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| Heroine: Summer McAfee |
Publisher: Dell |
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| Hero: Steve Calhoun |
ISBN: 0-440-21590-0 |
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| Location: Tennessee |
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Copyright: 1994 |
| Contemporary (1994) |
Pages: 391 |
Was
He Dead, Or... |
| The
nude male body lay on the embalming table, battered beyond recognition. Gingerly, Summer Alfee, chairman, CEO, and sole employee of Daisy Fresh cleaning service, reached out to touch an arm to reassure herself that she had not just seen the corpse move. Suddenly, shockingly, her hand was in the viselike grip of a man very much alone and desperate enough to take her captive on the no-hold-barred run from cops, killers, and his own decidedly complicated past.... Summer’s former life as a New York lingerie model had gone south with her marriage, leaving her, at thirty-six single and back home in Tennessee, on her hands and knees scrubbing other people’s bathrooms. But the drab present vanishes in a flash as she’s forced to flee into the Tennessee wilds with the stranger she calls Frankenstein, first as his captive, then his companion, as they run from enemies determined to destroy them both—straight into a raging passion that could only be the last laugh of fate... |
| Oh, God, she couldn't do this. She simply could not bring herself to touch the thing that lay there... One touch. If his flesh was cold, that would be enough. If he was cold, he would have to be dead. Wouldn't he? Of course he would. Screwing up her nerve, Summer reached out to gingerly place a forefinger on his arm. His flesh was cold... His hand closed around her wrist in a move so fast that Summer didn't even see it coming. One second she was touching him, and the nest she was staggering off balance, jerked her forward by a cold, dead hand. She gasped as the battered, bloody corpse came up off the embalming table at her like a vision out of Stephen King's worst nightmare. Then she shrieked. The hand licked around her wrist tightened cruelly as he spun her around and twisted her arm behind her back. A chilled, hairy forearm clamped around her neck. He was immensely strong, and his body was cold, cold. The smell of death—rotting flesh? formaldehyde?—enveloped her as he did. Another shriek ripped out of her lungs. The arm around her neck tightened with vicious purpose, cutting off sound and air in one swift clench. "Scream again and I'll break you goddamned neck," the dead man growled in her ear... |
