Single White Vampire [With Earbuds]

( 456 )

Overview

Roundhouse Publishing editor Kate C. Leever's first letter to her newest legacy author was intended to impress upon him the growing demand for his "vampire romances." Though he'd expressed little to no desire for publicity, book tours or the like, it was clear that this was a writer waiting to be broken out. Correspondence with Mr. Lucern Argeneau tended to be oddly delayed, but this time his response was quick and succinct.

"No."

But Kate was adamant: Luc will attend a romance ...

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Single White Vampire (Argeneau Vampire Series #3)

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Overview

Roundhouse Publishing editor Kate C. Leever's first letter to her newest legacy author was intended to impress upon him the growing demand for his "vampire romances." Though he'd expressed little to no desire for publicity, book tours or the like, it was clear that this was a writer waiting to be broken out. Correspondence with Mr. Lucern Argeneau tended to be oddly delayed, but this time his response was quick and succinct.

"No."

But Kate was adamant: Luc will attend a romance convention to meet his fans. By hook or by crook, despite his reclusive nature, odd sleep schedule and avoidance of the sun, the surly yet handsome Luc was going to be recognized as the real charmer a nationally bestselling author should be. But soon Kate would learn that his novels were more biographies than bodice rippers, and it'd be her neck on the line.

A sweeter surrender, or more heartwarming a love story—his own—Luc has yet to write.

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Editorial Reviews

Pat Conroy
Dorothea Frank and I share the exact same literary territory--Sullivan's Island is hilarious and wise....
Publishers Weekly
Bestseller Frank's fifth Lowcountry Tale is a lively story about friendship and family, Southern-style. On the small South Carolina barrier island that gives the book its title, semiretired attorney Abigail Thurmond spends most of her days playing golf and gossiping with her best friend, the portly, lovably aristocratic Huey Valentine. But their comfortable lives of leisure are turned upside-down with the arrival of one diminutive Rebecca Sims. Becca's obvious artistic talent and poise make it easy for Huey to show her art and hire her to manage his art gallery, but when his 86-year-old mother unearths Becca's tragic past, Huey can't help sticking his aquiline nose in her business. Once an attentive wife and loving mother of two in Charleston, Becca became the victim of her abusive husband, who turned her children against her and then filed for divorce. Abigail and Huey must help their new friend, of course, and as they draw closer to one another through Becca's tribulations, Abigail is finally able to examine the ghosts that have haunted her for years, and Huey gets to reveal a (pretty unsurprising) secret of his own. Frank's absorbing narrative manages to feel both authentically Southern and universally empathetic. Agent, Amy Berkower. (May) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781441865847
  • Publisher: Findaway World
  • Publication date: 5/28/2010
  • Series: Argeneau Vampire Series , #3
  • Format: Other
  • Edition description: Playaway Edition
  • Product dimensions: 5.40 (w) x 7.30 (h) x 0.90 (d)

Meet the Author

Lynsay Sands

Lynsay Sands is the national bestselling author of the Argeneau vampire series as well as more than sixteen historical novels and anthologies known for their humorous edge.

Biography

Born in Southern Ontario, Lynsay Sands is the New York Times bestselling author of the Argeneau Vampire series. She has written more than 34 books and anthologies since her first novel was published in 1997. Her romantic comedies span three genres—historical, contemporary, and paranormal—and have made the Waldenbooks, Barnes & Noble, USA Today, and New York Times bestseller lists.

Lynsay's books are read in more than twelve countries and have been translated into at least six languages. She's been a nominee for both the Romantic Times Best Historical Romance Award and the Romantic Times Best Paranormal Romance Award, was nominated and placed three times in the RIO (Reviewers International Organization) Awards of Excellence, and has several books on All About Romance's Favorite Funnies list.
Author biography courtesy of HarperCollins Publishers

Good To Know

1.) I started The Deed (my first romantic comedy and the first book to be published) a year after my mother's death. I was very close to my mother and the year following her death was about the most miserable time imaginable. But then I decided I was tired of being down and unhappy, and looked around for something to lift my spirits and make me laugh. When I couldn't find anything, I decided to sit down and write my own. It worked! Emmalene and Amaury's antics in The The Deed had me chuckling as I wrote.
2.) I met my husband in New York in July 2003. I was there because of the RWA conference and he was there on vacation. The first day there we kept running into each other and chatting in front of the hotel, and then he asked to join our group (it was very brave of him. He was the lone male amongst six or seven women, lol). He's a Brit and I'm Canadian and the first two months of our relationship were conducted by phone as well as over the internet. Our first date was a week in New York in September, followed by three weeks in England. He then came to Canada in both November and December, the first time to propose and the second time for Christmas with my family and then to take me back to England with him for New Years. I lived in Northern England for two years. We married in New York and now live in Canada.
3.) I was writing about my husband before I met him. Single White Vampire came out in September 2003 and I took a copy with me to England when I went for the three weeks. I walked into my now-hubby's house to find at least six months worth of mail unopened and stacked up on a shelf inside the front door. When I stopped dead, eyes going wide with shock and asked "My God. That's mail. You don't open your mail?" He looked embarrassed and muttered some explanation about bills automatically being paid by the bank so no need to open those and everything else was unsolicited and he couldn't be bothered. When I burst out laughing, he started to frown and said "What?" My response was to dig out the copy of Single White Vampire and hand it over with the suggestion he read it. The mail thing wasn't the only similarity he had to Lucern Argeneau. There are many more and when he sat down to read the book, he kept stopping and turning a rather startled and even suspicious gaze my way and muttering that this sounded familiar" or that did. I had to point out that it really was coincidence, that I had written that story at least nine months before meeting him. LOL.
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Read an Excerpt



Single White Vampire



By Lynsay Sands


Dorchester Publishing


Copyright © 2003

Lynsay Sands

All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-505-52552-6



Chapter One


Thursday, September 12th

"Luc, you have unopened mail here from weeks ago. Don't you
read your mail? And what is this box?" She lifted the heavy
box as if it were feather light and gave it a shake.

His brother Bastien burst out laughing, but Lucern merely
rolled his eyes at her hen-pecking. No matter how old he got
his mother was likely to interfere and hen-peck. It was
something he'd resigned himself to long ago. "I'll get around
to it eventually," he muttered. "It is mostly nuisance mail or
people wanting something from me."

"What about this letter from your publisher? It's probably
important. They wouldn't send it express if it weren't."

His scowl deepened as she picked up the Fed Ex envelope and
turned it curiously in her hands. "It is not important. My
editor is just harassing me. My publisher wishes me to do a
book-signing tour."

"Edwin wants you to do a book signing tour?" She scowled at
this news. "I thought you had made it clear to him from the
start that you weren't interested in publicity?"

"Not Edwin. No." He wasn't surprised that she recalled his old
editor's name. His mother had a perfect memory, and he'd
mentioned Edwin many times over the ten years that he'd been
writing for Roundhouse Publishing. His first works had been
published as historicaltexts and were used mostly in
universities and colleges. Those books were still in use and
were celebrated for the fact that they were written as if the
writer had actually been there experiencing all he wrote.
Which, of course, he had. That was hardly public knowledge,
though.

Lucern's last three books, however, had been autobiographical
in nature, recounting the stories of how his mother and father
met and came together, then how his sister Lissianna had met
and fallen in love with her therapist husband, Gregory. The
latest story, the one published just weeks ago, covered the
story of his brother Etienne and Rachel Garrett.

Lucern hadn't meant to write them, they'd just sort of come
out of him, and once he'd written them, he'd decided that they
should be published records for the future. After gaining his
family's permission, he'd sent them in to Edwin, his editor at
the time. That man had thought they were brilliant works of
fiction and published them as such. Not just fiction, however,
but paranormal romance. Lucern suddenly found himself being
sold as a romance writer, which was somewhat distressing for
him, so he generally did his best not to think about it.

"Edwin is no longer my editor," he explained. "He died last
year. His assistant was given his title and position and has
been harassing me ever since." He scowled again. "The woman is
trying to use me to prove herself. She is determined that I
should do some publicity events for the novels."

Bastien looked as if he were about to comment, but paused and
turned toward the door at the sound of a car pulling into the
driveway. Lucern opened the door and the two men watched with
varying degrees of surprise as a taxi pulled to a stop beside
Bastien's van in the two lane driveway.

"Wrong address?" Bastien queried, knowing he wasn't big on
company.

"It must be," Lucern commented, then narrowed his eyes when
the driver got out and opened the back door for a young woman
to slip out.

"Who is that?" Bastien sounded even more surprised than Lucern
felt.

"I haven't a clue," he muttered as the taxi driver retrieved a
small suitcase and overnight bag from the trunk of the car.

"I believe it's your editor," Marguerite announced.

Both men swiveled to peer at their mother. They found her
reading the now open express letter.

"My editor? What the hell are you talking about?" Lucern
marched back to snatch the letter out of her hand.

Ignoring his rude behavior, Marguerite moved to Bastien's side
to peer curiously outside. "As the mail is so slow, and
because the interest in your books is becoming so widespread,
Ms. Kate C. Leever decided to come speak to you in person
about these matters. Which," his mother added archly, "you
would know did you bother to read your mail."

"She's quite pretty, isn't she?" The comment, along with the
speculation in his mother's voice when she made it, were
enough to raise alarm in Lucern. Marguerite sounded like a
mother considering taking the matchmaking trail.

"She's contemplating matchmaking, Bastien. Take her home.
Now," he ordered. His brother burst out laughing, moving
Lucern to point out, "After she has finished with me, she will
focus on finding you a wife."

Bastien stopped laughing at once and grabbed his mother's arm.
"Come along, mother. This is none of our business."

"Of course, it is my business." Marguerite shrugged her elbow
free. "You are my sons. Your happiness and future are very
much my business."

"Perhaps, but I don't understand why this is an issue now. We
are both well over four hundred years old. Why, after all this
time, have you taken it into your head to see us married off?"

Marguerite pondered that for a moment before saying, "Well,
ever since your father died, I've been thinking-"

"Dear God," Lucern interrupted, drawing his mother's curious gaze.

"What did I say?"

"That is exactly how Lissianna ended up working at the shelter
and getting involved with Greg. Dad died and she started
thinking."

Bastien nodded solemnly. "Women shouldn't think."

"Bastien!" Marguerite Argeneau exclaimed.

"Now, you know I'm teasing, mother," he soothed, taking her
arm again and-this time-getting her out the door.

"I, however, am not," Lucern commented as he watched them walk
down the steps of the porch to the sidewalk. His mother
berated Bastien the whole way, and Lucern grinned at his
brother's beleaguered expression. He would catch hell all the
way home, Lucern knew and almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

His laughter died, however, as his gaze switched to the blonde
who was apparently his editor. His mother paused in her
berating to greet the woman. Lucern almost tried to hear what
she was saying, but decided not to bother. He doubted he
wanted to hear it anyway.

He watched the woman nod and smile at his mother, then she
took her luggage in hand and started up the sidewalk. Lucern's
eyes narrowed on the luggage. Dear God, she didn't expect to
stay here with him, did she? There was no mention in her
letter of where she planned to stay. He decided she must
expect to stay in a hotel. She would hardly just assume that
he'd put her up. The woman probably just hadn't stopped at the
hotel yet, he reassured himself, his gaze traveling over her
person now.

Kate C. Leever was about his mother's height, which made her
relatively tall for a woman, perhaps 5'10. She was also slim
and shapely with long blond hair. She appeared pretty from the
distance presently separating them. In a pale ice-blue
business suit, Kate C. Leever resembled a cool glass of ice
water to him. A pleasing image on this unseasonably warm
September evening.

The cool image was shattered when the woman dragged her
luggage up the porch steps, paused before him, offered him a
bright cheerful smile that lifted her lips and sparkled in her
eyes, then blurted, "Hi. I'm Kate Leever. I hope you got my
letter. The mail was so slow and you kept forgetting to send
me your phone number, so I thought I'd come visit personally
and talk to you about all the publicity possibilities that are
opening up for us. I know you're not really interested in
partaking of any of them, but I feel sure-once I explain the
benefits-you'll reconsider."

Lucern stared at her wide, smiling lips for one mesmerized
moment, then gave himself a shake and considered her long,
obviously practiced speech. Reconsider? Was that what she
wanted? Well, that was easy enough. He reconsidered. It was a
quick task.

"No." He closed his door.

* * *

Kate stared at the solid wooden panel where Lucern Argeneau's
face used to be and could have shrieked with fury. The man was
the most difficult, annoying, rude, obnoxious-She pounded at
the door-Pigheaded, ignorant-The door whipped open and Kate
quickly pasted a blatantly false, but wide-she should get
marks for effort-smile on her mouth. The smile nearly slipped
off her face in surprise when she got a look at him. The man
was a lot younger than she'd expected. Kate knew he'd written
for Edwin for a good ten years before she took over working
with him. Yet he didn't look to be more than thirty-two or
-three. That meant he'd been writing professionally since his
early twenties.

Aside from that, however, he was also shockingly handsome. His
hair was as dark as night, his eyes a silver blue that almost
seemed to reflect the porch light, his features were sharp and
strong. He was tall and surprisingly muscular for a man with
such a sedentary career. His shoulders spoke more of a laborer
than an intellectual. Kate couldn't help but be impressed by
his good looks. Even the scowl on his face didn't detract from
it. Without any effort on her part, the forced smile on her
face took on some natural warmth as she said, "It's me again.
I haven't eaten yet, and I thought perhaps you'd join me for a
meal-on the company-and we could discuss-"

"No. Please remove yourself from my doorstep." Lucern Argeneau
closed the door once more.

"Well that was more than just a no," she muttered to herself.
"It was even a whole sentence really." Ever the optimist, she
decided to take it as progress and raised her hand to pound at
the door again. Her smile was somewhat battered, but still in
place when the door opened this time. This time, he didn't
speak but merely arched an eyebrow in question. Trying to make
her smile a little sunnier, she cleared her throat and said,
"If you don't like eating out, perhaps I could order something
in and-"

"No." He started to close the door again, but Kate hadn't
lived in New York for five years without learning a trick or
two. She quickly stuck her foot forward, managing not to wince
as the door banged it before bouncing back open.

Before Mr Argeneau could comment on her gorilla tactics, she
said, "If you don't care for take-out, perhaps I could pick up
some groceries and cook you something you like." Then, for
good measure, she added, "That way we could discuss your fears
and I might be able to alleviate them."

He stiffened in surprise at that suggestion. "I am not afraid."

"I see." Kate allowed a healthy dose of doubt to creep into
her voice, more than willing to stoop to manipulation if
necessary. Then she waited, foot still in place, hoping that
her desperation wasn't showing, but knowing her calm facade
was beginning to slip as the man pursed his lips and took his
time considering her. His expression made her suspect he was
measuring her for a coffin, as if he might be considering
killing her and planting her in his garden to get her out of
his hair. Kate tried not to think about that possibility too
hard. Despite having worked with him for years as Edwin's
assistant and now for almost a year as his editor, Kate didn't
know the man very well.

In her less charitable moments, she had considered just what
kind of man he might be. Most of her romance authors were
female. In fact, every other author under her care was female.
Lucern Argeneau, who wrote as Luke Amirault, was the only
male. What kind of man wrote romances? And vampire romances at
that? She had decided it was probably someone gay ... or
someone weird. His expression at that moment was making her
lean toward weird. Serial-killer type weird.

"You have no intention of removing yourself, do you?" he asked at last.

Kate considered the question. A firm "no" would probably get
her in the door. But did she want in the door? Would the man
slaughter her? Would she be a headline in the next day's news
if she did get in the door?

Cutting off such unproductive and even frightening thoughts
right there, Kate straightened her shoulders and announced
firmly, "Mr Argeneau, I flew up here from New York. This is
important to me. I'm determined to talk you. I'm your editor."
She emphasized the last word in case he had missed the
relevance of that fact. It usually had a certain influence
with writers, though he had shown no signs of being impressed
so far.

She didn't know what else to say after that, so simply stood
waiting for a response that never really came. Heaving a deep
sigh, the man merely turned away and started up the dark hall.

Kate stared uncertainly at his retreating back. He hadn't
slammed the door in her face this time. That was a good sign,
wasn't it? Was it an invitation to enter? Deciding she was
going to take it as one, Kate hefted her small suitcase and
overnight bag and stepped inside. It was a late summer
evening, cooler than it had been earlier in the day, but still
it was hot outside. In comparison, stepping into the house was
much like stepping into a refrigerator. Kate automatically
closed the door behind her to keep the cool air from escaping,
then paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the dark
interior. Setting her bags down by the door, she started
carefully forward, heading for a square of light that suddenly
seemed so far away.

Lucern paused in the center of his kitchen and peered around
by the illumination of the night light. He wasn't quite sure
what to do. He never had guests. What did one do with them,
exactly? After an inner debate, he moved to the stove, grabbed
the tea kettle that sat on the burner and took it to the sink
to fill with water. After setting it on the stove and cranking
the dial on high, he found the teapot, some tea bags and a
full sugar bowl too. He set all of it haphazardly on a tray.

He would offer Kate C. Leever a cup of tea. Once that was
done, so was she, Lucern decided as hunger drew him to the
refrigerator. Light spilled out into the room as he opened the
door, making him blink after the previous darkness. Once his
eyes had adjusted, he bent to pick up one of the two lonely
bags of blood on the middle shelf of the large refrigerator.
Other than the two blood bags, there wasn't a single solitary
item in the cavernous white box. Lucern wasn't much for
cooking. His refrigerator had pretty much been empty since his
last housekeeper died.

Hungry, Lucern didn't bother with a glass, but-still bent into
the fridge-lifted the bag to his mouth and stabbed his fangs
into it. The cool elixir of life immediately began to pour
into his system, taking some of the edge off his crankiness.
Lucern was never so cranky as when his blood levels were low.

"Mr Argeneau?"

He jerked in surprise at that query from the doorway. The
action ripped the bag Lucern held, sending the crimson fluid
shooting out over him. It squirted in a cold shower over his
face and into his hair as he instinctively straightened,
banging his head on the underside of the closed freezer
compartment.

Cursing, he dropped the ruined bag onto the refrigerator shelf
and grabbed for his head with one hand, slamming the
refrigerator door closed with the other as Kate Leever rushed
to his side.

"Oh, my goodness! Oh! I'm so sorry! Oh!" She screeched as she
caught sight of the blood coating his face and hair. "Oh God!
You've cut your head. Bad!"

Lucern hadn't seen an expression of such horror on anyone's
face since the good old days when lunch meant biting into a
nice warm neck rather than a nasty cold bag.

Seeming to recover her senses somewhat, the editor grabbed his
arm and urged him toward the kitchen table. "Here, you'd
better sit down. You're bleeding badly."

"I am fine," Lucern muttered as she settled him in a chair. He
found her concern rather annoying. If she was too nice to him,
he might feel guilted into being nice back.

"Where's your phone?" She was turning on one heel, scanning
the kitchen for the item in question.

"Why do you wish for a phone?" He asked hopefully. Perhaps she
would leave him alone now, he thought briefly, but her answer
nixed that possibility.

"To call an ambulance. You really hurt yourself."

Her expression became more distressed as she looked at him
again and Lucern found himself glancing down at his front.
There was quite a bit of blood on his shirt, and he could feel
it dripping down his face in rivulets. He could also smell it
sharp and rich with tinny overtones. Without thinking, he slid
his tongue out to lick his lips. Then what she'd said slipped
into his mind and he straightened abruptly. While it was
convenient that she thought the blood was from an injury,
there was no way he was going to a hospital.

(Continues...)





Excerpted from Single White Vampire
by Lynsay Sands
Copyright © 2003 by Lynsay Sands .
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

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First Chapter

Prologue

People have secrets. Everyone does. And, at one point or another, many people say they would like to run away and start life over in a place where no one knows their business. I know that I have felt that way. More than once. And I am no stranger to disaster, and most certainly no one would ever call me a coward. Coward or not, sometimes you just want to slip away into the night.

What drives us to that point? Did you do something horrible? Or, did something horrible happen to you?

Maybe you just feel like you need some anonymity. You have endured all the questioning, opinion-giving and gossiping humanity you can bear. It's time to strip away everything, all the clutter and noise, and look at your life, how it got to that point and figure out what you intend to do about it. At least, that's how it was for me.

When my tragedies occurred and getting through the days felt like pulling a wagon of bricks that was missing a back wheel, the only choice was to move back to Pawleys Island and attempt to put everything in perspective. I should have packed a seat belt. First, I met Huey Valentine. Huey, one of the most wonderful men who ever lived, befriended me and eventually gave me the swift kick I needed to put down my golf clubs for a while. That kick came when Rebecca showed up and Armageddoned the pattern of self-indulgent complacency that ordered my shallow and insignificant life, which in all my precious stupidity, I thought I was enjoying. Yeah, I thought it was fabulous-okay, it wasn't fabulous and I knew it. But it was usually better than bearable, and to be frank, until she appeared, I couldn't think of any better way to occupy my time. Golf and tennis. Tennis and golf. A party here, an opening there. Pretty shallow and useless.

I didn't think I had much in common with Rebecca until the divorce was all over, only to discover we had everything in common; we were simply at different stages in our lives. If her parachute hadn't landed on Huey's doorstep, I'd still be treadmilling in my sandy island rut. And if we all weren't there to engage Huey's mind, his life would have been one narrow garden path slowly tiptoeing back to the eighteenth century.

Here's the other lesson I've learned. You only see what you want to see and believe what you want to believe. I'm not talking about the Gray Man or Alice Flagg, Pawleys Island's most famous walking dead residents. No, no. This goes back to my eyes and those of my Pawleys friends. I thought we were all lonely and making the best of it, and we were to some degree. But my vision was warped. I was everyone's mother; Huey was my chaste and antiseptic spouse; Rebecca was our daughter. Huey belonged to me, and Rebecca did too. Wrong!

What we all taught each other was stunning and, honest to God, life altering. But here's the thing. I will never accept that these changes could have come about any place but Pawleys Island. Sure, you've heard about the handmade hammocks and the pristine beaches. You've seen gorgeous pictures of the sunsets and the marsh teeming with wildlife. But you don't know Pawleys until you've been there and experienced its tremendous power. It is only a tiny sandbar south of Myrtle Beach and north of Georgetown. But be warned. It is there that the Almighty Himself would like to engage you in conversation and redirect your soul. Listen to me: for all the jokes I make, this time I'm not kidding.

If you're happy in your misery and determined to remain so, don't ever go to Pawleys. If you do make the trip, be on guard. Truth is coming to get you, and peace isn't far behind. But it all comes at a price. You'll have to be the judge of whether it's worth all the hullabaloo.

This is how it happened to me.

One

Welcome to Gallery Valentine

Ilooked out across the dunes and up and down the beach. Another gorgeous day. Blue skies, billowing clouds and the sun rising with the mercury. Eastern breezes rustled the palmettos and sea oats. Sun worshippers by the score had accepted early invitations to assume the lizard position. They were scattered and prone, armed with coolers, beach chairs, novels, visors and canvas bags of towels, toys and lotions, littered all along the edges of the Atlantic in both directions. They looked like clusters of human solar batteries recharging themselves in drowsy warmth. The waves rolled in low murmers of hypnotic suggestion, washed the shore and pulled away.

The weather that day seemed without guile, but I knew better. As soon as the hands of time crossed noon, Mother Nature would bellow the flames of hell's furnace, blowing unspeakable heat all over the Lowcountry, and the sensible lizards would retreat to shade and hammocks until later in the day. The others would fry, fooled by the breeze and lulled into a comfortable stupor by the ocean's song.

Let me tell you something, honey. You'd never catch me in a swimsuit smelling like cocoa butter and fruit, sticky with salt and sand, half catatonic and dehydrated from exposure. No. I had better things to do with my time, like feeding Huey. Or playing golf in that same sun. It was the lying around part that was a problem for me. Besides, who needed to see me in a bathing suit? I assure you, no one.

But back to my current priority . . . feeding Huey.

After his call, I picked up sandwiches from The Pita Rolz and drove over to his gallery in the Oak Lea Shops. He had been practically breathless on the phone, but private-audience breathless drama was pretty much Huey's modus operandi.

"Abigail! Darling! Drop everything and come! You must meet Rebecca!"

"Who's Rebecca?"

"Our savior! You'll see!"

"Well, we could use a savior . . ."

"And, would you be a dear and bring us some lunch? Just tuna for me, on rye, but only if it looks fresh, and turkey on white bread with mayonnaise for our darling girl, and of course get something for yourself. My treat."

Huey Valentine had not missed a meal in all his fifty-five years. I had to laugh. When Huey got excited, he thought about food. When he was depressed, he thought about food. What can I say except that Huey was well fed. I imagine the least insulting but most accurate term one might use to describe Huey's appearance would be portly, but in a way portly suited his entire demeanor, which, when in the company of close friends, grew a shade larger than life itself.

Huey was the consummate southern gentleman, an aristocratic Nathan Lane, never rude to anyone's face but felt no remorse about a wicked comment to me about others, especially tourists.

You could set your wristwatch by Huey. He was never late for an appointment or a dinner party. He wrote thank-you notes on his Dempsey & Carroll ecru hand-engraved stationery that was so stiff, folding it cracked it like an egg. And he always used an ornate fountain pen, signing with the flourish of John Hancock. Speaking of John Hancock, Huey Flagg Valentine could probably trace his ancestry back to Charlemagne's grandparents. Evergreen, the plantation where he lived with his mother and houseman, had been in his family's name since fifteen minutes after the land was claimed for King Charles II. I had never seen him dressed in anything but all white, summer and winter, and yes, he wore a hat. But not to affect a grand attitude so much as to save his balding head from the terrors of melanoma. Everything about him was stylish and elegant. He couldn't help it. All those generations of social grace and good taste were imbedded in his DNA. I just adored him. Everyone did.

It was on Huey's arm that I had gladly attended every party, concert, dinner or gallery opening for the past three years, since my return to Pawleys Island. Life was so strange. I thought I was going to move into my family's house and write my memoirs, but I was slightly embarrassed to admit that all I had done was exercise and slide in and out of social commitments with Huey. It wasn't the worst thing, really. I mean, heaven forbid that I had a little fun. Besides, the thought of reliving my past through writing it all down? Well, let's just say that I had yet to arrive at the moment where I felt comfortable enough to play with my inner gorillas. They could wait. In any case, I questioned the real value of an autobiography because it seemed like vanity in the extreme. It wasn't like I abandoned a career as a backup singer for the Rolling Stones and that my writings would become the latest zeitgeist on sex, drugs and rock and roll. Frankly, my therapist recommended that I give writing a whirl, saying it might be good for an exercise in closure. Instead, I had closure with everything else-my frantic law practice, my marginal personal life and my nice expensive therapist. I simply closed up my house in Columbia and came back to Pawleys just to think about things. I imagine you could say I'm a lucky woman, at least in terms of inheritance and assets. My mother died when I was very young, and then Daddy finally gave up the ghost after a short bout with leukemia six years ago. Since I am an only child, the house on Pawleys came right into my hands. The old rockers, the creaking floorboards, the tongue-and-groove walls, the ancient kitchen and the claw-footed bathtubs were all mine. The only changes I made were to add a furnace, a fresh coat of paint, window boxes of flowers and new screens. Oh, and I did update the bathroom and kitchen fixtures but that had to be done-you know how salt corrodes everything in its path.

If you looked twice at my house you would scratch your head wondering why I loved it so much. Anyone with a developer's eye would want to knock it down and replace it with a home with central air-conditioning and heat and, probably, God forbid, wall-to-wall carpet, an in-wall vacuum system, doorbells and every other invention of the twentieth century. No thanks. I still preferred floors I could sweep, friends calling out to announce their arrival over the roar of the ocean, and I could not have cared less what mysterious wonders the damp air performed on my hair. Once I crossed over that causeway, leaving the mainland, the plantations and the Waccamaw River, the world ceased to exist. On very hot nights I used the ceiling fan in my bedroom because I loved to hear the waves at night and the birds in the morning. And I loved the memories. If I closed my eyes, I could hear my mother's gentle voice, negotiating with Philemon, the creek man and an island institution during my childhood. He had a bucket of fresh flounder and another one of shrimp, and from them Momma would buy our dinner.

I could see us at the table, Daddy telling Momma how delicious the meal was. Later I would squeeze in between them on the porch swing, while Momma sang sweetly and I drifted off to my dreams. When you lose a parent at a young age, those few memories you have are more precious than any single ring or necklace left to you. Whenever I was here, even alone as I am now, I could stand where they once stood and somehow in the magical workings of the Pawleys Island salt air, I could bring them back to me. For that and for a thousand other reasons too, I would never sell this house or leave it for too long.

Daddy inherited our home on Myrtle Avenue from his father, and his father inherited it from his mother. Our family's Pawleys Island history went back almost as far as Huey's plantation origins. Somewhere around the time Mr. Lincoln freed the slaves, Daddy's father's mother's husband hauled it in sections (we think) to this parcel of land from Butler Island and put it all back together. If you were inclined to inspect the underside of this great relic, you would still find the mortise-and-tenon joints with pegs. When I was a girl, Daddy and his friends would fix cocktails and go under the house to have a look, reappearing later, amazed by nineteenth-century building skills. It was no doubt that her meticulous construction kept Miss Salt Air from flying to Kingdom Come during Hurricane Hugo, our most foul visitor of 1989. Oh, she got her bonnet blown off (lost the roof) and there was water damage to be sure, but Daddy brought a team of men up from Charleston and raised her from the dunes to new and dignified heights on sturdy pilings of brick.

Anyway, it's the island, really, that spins the spell. The house helped, but the most compelling reason for my return here was to languish in great peace as opposed to despair. For all of my life, any time spent here made everything right. I could stand on the porch and breathe in with all of my lungs, exhale my troubles in a whoosh, and the breezes carried them away. My shoulders dropped back to their natural position. I moved differently, slowly but with deliberateness. I slept soundly remembering all my dreams.

That seemed to be the general consensus of everyone on Pawleys Island. It's a simple retreat for some and a spa for the soul to others. One thing is certain: it's unlike any other place in God's entire creation.

Even Huey agreed with that. As much as the Waccamaw waters flowed through his veins, on many evenings I had seen the look on his face when we shared the end of day, watching the moonrise over the Atlantic. You can't paint this, he would say. And he, who possessed the heart and soul of the artist, was right. With that statement, Huey claimed a corner in my heart, which until then had been under lockdown. So, if Huey said, Drop everything and come meet our new savior, I dropped everything and did as he asked. I bought lunch and drove my old Jaguar sedan right over to him, cursing the entire United Kingdom over their wimpy air-conditioning. I pushed open the door and spotted him right away by the framing table in the rear of the gallery. Huey was the Rosetta stone for body language. His hands were in midair, whirling with excitement, and he shifted from one foot to the other. He turned at the unobtrusive musical sound of the automatic doorbell, saw me and rushed to my side. "There you are! Come! Say hello! Let me help you with that!" He took the bag and cardboard tray of iced tea from me, delivered two air kisses to my cheeks, stood back and smiled. "Did they have decent tuna?"

"Huey, baby? The tuna is life altering. I watched them make it, which is what took me so long." The tiny brunette was waiting patiently with her portfolio opened, and what I guessed to be her work was spread all over the counter. "You must be Rebecca." She extended her hand to shake mine. "And you must be Abigail. But please call me Becca. My friends call me Becca."

"No! No! No!" Huey said, researching the contents of the sack of food. "You must be Re-becca! We cannot defile the great name of Rebecca. I'll get plates."

"Didn't anyone ever call you Abby?" she said to me, looking for some support.

"Over their dead body," I said. "My parents named me for Abigail Adams."

Huey placed three plates on the counter and began unpacking lunch. "Abigail Adams was one of America's first feminists, you know. She was always giving John the business about the inequality of education between men and women."

"Oh," Rebecca said.

"Well, it makes sense today too," I said. "People used to think that education was wasted on women because they wound up staying home with children. Of course, I'm not sure how an education could ever be wasted." What an inane thing for me to say, I thought.

"You can say that again," Rebecca said.

"Anyway, this generation of women works. And not necessarily because they want to." Another pearl of genius from me, but people said vapid things to each other just to put the other at ease.

"You can say that again too!" Rebecca said.

I took the plate from Huey and eyeballed this diminutive Rebecca, thinking that if she agreed to agree with every word I spoke, then surely there was an exalted position available for her in our little tribe.

If that sounds egotistical, let's get something straight right now. The last thing I needed in my life or even in the periphery of my life was someone telling me I was wrong, what was wrong with my politics, what was wrong with the world. I knew what was wrong with the world. Everything. I had seen enough of what people did to each other and I just didn't want to deal with it for the foreseeable future.

"So where are you from?" I said.

"Charleston," she said. "I came up here to see if I could sell some of my work."

"Abigail. Look at this."

Huey had closed her portfolio so that a flying crumb of tuna or a splotch of mayonnaise wouldn't ruin anything, but he reached down and pulled up one of her paintings. He flipped back the parchment paper cover and there it was: the classic watercolor of two children, a boy and a girl, playing by the edge of the shore on a beach. I had seen hundreds of them, and all of them were cures for insomnia. But this one was profoundly different. The sky and the water looked as radiantly alive as the sandpipers pecking the wet sand and then running from the waves. But the children, their backs to the viewer, seemed to be a thousand miles away. And you got the sense that while they were probably siblings, that they didn't want to play together or that they were tremendously unhappy for some inexplicable reason and preferred to live in their misery alone. The scene was haunting and bothersome, but I couldn't stop looking at them. I wanted to rush inside the painting and save them. I turned and looked at Rebecca.

"It's very powerful," I said.

"Children aren't always happy, are they?" she said.

"No, they are not."

"Rebecca, darling? We have a show opening tomorrow and I was just thinking . . ."

"Huey!" I said. "Her work isn't framed, and besides . . ."

"Oh! Gosh!" Rebecca said. "I can make frames if you have the material . . ."

"Rebecca? Sweetheart? You make frames?"

"Yes, in fact, I am told that, well, I'm rather good at it. I mean, well, I don't mean to brag . . ."

"Stop! Humility is unflattering, especially for an artist of your talent! You need some attitude, girl! Seriously!"

We all had a giggle at that, but Huey was right. This mouse had to stop squeaking.

"Huey, I . . ."

I was trying to speak, but when Huey got his engine in gear, there was no stopping him. "Sweetheart. You finish up your sandwich, and then I want you to have a look around in the storage room. There's enough material back there to hang a frame around Georgetown County, including the new waterslide at Myrtle Beach."

Huey sniffed and I knew it was because of the waterslides, putt-putt courses and all manner of NASCAR contraptions that had been erected under the guise of entertainment but reeked of crass commercialism. And that, my friends, was the scathing difference between genteel plantation living, the arrogant shabby of Pawleys Island and the wild consumerism of Myrtle Beach. All that said for the antielitist dart throwers in the crowd, Huey the King Snob liked nothing better than a round of putt-putt followed by a snow cone dripping in tutti-frutti syrup.

"The former framer was recently relieved of his duties," I said, thinking I would speak to him when Rebecca was out of earshot.

"I fired the nitwit," Huey said. "What a pathetic simpleton! He drove me crazy. Didn't he ever hear of measure twice, cut once?"

"Apparently not," I said.

Inside of a minute, Rebecca, who was slightly confused as to why she should inspect the inventory of framing materials when she had come to Huey's gallery to sell her work, balled up the remains of her turkey sandwich and went to the storage room to sniff around like a good dog.

"So what do you think?" Huey said in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Huey Flagg Valentine! I think that Sallie Anne Wood will definitely scratch your eyes out! I know I would! You can't promise someone a one-woman show and then just sort of casually have another show going on at the same time! It's unethical!"

The opening, which was the following evening, was a one-woman show for Sallie Anne Wood, an established egomaniacal diva artist from Charleston.

"Listen to me, Abigail Thurmond. Sallie Anne Wood has had a thousand shows. She'll sell enough to make her happy tomorrow night. Right? Look. I cannot resist Rebecca's work! I don't know why, but I sense an urgency in Rebecca and I think she needs us. I mean, you must agree, Rebecca's work is rather astounding."

"It is that."

"God! I wonder what she could do in oil! She'd be biblical! Rebecca at the Well! Great thundering Zeus! I remember that from the show at the Chagall Museum in Nice. Women of the Old Testament! Matriarchs in Search of Motherhood! I wish you had been with me then . . ."

"Me too. Huey? This is still a problem, you know. You cannot possibly expect Sallie Anne to walk in here and be happy to see Rebecca's work hanging in the same gallery on the same night as her opening! And, Huey, I know you would not enjoy the cognizi of Litchfield and Pawleys calling you an opportunist, now would you?"

"I can sell everything Rebecca can paint. Every blessed last piece. And you know it."

"Framed or unframed. But, Huey? Darlin', we hardly know this child! Are you hiring her to be our new framer? She's an artist, for heaven's sake! Don't you think she will be insulted?"

"I'm going to ask her if she'll be the assistant manager of my gallery."

"And who is the manager? You?"

"Okay! I'll make her the manager! Happy?"

"Oh, Huey, Huey, Huey. If you really want this puppy, then I know you'll have this puppy one way or another. Lord help Rebecca! She's falling down the rabbit hole and doesn't even know it."

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Interviews & Essays

A Letter from Dorothea Benton Frank
There are four questions everybody always asks me. They are: what drives me to write about a certain topic, are my stories autobiographical, how do I go about the business of writing day-to-day, and could I please give them money. The answers are: for better understanding of the subject; yes, of course, and no, of course not; it's so hard you wouldn't believe it; and not unless you're selling time off in Purgatory.

I wrote Sullivan's Island for every reason other than the expectation of public approval or any meaningful financial reward. That yarn was crawling up my throat. If I hadn't written it, I might have choked to death on it. Someone once told me that I would write when I couldn't not write. I never should have spoken to that person again; he made me think. It was the truest and most terrifying comment anyone ever made to me. Frankly -- no pun intended -- writing hurts.

My first book, Sullivan' Island, grew from a painful attempt to deal with the loss of my mother and the subsequent loss of what I felt was "my place on the planet." This girl's place was by her Momma's side on Sullivan's Island, South Carolina -- and I've only been living in New York temporarily for the past 20-odd years. Once a Geechee Girl, always a Geechee Girl. That's just how my brain was wired, so I started writing to figure out how to reconcile my life. Seeing Sullivan's Island plop its pretty title on the New York Times list helped enormously. It did, and not merely for vanity's sake, but because what it meant was that many people understood how I felt. That kind of realization was priceless consolation to my aching heart. And, most importantly, that connection with readers through email, book signings, and book clubs, gave me the courage and desire to continue to write.

My Lowcountry Tales are not romances, but they are stories about what I love and value: family, friends, truth, kindness, forgiveness and compassion. Plantation, my new book, digs deep.

The folks populating Plantation believe themselves to be worldly and savvy. Caroline, the daughter, thinks she's happy. Ha! She thinks she has nothing in common with her mother, Miss Lavinia, and that she has no place in the Lowcountry because she's become a slick New Yorker. Ha! And the lengths to which Miss Lavinia will travel for attention were shocking even to me -- and I wrote the darn book! Needless to say, I hope readers will find the push and pull of the mother/daughter dynamic and the endless shenanigans of all the characters to be interesting, entertaining, and true.

Plantation is a good snapshot, I think, of what modern day plantation living is like. But it is also about geographically separated families, coming to terms with who you really are and what you hope to become, taking care of aging and eccentric parents, what to do about unlovable in-laws -- and, as always, about the real and true mysteries of the magical Lowcountry of South Carolina.

I suspect that I will always place my stories in the Lowcountry, because its tidal magnet pumps my heart's blood like a powerful drug. I prefer to write about issues that concern me, human qualities which go unrewarded and undervalued in today's society -- such as personal integrity, morality, the courage to name something what it is against popular opinion.

The characters I write about may have certain traits borrowed from people I have known, but the characters themselves are all fictional, just as the plots are not from events in my life, but about what I might do if they were. I figure if the story I'm working on can play itself out to a satisfactory conclusion in the Lowcountry of South Carolina then, in my mind (what's left of it), it could be happening anywhere.

At present, I'm working on a third novel, tentatively entitled Isle of Palms. It's named after another actual barrier island of the Lowcountry coast, once home to beautiful Indians and evil pirates. This time I'm tackling the lives of contemporary people dealt an unfair hand of cards. It shows their attempt to overcome their lot by having a plan, which sometimes works pretty well and at other times causes emotional upheaval and explosions. It's about change, something held in low esteem by some, not all, island residents. The story tells of the influx of lovable and not so lovable Yankees critical to the local economy, played against the congenial or cantankerous old islanders, versus the historic relevance of Charleston's illustrious past. It all makes for great fun in the telling and eventually, I hope, in the reading. If my muse will cut me a little slack, Isle of Palms should be out next summer -- 2002.

I love, love, love to hear from readers: Email is the fuel that keeps me alive and struggling to hone the old craft of creating better novels. It's also the most efficient way to directly contact me. I answer emails sent to dot@dotfrank.com myself -- nope, no glamorous staff or auto-responses. So, if I'm traveling, it could take some time to reply, as I am not a techno-whiz -- but I will respond!

I want to say one more thing, and that is that I am deeply and sincerely grateful for everyone's support and generous words. Have a great summer on the Plantation! And, y'all come back, yanh?

Best wishes,
Dorothea Benton Frank

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 456 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(279)

4 Star

(108)

3 Star

(37)

2 Star

(13)

1 Star

(19)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 457 Customer Reviews
  • Posted September 8, 2012

    I Also Recommend:

    Exciting and well written. Didn't take me long to finish. Very e

    Exciting and well written. Didn't take me long to finish. Very enjoyable

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted June 11, 2012

    more from this reviewer

    Hilarious & Overall Good book

    This book is really good, I literally was crying in tears because i was laughing so hard at Luc and Kate during certain parts. I couldn't put this book down at all, finished this in one day. I am looking forward to reading the remaining series.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 12, 2011

    One of my favorites of this series...

    Lucern¿s story. He¿s an author and Kate is his editor. So far every book I have read in this series has humor in them. In my opinion, this one is the funniest! Loved it.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted March 22, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    TOTALLY GREAT BOOK!

    Loved every word. Laughed until tears ran down my cheeks.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 18, 2013

    Amanda

    Haha ok!

    1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 27, 2012

    Sheeka

    Thank you and she pads into camp

    1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 14, 2012

    Great Read!!!

    The best thing about this book is how quirky the characters are. And each book is a different and each story is different.I loved this and the others

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted October 6, 2012

    Love this series...

    The Argeneau series is a comedy, drama, love story all wrapped up in each book. Put them all together and you have an ongoing saga that builds as you read each of these stories. Each book adds more depth, texture, and richness to this family saga as each story is told.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2012

    Gotva long time ago

    I had the book until i move and colud not find it so i keep look on line to find it and weel i haveit again and i can read it anytime any qhere i want and not werry above saiding where the book is and am happy the i got it now and i can start reading about i cant qint thank all for the veiq havs fun i now that i did when i read the book

    1 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 21, 2006

    Loved it! Laughed so hard!! Can't put it in words!!

    I loved this book!!! I thought it was hilariously romantic and funny!! The parts where things are serious, are managed to be turned into hilarious moments!!!! I am speechless as to how much I liked this book!!

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2003

    Awesome book

    Kate C Leever has the impossible task of convincing Lucern Argeneu to participate in his own publicity. The maddening author's one word response 'No' to each of her letters makes it a little hard to believe he could be a bestselling romance novelist. Taking the bull by the horns, she journeys to Canada determined to win him over, a little bit anyway. ...................... Lucern is as sexy as his romances. Despite being surly, he blows Kate's mind. Only with his very youthful mother's help does he manage to con him into attending a RT convention, much to his own dismay. Luc is a vampire, and traveling is not something he is thrilled about. Nonetheless, he is a man of his word, and Kate is an attraction as well. Falling for her is a most unexpected complication, for both of them. .............. ***** If this time of year has you feeling a bit down because you're supposed to be happy, but aren't, then read this book, even if you don't like those 'weird' books. It will give you genuine laughs as you watch Luc act like a six hundred year old little boy and see him encounter the modern world. His reaction to Buffy alone is worth the book. There is plenty of romance, and a whole new twist on the vampire legend that is thoroughly original. May the Family Argenean Series live long and prosper. *****

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 25, 2003

    Lynsay is utterly Brilliant with her new age vamp!!

    Lynsay absolutely rocks with her new series about a dysfunctional vampire family! I won't go into the plot line too heavy because you need to experience all the surprises and delights yourself. A mother, two sons and a daughter (and more relatives to come hopefully) face the every day struggles of vampire existence in the 21st Century. In this tale, originally called Lucern, we meet Lucern Argeneau, the first son. He is a four hundred year old vampire, getting by in the dreary world by writing contemporary romances about...well, vampires...only no one catches on he is merely writing about his family. To his surprise, they are a big success, so much so his editor, Kate C. Leever of Roundhouse Publishing is determined to drag the reclusive writer to the Romantic Times Convention. Lucern is a grumpy - albeit sexy - curmudgeon, and he is determined NOT to go to a book convention. However, Kate is a whirlwind, an editor - who has little life outside her work - so she is firmly determined to drag him kicking and screaming into the limelight. She gets aid from his family, who think Kate is not only a super editor, but also the perfect mate for Lucern. And while Lucern loves her as an editor - at a distance - he hates to admit he feels an attraction for the pushy lady. Only, romance for the vampire - as well as attending a book convention - has a lot of modern day drawbacks. Kate fits in well with his family, though she finds them a bit odd. Lynsay is known for her side-aching humour, but she is at top form as Lucern is forced into the world of sunshine and supermarkets. Being your totally civilised vamp, Lucian does not go around biting necks - let's face it, in today's situation of aids, drugs and diseases only a foolish vampire runs around taking blood without knowing the donor's lifestyle. Being a smart vampire family, they have invested in a series of blood banks, and have a steady supply delivered to them. Only Kate's presence causes Lucern to miss din-din more than once, making him so famished he considers attacking a steak in the local market. By the time Kate installs Lucern in the convention hotel, she is becoming concerned there is something very wrong with Lucern's health. From the mad escapade at the Ball for the Romance Times (with an appearance of Lady of RT herself!!) to Kate coming to terms with her popular vampire writer might just be writing biographies instead of fiction, it is typical Lynsay wit and brilliance. Lucern is sexy, deliciously grumpy and is the new wave of vampires for the 21st Century. I have always enjoyed every book Lynsay was written, but I must say she takes the gold ring with this wonderful funny book! I fell in love with Lucern, so cannot wait for the rest of the Argeneau family

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 2, 2014

    Amazing!!

    This book is freaking amazing!!!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 15, 2014

    Hunting place

    Hunting place

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted January 9, 2014

    Single White Vampire was an excellent novel, so good in fact I s

    Single White Vampire was an excellent novel, so good in fact I stayed up until the early morning hours finishing it. The comedy in this
    particular book was even more than other of Lynsay Sands' books. Kate was Lucern's very persistent editor, who even implanted herself
    at his house stating she would leave once he agreed to do some type of promotion for his vampire romances.
    This novel also gave an inside look at a Romance convention which I adored as I've never been to one. I can say I have been an idiot in
    not reading Sands Argeneau series sooner, they have just been waiting in my TBR pile, not any longer.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 13, 2013

    What's better then Highly recommended this author's books !!!

    One of my fav author's and I love them so much I read them over and
    over. That's why I like nook I can take them with me all of them !

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 30, 2013

    Amazing.

    Amazing.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 15, 2013

    Frank

    How old are u

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 14, 2013

    Shine

    I walk in. I am a silver dragon with mythical powers. I growl. "You ignorant humans.... so desperate for love. You sicken me." I shake my head sadly. Then i open my eyes "but im nice i will help a few of u find love" i set a love potion on a table using my tail. "Only four people can use this. Only someone who can stay calm with this kind of power."

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 14, 2013

    Minnie

    Morning

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 457 Customer Reviews

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