Firestorm

Amy Abrams doesn't do love. Nor does she do emotional attachments, unless you count the connection she has with designer handbags. She grew up in an Upper East Side penthouse, which had about as much affection within its tastefully decorated walls as Castle Dracula. Her family is the precise reason why she points her red-soled heels firmly in the opposite direction of that dreaded four-letter word.



Then it happens. Love. It comes right out of the blue and knocks her off her six-inch heels. S...