-Chapter One-
Make a wish and it is found... Farrish Luke chanted, bouncing at the baseline of her exclusive tennis court, preparing to take her signature shot, her 129 mph serve, which had catapulted her to the #1 ranked female tennis player in the world; an empty accomplishment she thought ...
...when all at once, a hurling tennis ball shot out of her pricey tennis ball machine more swiftly than a baseball pitcher's at 130 mph, smacking her in the stomach, before the machine fired another ball, hitting her between the eyes, and another ball that pounded her fragile skull.
While 200 yards away, inside the Luke's mansion, which was known affectionately as the White House, the Luke's butler & chauffeur said his goodbyes to his employers, Jude and Marc Luke, who laid in their mammoth four-poster bed on the fourth floor of their colossal home speaking to the aide through the intercom:
"Enjoy your visit with your family," said Jude Luke, a psychiatrist.
"Thank you, Misses," Presario Hecta said, as the landline telephone began to ring.
"I'll get it," Jude said to the domestic through the speaker.
While outside on the tennis court, the ball machine pitched another ball, swatting Farrish Luke's lips, splitting the delicate skin, causing an immediate drip of crimson as other balls followed every half-a-second, popping every inch of her long, lean person.
As Presario Hecta, the butler, left the Luke's enormous home as Jude Luke prepared to answer the telephone, picking up the call on the third ring:
"Luke's residence," she said, answering the call in the tone of their employee.
"Presario?" asked Dr. Thurston Dane, Farrish's husband.
"Thurston ... it's Jude."
"Hi Jude," he said to his mother-in-law in his lyrical British accent.
"Farrish is on her tennis court, I'll get her for you," Jude said, as she smiled over at her husband, Marc.
"No, you needn't bother, I'll see her later tonight at Taylor Etienne's Bridal Show," Thurston said.
"I'm calling about a different matter," he continued in his thick English dialect.
"Is everything okay?" Jude asked, sensing the concern in his poetic voice.
"Jude, have you been following the news headlines about that artist, Carl Crowne?"
Meanwhile, on the tennis court, Farrish Luke tried to shield her gory, battered face as blood dripped from her slit lips down on her pristine, white tennis dress as the tennis ball machine shot another ball and another when she tried to run to the sideline.
While inside the White House, Jude Luke contemplated the plight of artist, Carl Crowne, as she placed the handset on the cradle, ending her thought-provoking telephone conversation with her son-in-law, Thurston Dane...
...when abruptly, Marc Luke began to cough, gasping to breathe.
"Somebody's chocking me!" he wheezed, when all of a sudden, Marc began to cough up reddish-brown sputum.
"Marc! Marc! Are you alright!?" Jude bellowed, before she sprinted to the intercom to call Farrish:
"Sweetheart! Come on up to the house! Daddy's sick!" Jude yelped, speaking to Farrish through the intercom.
As Farrish tried to reach into the pocket of her blood-spattered tennis dress for the ball machine's remote control, when all at once, the machine's oscillator turned, following Farrish to the sideline, hitting her wherever she moved, striking her head, shoulders and stomach as she crouched over, bending her torso, trying to soften the blows.
"Sweetheart! Can you hear me?!" Jude yelped, shouting into the intercom at Farrish, watching her husband, Marc, gasp for air.
"Farrish! Please answer me! Your dad is sick!" Jude bellowed, as she dialed 911 on the landline and used her cell phone to call Farrish on her mobile.
"The ambulance is on its way, Darling!" Jude said to Marc.
"But Farrish isn't answering her cell!" she yelped, watching frantically as her husband clutched his heart.
While the tennis ball machine popped Farrish's hand as she tried to reach into her bloody pocket to answer her cell phone. So she reached again for the machine's remote controls, finally grabbing it as the ball machine continued to shoot 130 mph balls, smacking her already bloodshot eyes, her busted mouth, abruptly slapping her slender wrist, making her fumble the remote control before she dropped it on the hard court, where it broke apart.
As Jude propped pillows behind her husband's back, trying to open his air passages.
"Farrish isn't answering, Marc!" Jude hollered, "Why wouldn't she answer her celluar phone?! I'll go down there to get her once the ambulance gets here!"
While Farrish could hear her celluar phone ringing as the tennis ball machine continued to catapult a ball every half-a second, following her every move, firing balls with fierce speed and force that broke more of her skin, drawing more blood that exploded on to the tennis court, making the surface slippery before she began to fall ...
... when suddenly, the machine pitched a swift, damning ball that hit her squarely between the eyes, knocking her unconscIOUS.
And as Farrish laid in her own blood, the ball machine abruptly began to roll across the court towards her, firing another shot and another and another!
-Chapter One-
Make a wish and it is found... Farrish Luke chanted, bouncing at the baseline of her exclusive tennis court, preparing to take her signature shot, her 129 mph serve, which had catapulted her to the #1 ranked female tennis player in the world; an empty accomplishment she thought ...
...when all at once, a hurling tennis ball shot out of her pricey tennis ball machine more swiftly than a baseball pitcher's at 130 mph, smacking her in the stomach, before the machine fired another ball, hitting her between the eyes, and another ball that pounded her fragile skull.
While 200 yards away, inside the Luke's mansion, which was known affectionately as the White House, the Luke's butler & chauffeur said his goodbyes to his employers, Jude and Marc Luke, who laid in their mammoth four-poster bed on the fourth floor of their colossal home speaking to the aide through the intercom:
"Enjoy your visit with your family," said Jude Luke, a psychiatrist.
"Thank you, Misses," Presario Hecta said, as the landline telephone began to ring.
"I'll get it," Jude said to the domestic through the speaker.
While outside on the tennis court, the ball machine pitched another ball, swatting Farrish Luke's lips, splitting the delicate skin, causing an immediate drip of crimson as other balls followed every half-a-second, popping every inch of her long, lean person.
As Presario Hecta, the butler, left the Luke's enormous home as Jude Luke prepared to answer the telephone, picking up the call on the third ring:
"Luke's residence," she said, answering the call in the tone of their employee.
"Presario?" asked Dr. Thurston Dane, Farrish's husband.
"Thurston ... it's Jude."
"Hi Jude," he said to his mother-in-law in his lyrical British accent.
"Farrish is on her tennis court, I'll get her for you," Jude said, as she smiled over at her husband, Marc.
"No, you needn't bother, I'll see her later tonight at Taylor Etienne's Bridal Show," Thurston said.
"I'm calling about a different matter," he continued in his thick English dialect.
"Is everything okay?" Jude asked, sensing the concern in his poetic voice.
"Jude, have you been following the news headlines about that artist, Carl Crowne?"
Meanwhile, on the tennis court, Farrish Luke tried to shield her gory, battered face as blood dripped from her slit lips down on her pristine, white tennis dress as the tennis ball machine shot another ball and another when she tried to run to the sideline.
While inside the White House, Jude Luke contemplated the plight of artist, Carl Crowne, as she placed the handset on the cradle, ending her thought-provoking telephone conversation with her son-in-law, Thurston Dane...
...when abruptly, Marc Luke began to cough, gasping to breathe.
"Somebody's chocking me!" he wheezed, when all of a sudden, Marc began to cough up reddish-brown sputum.
"Marc! Marc! Are you alright!?" Jude bellowed, before she sprinted to the intercom to call Farrish:
"Sweetheart! Come on up to the house! Daddy's sick!" Jude yelped, speaking to Farrish through the intercom.
As Farrish tried to reach into the pocket of her blood-spattered tennis dress for the ball machine's remote control, when all at once, the machine's oscillator turned, following Farrish to the sideline, hitting her wherever she moved, striking her head, shoulders and stomach as she crouched over, bending her torso, trying to soften the blows.
"Sweetheart! Can you hear me?!" Jude yelped, shouting into the intercom at Farrish, watching her husband, Marc, gasp for air.
"Farrish! Please answer me! Your dad is sick!" Jude bellowed, as she dialed 911 on the landline and used her cell phone to call Farrish on her mobile.
"The ambulance is on its way, Darling!" Jude said to Marc.
"But Farrish isn't answering her cell!" she yelped, watching frantically as her husband clutched his heart.
While the tennis ball machine popped Farrish's hand as she tried to reach into her bloody pocket to answer her cell phone. So she reached again for the machine's remote controls, finally grabbing it as the ball machine continued to shoot 130 mph balls, smacking her already bloodshot eyes, her busted mouth, abruptly slapping her slender wrist, making her fumble the remote control before she dropped it on the hard court, where it broke apart.
As Jude propped pillows behind her husband's back, trying to open his air passages.
"Farrish isn't answering, Marc!" Jude hollered, "Why wouldn't she answer her celluar phone?! I'll go down there to get her once the ambulance gets here!"
While Farrish could hear her celluar phone ringing as the tennis ball machine continued to catapult a ball every half-a second, following her every move, firing balls with fierce speed and force that broke more of her skin, drawing more blood that exploded on to the tennis court, making the surface slippery before she began to fall ...
... when suddenly, the machine pitched a swift, damning ball that hit her squarely between the eyes, knocking her unconscIOUS.
And as Farrish laid in her own blood, the ball machine abruptly began to roll across the court towards her, firing another shot and another and another!
The Crowne Affaire
375
The Crowne Affaire
375Paperback(HAGIN KING DBA UPTOWNE WITH HAGIN K)
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781891737008 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Uptowne Books |
| Publication date: | 11/21/2010 |
| Edition description: | HAGIN KING DBA UPTOWNE WITH HAGIN K |
| Pages: | 375 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 1.20(d) |