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372 pages, Hardcover
First published January 30, 2018
She never failed to fascinate, frustrate, and fulfill ...
“How do you know that? You couldn’t have finished the book.” (Roarke)
“I skipped to the end.” (Eve)
“You…” He closed his eyes as he drunk more wine. “Some things are unforgivable.” (Roarke)
“Plus a lot of them who write multiple times talk about the make-believe people like they’re actually people. Some of them get a little pissy when those make-believe people don’t do just what they figure those make-believe people should do. Some get more than a little pissy. A lot of the pissy is because the characters haven’t banged.” (Eve)
By the time she pulled into the garage at Central, she wished the entire driving population of New York City into fiery flames of hell.
“Roarke owns the Celtics,” she corrected. “And when they play the Knicks, they’re the enemy. We have standards in this division. Mets, Knicks, Giants, Rollers, Rangers. Get on board, Detective, or you may wear that hat permanently.” (Eve)
“What about the Yankees, the Jets?” (Santiago)
Eve stared coldly. “Don’t make me write you up.”
“Good, then you can put that bag I don’t see and you’re not carrying in the car before you fall into an alpaca coma.” (Eve)
“I think I’ve had a couple of alpaca orgasms, but no coma.” (Peabody)
“Keep your weird wool orgasms to yourself.” (Eve)