargo. While Campbell continued h is briefing, President Hayes felt as if he were having an out-of- body experience. He had dreamt of this moment for years and loath ed it. The idea of ordering U.S. troops into battle had no appeal , no mystique, no glory, and surely no satisfaction. People would die tonight because of the orders he gave. The enemy's men for s ure and possibly some of his own. President Hayes listened to th e general intently and tried to be objective. Hayes was a student of history and knew that to never use force was foolish. If he d id not act tonight, it might someday cost the lives of Americans. Terrorism had to be confronted. He could not pass on this decisi on. Persian Gulf, 3:16 A.M. (local time) IN THE IRANIAN seaside city of Bandar Abbas an elderly man shuffled down a dusty st, Pocket Star, 2010, 2.5, Greenville, SC: BJU Press, 1987. Near Fine. In 1903 Amy Carmichael's book Things as They Are shocked many Englishmen an d Americans into taking a closer look at India. Unafraid of public criticis m, Amy Carmichael had revealed to the Western world the spiritual bondage o f India as well as the suffering of thousands under the supposedly "benign" religion of Hinduism. She raised a plea for the little children who were b eing sold into lives of shame as slaves in Hindu temples. Never content to do things man's way when the Lord was showing her a better way, Amy Carmichael was one of the first missionaries in India to adopt In dian dress. Amid Christians who considered manual labor dishonorable, she c heerfully settled down to doing her share of the work with the Dohnavur chi ldren. But the qualities of Amy Carmichael that will stand out to the reade r are her daring faith, her overcoming spirit, and her tender love for the children she sought to rescue. She was their beloved "Amma," or "Mother." H er family grew to almost a thousand children before her death in 1951. We hope that With Daring Faith will be a first step for our readers in discovering the wealth of insight and challenge that missionary biographies can offer. In Amy Carmichael's victories in India, we see the victory of the Lord Jesus Christ over the powers of darkness., BJU Press, 1987, 4, London, United Kingdom: Atlantic Books, Limited. 2008 Atlantic Books first edition first printing hardback; Very Good, little-used copy, near as new, pictorial boards, no dj; UK dealer, immediate dispatch . Very Good. Hardcover. 1st Edition.. 2008., Atlantic Books, Limited, 2008, 3<

2008, ISBN: 1843548658

[EAN: 9781843548652], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Atlantic Books], A tan to the pages Good condition is defined as: a copy that has been read but remains in clean condition. All of the… Mehr…

[EAN: 9781843548652], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Atlantic Books], A tan to the pages Good condition is defined as: a copy that has been read but remains in clean condition. All of the pages are intact and the cover is intact and the spine may show signs of wear. The book may have minor markings which are not specifically mentioned. Most items will be dispatched the same or the next working day., Books<