(69) Eat Prey Love by Kerrelyn Sparks

 
Eat Prey Love
By: Kerrelyn Sparks

Mass Market Paperback: 384 pages 
Publisher: Avon (September 28, 2010)

Riveting, sensual and tantalizing, Eat Prey Love will leave the reader hungry for more by this delightfully talented author!

Never before have I had the extreme pleasure to read a book that so effortlessly blends sensuality, humor, fun and a bit of darkness in such a way that Kerrelyn Sparks does with her newest release, Eat Prey Love.  Literally, this book has it all; from a broken family life to vampires and shape-shifters, to laugh-out-loud moments and sizzling scenes that will leave your fingers feeling scorched, as you turn the pages.  In true honesty, I was feeling one of those dreaded reading slumps coming on.  After reading the first page of Eat Prey Love, that feeling completely flew out the door.  I began reading this book yesterday (Saturday) afternoon and finished it today (Sunday).  It is incredibly rare for me to become so engrossed within a book that the pages just soar by.  Outside distractions were not a problem with this one, at all.  The only existence that gripped me was that of Caitlyn and Carlos.

Eat Prey Love is the ninth book in Kerrelyn Sparks’ “Love at Stake” series.  Keep in mind that this is the first book that I have read by this author, so I have no knowledge of her prior books in this series nor any other.  With that being said, this was a story that felt utterly complete to me.  The characters were all incredibly developed and the storyline very tight and smooth.  I simply adored Caitlyn Whelan, the heroine of the story.  After growing up with the feeling that she was never good enough for anyone, the thought that her older sister just up and left her with no seconds thoughts, a mother who was completely detached, emotionally, from her and a father that was single-mindedly focused on work, life was not so great.  She also has the uncanny ability to communicate with animals and the ability to learn any language within a couple of hours.  It is when Caitlyn receives a birthday invitation, from her sister, Shanna, for a nephew, that she didn’t even know she had, that life takes a massive turn for her.  Not only does she meet an entirely different world consisting of vampires and shape-shifters, but she meets the to-die-for handsome Carlos Panterra.

Carlos has lost everything.  In what he refers to as “The Summer of Death”, Carlos’ tribe was slaughtered.  His mother, father, twin brother, everyone he holds dear is taken, sliced apart and burnt - the only way to truly kill a were-panther.  After saving a handful of children and taking them under his care, Carlos must find a mate to be mother to these children and to help carry on the were-panther line before it completely becomes extinct.  Little does he realize how difficult his attraction to the feisty Caitlyn will be and just how hard he will have to fight to stay away from her and continue his search. 

The sexual tension that builds between these two main characters is explosive and oh so hot.  Carlos is an incredibly desirable character, possessing sensitivity, honor, duty, strength, power and a not-be-ignored sexuality.  The pull pulsates between Caitlyn and Carlos, building up to a satisfying and climatic end.  This, blended with the banter and humor the two share is delightful.  Here is a snippet to give readers an idea of what I am talking about:

Page 132

“What’s wrong?” Carlos demanded from the hallway.

“You,” she muttered.

“ I heard that.  I have super hearing and vision.”

“Well, isn’t that just super.”  She swiped her hands along the foot of the bed.  Hadn’t she left a robe there?  “So do you have X-ray vision like Superman?  Can you see through the door?”

“No.”

She enjoyed taunting him.  He deserved it.  “What a shame.  Since I’m standing here stark naked.”  She gasped when the door crashed open.  Light spilled in from the hallway, surrounding his tall frame.  “You pervert!”

He scoffed.  “You lied.”

“You broke my door!”

“Only the lock.  The door still works.”  He flipped on the light switch close to the door frame.

“Ack!”  She covered her eyes from the sudden bright light.  “What are you doing here?”

“It’s called a job, menina.  I believe you’ve had one of those before?”

“Very funny.”  She lowered her hand and noticed he was focused on her nightie.  More than focused.  His eyes were glued to her clingy, silk leopard print nightgown.  Since she was a bit on the tall side, the baby-doll top barely skimmed the top of her thighs.  No doubt, a hint of her matching leopard print panties was showing.  And if the hot gleam in his eyes was any indication, he’s noticed.

Eat Prey Love is simply delightful and tantalizing in every way.  A pure guilty escape from the riggers and stresses of life, this is a story that will take the reader to another world and dimension.  I dare you not to lose yourself within its pages and come out with a huge smile and sigh of satisfaction!

About Eat Prey Love:

Wanted: Bride. Must love children. Mortals need not apply.

Carlos Panterra is looking for a mate, a woman who will love and care for the young orphans he's recently taken under his wing (or paw, as the case may be). When the shape shifter spies the beautiful Caitlyn, it's like sunshine amidst the darkness. At last, he's found the perfect woman, except . . .

Caitlyn Whelan is mortal. Worse, her father is the head of a CIA agency bent on hunting the undead. Still, Caitlyn knows that Carlos is the man for her, shape shifter or not. So she jumps at the chance when her sister offers her a job to work with him, determined to show Carlos their attraction is more than just animal magnetism. But danger lurks in the night, and their unleashed, untamed passion might just get them both killed . . .

Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Caitlyn had been warned never to come near this place. Gutsy or foolish, she didn’t know which category she fell into, but it was too late to worry about that now. She had arrived.
Her rental car’s headlights illuminated a smooth, black-topped driveway. Tall trees arched over the road, their skeletal branches grasping like gnarled fingers at the starlit sky. She suppressed a shudder and focused instead on the patches of bright yellow daffodils scattered over the grounds.
Looking for the positive, she would call it. Foolhardy, some might say. But when facing the unknown, she’d learned in her twenty-six years that keeping a good attitude was critical.The fact that the grounds appeared well-maintained was a good sign. And the security guard at the entrance had seemed friendly, checking her ID and welcoming her with a smile.
Think of this as an adventure. You love adventure.
Even so, her grip tightened on the steering wheel as she watched the heavy wrought-iron gate swing shut in her rearview mirror. The metallic clang echoed around the barren trees and vibrated through her bones.
She was locked in.
Dad had to be wrong. This place couldn’t be dangerous. She’d looked it up on the Internet before coming. Romatech Industries manufactured synthetic blood, then shipped it to hospitals and clinics around the world. The CEO and inventor, Roman Draganesti, was credited with saving thousands of lives every year. Who could object to that?
She proceeded down the long driveway that snaked through extensive grounds. Maybe Dad was referring to the bombing she’d read about. That had happened three years ago, though, and nothing dangerous had occurred since then. She was perfectly safe, she assured herself, as a dimly-lit, sprawling building came into view.
Neatly clipped hedges lined the wings that spread from the building’s center. Overhead lamps shone down on the dozen or so cars in the parking lot, while insects buzzed in each lamp’s halo of light. She parked her rented Camry and glanced warily at the entrance.
Dad was being overly dramatic, that was all. But why would he want to keep her away from her sister? Was he concerned that a reunion would cause her emotional distress? Caitlyn had to admit she didn’t know what to expect from a sister she hadn’t heard from in six years.
She’d been shocked when two days ago she’d received a card from her older sister. Shanna had acquired a new last name: Draganesti. Was she married to the CEO of Romatech? When had that happened? Shanna had included a photo of her son and daughter, and she’d invited Caitlyn to a birthday party for Constantine, who was turning four in late March.
Caitlyn had stared, dumbstruck, at the photo for five minutes. She hadn’t known she had a nephew and niece. Mom and Dad had never mentioned it. How could they fail to brag about their grandchildren? The invitation had arrived at the extended-stay hotel where Caitlyn had found a room after returning to the States a week earlier. How had Shanna known where she was?
The last communication she’d had from Shanna was a birthday card in July 2004. Shortly after that, Shanna disappeared without a trace. Almost a year later, Dad had announced that he’d located her. She’d been given a new identity through the Witness Protection program.
Dad had been vague on the details, only saying that she was lost to them forever. They must all stay away from a place called Romatech Industries. Shanna had changed. She could no longer be trusted. She was to be avoided at all cost.
She’s still my sister. Caitlyn had to know the truth. She climbed out of the car with her handbag and gift for Constantine. Dad would go ballistic if he knew she was here. He was already pissed by her recent fiasco. The fact that she’d made a mistake for good reasons didn’t matter. She was still screwed. Her career ruined. Blacklisted from the State Department. No job, no home, and a quickly dwindling amount in her savings account.
Coming here to see Shanna could be another mistake, but dammit, she wanted her sister back. And she’d never been one to shy away from a challenging situation. She slammed the car door to accentuate her rebellious determination, then marched toward the entrance.
She was about twenty minutes late, having made some wrong turns. She knew her way around Minsk, St. Petersburg, Bangkok, and Jakarta, but White Plains, New York, was a foreign land to her. She could hear shouts and laughter in the distance, so hopefully that meant the party was still in full swing.
Her stride slowed as a nagging question returned, one that had bothered her since she’d first opened the invitation. Who would throw a birthday party for a four-year-old at nine o’clock at night? Granted, she didn’t have any experience with raising children, but still, didn’t kids usually go to bed about that time?
She paused mid-step when the front door swung open. A column of light spilled out, framing the dark silhouette of a huge man.
“Miss Whelan?” His voice was deep and gravelly. He moved to the edge of the light and became more visible.
“Yes.” Another security guard, Caitlyn assumed, since he was well over six feet tall and looked as indestructible as an army tank. He was dressed in the same khaki pants and navy polo shirt as the man at the front gate.
“How do you do? I’m Howard Barr.” He motioned to the open door. “Come in.”
“I hope I’m not too late.” Caitlyn stepped into a wide foyer and glanced around. Potted plants, nice artwork on the walls, a gleaming marble floor...and no Shanna. No one there at all.
She swallowed hard as the huge security guard shut the door and locked it. “Shanna’s here, isn’t she?”
“Sure. The party’s in the cafeteria. I’ll take you there in just a minute.” Howard gave her an apologetic look as he stepped behind a table. “I have to check your bags first. Standard procedure, nothing personal.”
“I understand.” Caitlyn placed her bags on the table. “Is there still a problem with people bombing Romatech?”
Howard shook his head as he rummaged through the silk handbag she’d bought in Singapore. “It’s been calm lately.”
“It seems like an odd place for a child’s birthday party.”
He shrugged. “Shanna set up a nursery next to her office, so the little ones spend a lot of time here.”
“Oh.” Shanna had an office in a scientific research facility? “I thought my sister was a dentist.”
“She is. She has a dental office here.” Howard slid her red silk handbag to her with a puzzled look. “You didn’t know that?”
“No. I’ve been out of the country and...out of touch. I didn’t know she had children or that she was even married until I received the invitation to this party. Her husband is Roman Draganesti?”
“Yes.” Howard frowned as he plunged his large beefy hands into the gift bag. “I can’t believe you didn’t know.”
Caitlyn winced. The blue and red crepe paper she’d carefully arranged was being crushed. “For some reason, my dad never told me.”
Howard’s fists tightened, smushing the crepe paper even more. “That...sorry. I guess I might as well tell you. Your dad’s not very popular around here.”
“He doesn’t seem very fond of you guys either.”
Howard grunted and pulled out the fire engine she’d bought for Constantine. “This is cool. I had one of these when I was a kid.”
He was changing the subject, as if she wouldn’t notice. “Do you think Constantine will like it? I didn’t know what to buy for him.” She’d bought all sorts of stuff--a book, a DVD, a dinosaur, and the fire engine--hoping that if she hit all the bases, one would result in a homerun.
“Yeah, he’ll love this stuff.” Howard jammed the fire engine back into the gift bag, then frowned at the mangled crepe paper. He attempted to fluff it up but only succeeded in ripping the paper. “Damn. I’m just making it worse. Mom always said I was a bear in a china shop.”
“I thought that was a bull.”
He grunted and slid the present back to her. “Sorry.”
Her beautifully packed gift bag looked like it had been mauled by a grizzly. Howard seemed genuinely embarrassed, so she gave him a friendly smile. “Don’t worry about it. I doubt a four-year-old boy cares about aesthetics. It’s what’s inside that really counts.”
He nodded, clearly relieved. “I’m glad you feel that way. You...may need to remind yourself of that before the night’s over.”
Was that some kind of warning? Caitlyn slipped the long strap of her handbag over her head and shoulder, grabbed the gift bag, and followed the security guard to the end of the long foyer. They passed through a set of double doors, then entered a long hallway, lined on one side with windows. A courtyard and garden was visible through the glass.
On the other side of the courtyard, she could see the cafeteria through another wall of glass. It was well-lit with colorful balloons gathered in bunches and obstructing her view of the people inside.
Howard led her to the right, then turned left into an intersecting passageway that linked the first wing to the second. The hallway continued, lined on both sides with glass. Not soundproof, for she could hear shouts and laughter from outside. She slowed, glancing out the windows on the left.
Off in the distance, past the cafeteria, she spotted a basketball court. It was brightly lit and currently filled with players.
“They’ve got quite a game going on.” Howard paused beside her to watch. “Roman had that court put in last summer, but it’s usually just him, Tino, and Phineas playing. Tino was excited about having enough guys at the party for two full teams.”
“You mean Constantine is playing?” Caitlyn stepped closer to the glass. As far as she could tell, all the players were grown men and teenage boys.
“That’s Phineas there, doing a slam dunk.” Howard motioned to the left end of the court.
Caitlyn smiled as the young man celebrated with an exuberant rendition of a chicken dance. The guys were obviously having a great time, but as big and athletic as they all looked, she was worried they would run over her young nephew. She searched the court for a little boy, then halted, her gaze fixated on the most glorious representative of manhood she’d ever seen.
Smooth and stealthy, she thought, as the man ran down the court. He glided with such effortless grace it was like he was standing still and the earth was doing the moving. His shoulder-length black hair blew back, revealing a classic profile—straight nose, sharp cheekbones, strong jaw.
Time seemed to slow as her vision sharpened, taking in every detail. She detected some sort of tattoo along his neck. His jaw was shaded with a hint of dark whiskers. A glint of gold gleamed on his earlobe. An earring. Exotic. Dangerous. So very masculine.
A big redheaded man moved into his path to block him, but he dipped around his opponent with ease and kept going. So graceful, and yet so strong. He reached the free throw line and leaped into the air, twisting to catch the basketball hurled in his direction, then rotating in the air to neatly deposit the ball through the hoop.
Howard snorted. “Show-off.”
The man landed lightly on his feet as his team shouted in celebration. He grinned.
And Caitlyn was lost.
She slowly became aware that Howard was nudging her. “There’s Tino. Do you see him?”
What? Who? She pressed a palm against the glass, surprised to find herself light-headed. She inhaled sharply. Sheesh. The man had smiled, and she’d forgotten to breathe. Forgotten to think. She’d slipped into some sort of trance.
Temporary insanity. That had to be it, ’cause the man was definitely not her type. She’d always dated the clean-cut, shirt and tie, neatly combed hair, corner office type of guy. Intellectual and predictable. Easily managed and easily forgotten when the lure of adventure called. And it always did.
Caitlyn had never been able to resist the exotic. Exotic languages, foreign locales. It was the reason she’d joined the State Department. She’d worked all over the world, and she thrived on the excitement. But even though she’d put her physical self in stressful situations, she’d never done that with her heart. When it came to relationships, she’d always played it safe.
This man was dangerous. She could feel it in her bones. He could slide right under a woman’s skin and take hold of her heart. If she had any sense, she’d stay away from him. Unfortunately, her sense was in question. She’d been warned to stay away from Romatech, yet here she was.
She took another deep breath and eased her grip on the gift bag. She’d been clutching it so tightly, the handles had dug into her palm.
“There’s Tino. By the other goal.” Howard pointed.
She spotted her nephew for the first time and smiled. He was even more adorable than he’d looked in the photo. Blond curls and an angelic sweet face. Her earlier concern rushed back. “He’s too little to play with adults. They’ll run him over.”
Howard chuckled. “Tino can hold his own. He has...special skills.”
Skills? What kind of skills could a boy have to help him compete with guys over twice his size? And who was the mystery man who’d made her forget space and time?
“Come on. I’ll take you to Shanna.” Howard headed down the hall to a set of double doors.
Caitlyn followed slowly, peering out the window to make sure her nephew wasn’t being trampled. The gorgeous mystery man was playing defense now, guarding the big redheaded guy who had possession of the ball.
Constantine was still stationed underneath the goal. The redheaded guy tossed the ball to him, and he caught it. The other players ran toward him, and Caitlyn slowed to a stop, worried for his safety.
He jumped.
Howard grabbed her arm. “Come on, let’s go.”
Her jaw dropped as Constantine’s jump went higher and higher. “What the...?”
“Come on.” Howard tugged, managing to make her stumble a few steps. “Shanna wants to see you.”
Caitlyn’s heart raced. Her nephew was now as high as the goal, and he easily dropped the ball through the hoop. His team cheered as he landed on the cement.
She gave Howard an incredulous look. “Did you see that? He just jumped ten feet in the air!”
“Well, yeah. I told you he has some special skills.”
“Like what? Flying?” She glanced out the window again. The guys were playing in a normal manner now, as if nothing strange had just happened.
A chill tickled the back of her neck. This was too weird. “Is this related to the reason my dad told me never to come here?”
Howard winced. “Please don’t tell your father what you saw. He might reject Tino, and it would break the little guy’s heart. Tino’s a great kid--”
“Who can fly?”
Howard frowned as he opened the door. “It’s not my place to say. Shanna will explain it to you.”
Caitlyn glanced inside at the cheerful balloons and happy people. The chill on her neck skittered down her spine. It’s just a birthday party for a little boy. No big deal. Then why did it feel like she was about to tumble down the rabbit hole?
It’s an adventure. You love adventure. She squared her shoulders and strode into the cafeteria.

About Kerrelyn Sparks:

Kerrelyn Sparks’ first paranormal romance, How to Marry a Millionaire Vampire, zoomed out of the bat cave so fast it became Borders bestselling debut romance of 2005.   Each book in the Love at Stake series has become a USAToday bestseller.  When the fourth book, The Undead Next Door, landed on the New York Times bestseller list, even the Undead sat up and took notice, which made Kerrelyn a bit nervous. She lives in the Greater Houston area with her husband, children, and a house full of garlic.  So far, there are no vampires in her family. Werewolves are another matter entirely.

You may email Kerrelyn by using the link on the sidebar. She would love to hear from you!  Most email will receive a response, except on the night of a full moon.

You may write to Kerrelyn at P.O. Box 5512, Katy, TX 77491-5512.  If you are requesting signed bookplates or bookmarks, please include a SASE (self-addressed, stamped envelope).  Please do not send book ideas or manuscript pages.   If you are an aspiring writer, please check the FAQ page.  And if you wish to chat with Kerrelyn and other readers, please check out the Forum in the Vampire World.  If you’d like to receive news and updates, please subscribe to Kerrelyn’s newsletter at KerrelynSparksNews-subscribe@yahoogroups.com.  Be sure to visit Kerrelyn's website

For the love of Scholastic!

Growing up, one of the highlights of school was the Scholastic Book Orders, going through, picking out a few books and when the teacher handed me that rubber banded package, a happy thrill would race through me - yes, I have been a book geek since day one, lol.  Now with my children, I still get that happy little thrill when they bring book orders home and then when the books arrive.  With this in mind, my four-year-old, Zach, just brought home his first batch and I thought I would share our goodies.  So far, my daughter Hannah's third grade class hasn't had any book orders, but hopefully that will change soon!

This month's Scholastic haul was:

 
The Haunted Ghoul Bus by Lisa Trumbauer

Of course children know about the big yellow school bus…but have they ever heard about the haunted ghoul bus? It’s wilder and way cooler, with a Mutant Mummy driver and a menagerie of monster passengers. But one Halloween
day someone else gets on board by mistake: a normal little boy. Soon he’s taking a ride with a furry werewolf, a skeleton whose rickety bones go clitter-clatter, a grinning pumpkin head, a swirl of bats, and a friendly witch named Dolores. 

Told in fun and appealing rhyme, and featuring holiday-bright illustrations of a cast of unforgettable characters, this playful picture book has sturdy cardstock pages and embossing throughout. It’s perfect for celebrating a (not too) scary Halloween.

Kids will want the ghoul bus to come to their neighborhood, too!

* Our thoughts: This has the cutest illustrations - so eye-catching and fun with great text to match!

 
There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed Some Leaves by Lucille Colandro

That wild old lady is back swallowing fall-themed items. What can you make from leaves, clothes, a pumpkin, and rope? That's right, a scarecrow!
Perfect for back-to-school time.

*Our thoughts: We love all of the "There Was an Old Lady" themed books and have them all.  This one is tons of fun as well with that silly old lady swallowing leaves, pants, shirts, a pole, etc. Can you guess what she sneezes out?!


Scooby-Doo and the Cupcake Caper

Ruh-roh! It's Halloween, and a creepy chef has spoiled all the cupcakes at the school'a bake sale. This is one case Scooby and Shaggy can't wait to sink their teeth into! Can the gang track down the bake-sale bandit in time to save Halloween?

*Our thoughts: We, of course, love everything Scooby-Doo and this is no exception.  My son had me read this right away and he loves it!  Full of ooey gooey fun!


 
Curious George Visit the Library by Margret and H.A. Rey

George is lucky to arrive at the library just in time for story hour. But it"s not easy for a little monkey to sit still too long. From selecting books to getting his very own library card, George"s day at the library makes reading fun.

*Our thoughts: That crazy monkey never fails to bring a smile and we have tons of fun visiting the library with George!


David Goes to School by David Shannon

He's b-a-a-a-c-k! And better than ever. The rascal first unleashed in No, David! returns to wreak havoc in the classroom. Whether he's goofing off at the blackboard ("Sit down, David!"), cutting in line at the cafeteria ("Wait your turn, David!") or drawing on his desktop ("That's it, Mister! You're staying after school!"), David is clearly a handful. But when his teacher gives him a chance to redeem himself by cleaning the desks at the end of the day, he rises to the occasion ("Good job, David!") and receives a gold star. Shannon foreshadows trouble right from the title page: the teacher stands in front of her desk, feet firmly planted, arms crossed and looming so large that her shoulders, neck and head don't make it onto the page. As in the previous book, the adult voice provides the text, but her person is confined to the periphery of the action. David, meanwhile, with his round head, triangle nose and wide grin of pointy teeth, is the pinnacle of boisterous boy-energy. His antics take center stage visually while his teacher's words act as the perfect foil for each spread. After David cuts the cafeteria line, for example, the next illustration shows food splattered all over the walls, floor, David and the boy who was formerly at the front of the line; the two boys point at each other and the text reads, "I don't care who started it." The exaggerated shapes and slightly cartoonish poses of an array of students in all-too-familiar situations will have youngsters crowding together over the book at recess. Ages 3-up. (Sept.)
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.

*Our thoughts: I fell in love with David when I read my daughter the No David book and this series has been a favorite in our home.  With simple text and eye-catching illustrations, my kids and I love to follow along with David as he goes to school!

 
Wee Sing for Halloween by Pamela Conn Beall and Susan Hagen Nipp

Halloween is a delightful time for children. With everything from spooky songs, silly songs, and pumpkin songs, to fingerplays, circle games, and even tasty recipes, here is the perfect collection to help with the Halloween festivities.

*Our thoughts: Finger plays are so much fun and such a great way to interact with your children and just have fun.  This is such an excellent collection of songs, finger plays, recipes and so much more.  We love it and it will be popped into our car stereo for a bit of sing-along fun as we travel to town and back.  The illustrations in the book are also adorable and fun!

For my daughter, the animal lover, I picked up (yes, my son's teacher is a doll and send out several of the Scholastic level book orders, so there is something for everyone! lol):

 
Max the Missing Puppy by Holly Webb

Molly is over the moon when she's given Max, a gorgeous Old English Sheepdog puppy, and soon the two are inseparable. Max pines for Molly when she's at school, and longs for her to come home and play, so when he spies an open window one day he sets off to find her.But the world is a scary place for a puppy on his own and soon Max is alone and in danger. Will he ever be reunited with Molly...?



Sky the Unwanted Kitten by Holly Webb

Olivia's very unhappy about moving house and leaving all her friends behind, not to mention next door's two lovely cats. But her parents have a surprise that they hope will cheer her up...a beautiful Siamese kitten.The kitten is adorable with huge blue eyes but Olivia insists she doesn't want a cat and Sky is left all alone...surely Olivia won't be able to resist for long?

(68) I'd Know You Anywhere by Laura Lippman

I'd Know You Anywhere
By: Laura Lippman

Hardcover: 384 pages 
Publisher: William Morrow (August 17, 2010)

*copy provided by publisher for review on TLC Book Tours

Amazing, beyond comparison.  I am a huge fan of psychological thrillers and Laura Lippman delivers one that will keep the reader gripping pages until the very end with her latest release, I'd Know You Anywhere.  With a wonderful rich smoothness, Ms. Lippman brings her characters to life and delves into a horrific and terrifying subject matter.   Child abduction, rape, murder and mind games, all woven together to create an unforgettable story that is every parent's nightmare.

When Eliza Benedict was abducted at the tender age of fifteen by a young man, Walter Bowman, her life was hanging by a thread.  After managing to be "the one that got away", Eliza is forced to change her name and make an attempt at a normal life.  Now married with two wonderful young daughters of her own, Bowman takes it upon himself to contact Eliza, asking Eliza for forgiveness before he is put to death.  Exactly how Bowman found her, down to her address, is a terrifying pondering.  Her worst nightmare brought back to the surface as she is questioned whether what is in her mind is the truth, or just a spin of the truth.

Told in alternating settings of time - between the present and that of 1985, when the abduction took place, the transitions are smooth and tell the story incredibly well.  Laura Lippman has such a melodic prose that it is rather amazing how she is able to bring such a horrific and mind-bending story together is such a lovely way.

Though this is my first by this author, it will most certainly not be my last.  I found Ms. Lippman's writing style to be addicting and gripping.  Her characters told in such a way that I was able to feel a connection to them, rather than feeling as though I was just watching a wisp of shadow go by.  Laura Lippman definitely entertains and satisfies in I'd Know You Anywhere and I would highly recommend this to anyone looking for a truly enthralling read!

*overall rating 4.5/5

About I'd Know You Anywhere:

Eliza Benedict cherishes her peaceful, ordinary suburban life with her successful husband and children, thirteen-year-old Iso and eight-year-old Albie. But her tranquillity is shattered when she receives a letter from the last person she ever expects—or wants—to hear from: Walter Bowman. There was your photo, in a magazine. Of course, you are older now. Still, I’d know you anywhere.

In the summer of 1985, when she was fifteen, Eliza was kidnapped by Walter and held hostage for almost six weeks. He had killed at least one girl and Eliza always suspected he had other victims as well. Now on death row in Virginia for the rape and murder of his final victim, Walter seems to be making a heartfelt act of contrition as his execution nears. Though Eliza wants nothing to do with him, she’s never forgotten that Walter was most unpredictable when ignored. Desperate to shelter her children from this undisclosed trauma in her past, she cautiously makes contact with Walter. She’s always wondered why Walter let her live, and perhaps now he’ll tell her—and share the truth about his other victims.

Yet as Walter presses her for more and deeper contact, it becomes clear that he is after something greater than forgiveness. He wants Eliza to remember what really happened that long-ago summer. He wants her to save his life. And Eliza, who has worked hard for her comfortable, cocooned life, will do anything to protect it—even if it means finally facing the events of that horrifying summer and the terrible truth she’s kept buried inside.

An edgy, utterly gripping tale of psychological manipulation that will leave readers racing to the final page, I’d Know You Anywhere is a virtuoso performance from acclaimed, award-winning author Laura Lippman that is sure to be her biggest hit yet.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

“Iso, time for—”

Eliza Benedict paused at the foot of the stairs. Time for what, exactly? All summer long—it was now August—Eliza had been having trouble finding the right words. Not complicated ones, the things required to express strong emotions or abstract concepts, make difficult confessions to loved ones. She groped for the simplest words imaginable, everyday nouns. She was only thirtyeight. What would her mind be like at fifty, at seventy? Yet her own mother was sharp as a tack at the age of seventy-seven.

No, this was clearly a temporary, transitional problem, a consequence of the family’s return to the States after six years in England. Ironic, because Eliza had scrupulously avoided Briticisms while living there;she thought Americans who availed themselves of local slang were pretentious. Yet home again, she couldn’t get such words— lift, lorry, quid, loo—out of her head, her mouth. The result was that she was often tongue-tied, as she was now. Not at a loss for words, as the saying would have it, but overwhelmed with words, weighed down with words, drowning in them. She started over, projecting her voice up the stairs without actually yelling, a technique in which she took great pride. “Iso, time for football camp.”

“Soccer,” her daughter replied in a muffled, yet clearly scornful voice, her default tone since turning thirteen seven months ago. There was a series of slamming and banging noises, drawers and doors, and when she spoke again, Iso’s voice was clearer. (Where had her head been just moments ago, in the laundry hamper, inside her jersey, in the toilet? Eliza had a lot of fears, so far unfounded, about eating disorders.) “Why is it that you called it soccer when everyone else said football, and now you say football when you know it’s supposed to be soccer?”

At least I remembered to call you Iso.

“It’s your camp and you’re the one who hates to be late.”

“Football is better,” said Albie, hovering at Eliza’s elbow. Just turned eight, he was still young enough to enjoy being by—and on—Eliza’s side.

“Better as a word, or better as a sport?”

“As a word, for soccer,” he said. “It’s closer to being right. Because it’s mainly feet, and sometimes heads. And hands, for the goalie. While American football is more hands than feet—they don’t kick it so much. They throw and carry it.”

“Which do you like better, as a sport?”

“Soccer for playing, American football for watching.” Albie, to Eliza’s knowledge, had never seen a single minute of American football. But he believed that affection should be apportioned evenly. At dinner, Albie tried to eat so that he finished all his food at about the same time, lest his peas suspect that he preferred his chicken.

Isobel—Iso—clattered down the stairs, defiant in her spikes, which she wasn’t supposed to wear in the house. At least she was ready, in full uniform, her hair in a French braid, which she had somehow managed to do herself. Eliza couldn’t help raising a hand to her own head of messy red curls, wondering anew how she had given birth to this leggy creature with her sleek hair and sleek limbs and sleek social instincts. Isobel had her father’s coloring— the olive skin and dark hair—but otherwise could have been a lanky changeling.

“Are we snack family today?” she asked, imperious as a duchess.

“No—”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes —”

“It would be horrible to forget,” Iso said.

“Horrible?” Eliza echoed, trying not to smile.

“Almost as bad as the first time we were snack family and you brought that disgusting jerky.”

“Biltong from Daddy’s trip to South Africa,” Albie said, dreamy with remembering. “I liked it.”

“You would,” his sister said.

“Don’t squabble,” Eliza said.

“I don’t.” Albie was not only keen to be fair, but accurate. His sister was the instigator in almost all their disagreements. Iso rolled her eyes.

They never used to fight, even in this one-sided fashion. They had been close, if only because Albie worshipped Iso, and Iso enjoyed being worshipped. But when they left London, Iso decided she had no use for Albie’s adulation. To Eliza’s dismay, she appeared to have conducted a ruthless inventory of her life, jettisoning everything that threatened her newly invented self, from her little brother to the last syllable of her name, that innocuous and lovely “bel.” (“Iso?” Peter had said. “ People will think it’s short for Isotope. Shouldn’t it be Izzo?” Iso had rolled her eyes.) A freckled, redheaded little brother—prone to nightmares and odd pronouncements, not English, but not quite American again, not yet—did not fit Iso’s new image. Nor did her mother, but Eliza expected no less. It was the slights against Albie that she found unbearable.

“Did you remember our chairs?” Albie asked his mother.

“They’re in the—” She stopped herself from saying boot.

“Trunk.”

Iso was not appeased. “It’s not a trunk. It’s a luggage compartment.”

Eliza hustled the children into the car, a Subaru Forester in which she already spent much of her days, and would probably spend even more hours once school started.

At 8:30 a.m., the day was already hot; Eliza wondered if the camp would cancel, after all. There was some sort of formula, involving temperature, humidity, and air quality, that mandated the suspension of outdoor activities. Other mothers probably checked the Internet, or had an alert programmed into their mobiles—cell phones—but Eliza had long ago accepted that she was never going to be that kind of a mother.

Besides, this was a private camp, and a very macho one, with serious aspirations and a pronounced Anglophilia. Iso’s six years in London provided her great cachet, and she pretended to a much grander knowledge of UK soccer than she had acquired while living there. Eliza had marveled at how she did it: a few sessions at the computer, reading the UK newspapers and Wikipedia, and Iso could pass herself off as quite the expert, chatting about Manchester United and Arsenal, professing to be a fan of Tottenham Hotspurs, which she breezily called the Spurs. Eliza was torn between admiration and disapproval for her daughter’s social ambitions, not to mention her ability to execute them. She tried to tell herself that Iso’s adaptability would keep her safe in this world, yet she worried far more about calculating Iso than she did about trusting Albie. Cynics fooled themselves into thinking they had sussed out the worst-case scenarios and were invariably surprised by how life trumped them. Dreamers were often disappointed—but seldom in themselves. Eliza had installed spyware on the computer and monitored Iso’s IM sessions, which appeared benign enough. Now Iso was pushing for her own phone, but Eliza wasn’t sure if she could track text messages. She would have to seek the advice of other mothers—assuming she eventually made friends with any.

On the shade-deprived field, she set up the portable camp chairs, casting a covetous glance at the in-the-know mothers who had umbrellas attached to their chairs or, in the case of one superprepared type, a portable canopy. Eliza wished she had known, back in June, that such things existed, but she probably wouldn’t have availed herself of them anyway. She had felt decadent enough purchasing chairs with little mesh cup holders. She and Albie settled in under the unforgiving sun, Albie reading, with
no sense of self-consciousness, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Eliza pretending to follow Iso’s progress through the drills. She was actually eavesdropping. Although the other mothers—and it was all mothers, with the exception of one laid-off father who inhabited his Mr. Mom role with a little too much gusto for Eliza’s taste—were kind, they had quickly ascertained that Eliza’s children were not attending the same schools as theirs, which apparently meant there was no reason to befriend her.

“—on the sex offenders list.”

What? Eliza willed the other ambient noises to fall away and honed in on this one conversation.

“Really?”

“I signed up for telephone notification with the county. The guy lives five doors down from us.”

“Child sex offender or just regular sex offender?”

“Child, third degree. I looked him up on the state’s site.”

“What does that mean, third degree?”

“I don’t know. But any degree has to be bad news.”

“And he’s in Chevy Chase?”

Long pause. “Well, we do have a Chevy Chase mailing address.”

Eliza smiled to herself. She knew from her family’s own real estate search how people
fudged certain a dresses, that even within this very desirable county, one of the richest in the United States, there were hierarchies upon hierarchies. Which was worse: having a child sex offender on your block, or admitting you didn’t live in Chevy Chase proper? The Benedicts lived in Bethesda, and Peter had made sure there wasn’t a sex offender, child or adult, within a six-block radius, although one of their neighbors, a sixtyyear-old civil service employee, had been picked up for soliciting in a bathroom at the Smithsonian.

The game done—Iso won it for her team on a penalty kick, a victory she carried lightly, gracefully—the Benedicts got back into the car and headed into the long, endless summer day. The heat was pronounced now; it would reach into the upper nineties for the third day in a row, and the lack of trees in this raw, new development made it feel even hotter. That was one thing Eliza loved unreservedly about their new house, the greenness of the neighborhood. Full of mature shade trees, it felt five to ten degrees cooler than the business district along nearby Wisconsin Avenue. It reminded Eliza of Roaring Springs, the revitalized Baltimore mill village where she had grown up, which backed up to a state park. Her family didn’t even have air-conditioning, only a series of window fans, yet it was always cool enough to sleep back then. Then again, her memory might be exaggerating. Roaring Springs had taken on a slightly mythic air in the Lerner folklore. It was to them what Moscow had been to Chekhov’s three sisters. No, Moscow was a place where the sisters were always intending to go, whereas Roaring Springs was the place that the Lerners were forced to leave, through no fault of their own.

Eliza stopped at Trader Joe’s, which the children considered a treat in the way the “real” grocery store was not. She let them pick out one snack each while she roamed the aisles, bemused by the store’s arbitrary offerings, the way things came and went without explanation. At summer’s beginning, she and Albie had discovered the loveliest ginger cookies, large and soft, but they had never appeared again, and it seemed wrong, somehow, to inquire after them. “It must be a relief,” the wives of Peter’s new coworkers had said upon meeting her, “to have real grocery stores again.” American attitudes about England seemed to have gelled circa 1974, at least among those who hadn’t traveled there. The wives assumed her life abroad had been one of cold deprivation, huddling next to an inadequate space heater while being force-fed kidney pie and black puddings.

Yet the same Americans who believed that England was a land of material deprivation gave the UK too much credit for culture, assuming it was nothing but Shakespeare and the BBC. Eliza had found it even more celebrity-obsessed than the US. Germaine Greer had appeared on Big Brother during their time there, and it had depressed Eliza beyond reason. But then all television, the omnipresence of screens in modern life, depressed her. She hated the way her children, and even her husband, froze in their tracks, instantly hypnotized by a television or a computer.

“Some people,” Albie announced from the backseat, “have DVD players in their cars.”

He had an eerie knack for picking up Eliza’s wavelength at times, as if her brain were a radio whose dial he could spin and tune. His voice was sweet, wondering, sharing a fun fact, nothing more. Yet he had made the same point once or twice every week since they had bought the new car.

“You’d throw up,” Iso said. “You get motion sick reading.” Said as if the very act of reading was suspect.

“I don’t think I will here,” he said. “That was just in England.”

For Albie, England was synonymous with being a little boy, and he had decided that whatever troubled him there had been left behind, that it was all past. No more nightmares, he had decreed, and just like that, they were over, or else he was doing a good job of white-knuckling his way to morning. A picky eater, he also had decided to reinvent himself as an adventurous one. Today, he had chosen chili-pepper cashews as his treat. Eliza had a hunch he wouldn’t like them much, but the rule was that the children could select whatever they wanted, no recriminations, even if the food went to waste. What was the point of giving children freedom to experiment and fail, if one then turned it all into a tiresome object lesson? When Albie picked a snack that was, for him, inedible, Eliza sympathized and offered to substitute something from the nearby convenience store. Iso, meanwhile, stuck to the tried-andtrue, almost babyish snacks like Pirate’s Booty and frogurt. Iso was a thirty-five-year-old divorcée in her head, a three-year-old in her stomach.

Yet—mirabile dictu—Albie liked the cashews. After lunch, he put them in a bowl and carried them out to the family room with his “cocktail,” a mix of Hawaiian Punch and seltzer. Peter had entertained a lot in his former job, and Eliza worried that London’s more liquid culture had made too vivid an impression on her son.

But it was clearly the ceremony, the visuals, that excited him—the bright colors of the drinks, the tiny dishes of finger food. Eliza could stomach very little alcohol. It was one of those changes that had arrived during pregnancy and never went away. Pregnancy had also changed her body, but for the better. Bony and waistless into her twenties, she had developed a flattering lushness after
Iso’s birth, at once curvy and compact.

The only person who disapproved of Eliza’s body was Iso, who modeled herself on, well, models. Specifically, the wannabe models on a dreadful television show, an American one that had been inexplicably popular in England. Iso’s sole complaint about the relocation to the States was that the show was a year ahead here and therefore a season had been “spoiled” for her. “They give away the winner in the opening credits!” she wailed. Yet she watched the reruns, which appeared to be on virtually every day, indifferent to the fact that she knew the outcome. She was watching an episode now while Albie stealthily tried to close the distance between them, advancing inch by inch along the carpet.

“Stop breathing so loud,” Iso said.

“Loudly,” Eliza corrected.

The afternoon stretched before them, inert yet somehow demanding, like a guest who had shown up with a suitcase full of dirty laundry. Eliza felt they should do something constructive, but Iso refused the offer of shopping for school clothes, and Peter had asked that they hold off the annual trip to Staples until this weekend. Peter loved shopping for school supplies, if only because it allowed him to perform his own version of the commercial, the one in which the parent danced ecstatically to “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” (Peter could get away with things that Iso would never permit Eliza to do.) The Benedicts didn’t belong to the local pool, which had a cap on memberships, and it was too hot to do anything else outdoors. Eliza got out drawing supplies and asked the children to sketch ideas for their rooms, promising that they could paint the walls whatever colors they desired, pick out new furniture at Ikea. Iso pretended to be bored but eventually began using the computer to research various beds, and Eliza was impressed by her daughter’s taste, which ran toward simple things. Albie produced a gorgeous jungle forest of a room, filled with dinosaurs, his current passion. Probably not reproducible, at Ikea or any other store, but it was a striking feat of the imagination. She praised them both, gave them Popsicles, indulged in a cherry one herself. Perhaps they should save the sticks for some future project? Even before Peter had taken a job at an environmentally conscious investment firm, the Benedicts had been dutiful recyclers.

Mail clattered through the slot, a jolt of excitement on this long, stifling afternoon. “I’ll get it!” Albie screamed, not that he had any competition. A mere six months ago, his sister had scrapped with him over an endless list of privileges, invoking primogeniture. Fetching the mail, having first choice of muffin at breakfast, answering the phone, pushing elevator buttons. She was beyond all that now.

Albie sorted the mail on the kitchen counter. “Daddy, bill, junk, catalog. Daddy, junk. Junk. Junk. Daddy. Mommy! A real letter.”

A real letter? Who would write her a real letter? Who wrote anyone real letters? Her sister, Vonnie, was given to revisiting old grudges, but those missives usually went to their parents via e-mail. Eliza studied the plain white envelope, from a PO box in Baltimore. Did she even know anyone in Baltimore anymore? The handwriting, in purple ink, was meticulous enough to be machine-created. Probably junk mail masquerading as a real letter, a sleazy trick.

But, no, this one was quite authentic, a sheaf of loose-leaf paper and a cutting from a glossy magazine, a photo of Peter and Elizabeth at a party for Peter’s work earlier this summer. The handwriting was fussy and feminine, unknown to her, yet the tone was immediately, insistently intimate.

Dear Elizabeth,

I’m sure this is a shock, although that’s not my intention, to shock you. Up until a few weeks ago, I never thought I would have any communication with you at all and accepted that as fair. That’s how it’s been for more than twenty years now. But it’s hard to ignore signs when they are right there in front of your face, and there was your photo, in Washingtonian magazine, not the usual thing I read, but you’d be surprised by my choice of reading material these days. Of course, you are older, a woman now. You’ve been a woman for a while, obviously. Still, I’d know you anywhere.

“Who’s it from, Mommy?” Albie asked, and even Iso seemed mildly interested in this oddity, a letter to her mother, a person whose name appeared mostly on catalogs and reminders from the dentist. Could they see her hands shaking, notice the cold sweat on her brow? Eliza wanted to crumple the letter in her fist, heave it away from her, but that would only excite their curiosity.

“Someone I knew when I was growing up.”

It looks as if they’ll finally get around to completing my sentence soon. I’m not trying to avoid saying the big words—death, execution, what have you—just being very specific. It is my sentence, after all. I was sentenced to die and I am at peace with that.

I thought I was at peace across the board, but then I saw your photo. And, odd as it might seem to some, I feel it’s you that I owe the greatest apology, that you’re the person I never made amends to, the crime I was never called into account for. I’m sure others feel differently, but they’ll see me dead soon enough and then they will be happy, or so they think. I also accept that you might not be that interested in hearing from me and, in fact, I have engaged in a little subterfuge to get this letter to you, via a sympathetic third party, a person I absolutely trust. This is her handwriting, not mine, in case you care, and by sending it via her, I have avoided the problem of prying eyes, as much for your protection as for mine. But I can’t help being curious about your life, which must be pretty nice, if your husband has the kind of job that leads to being photographed at the kind of parties that end up in Washingtonian, with him in a tux and you in an evening dress. You look very different, yet the same, if that makes any sense. I’m proud of you, Elizabeth, and would love to hear from you. Sooner rather than later, ha-ha!

Yours, Walter

And then—just in case she didn’t remember the full name of the man who had kidnapped her the summer she was fifteen and held her hostage for almost six weeks, just in case she might have another acquaintance on death row, just in case she had forgotten the man who had killed at least two other girls and was suspected of killing many others, yet let her live, just in case all of this might have slipped her mind—he added helpfully:

(Walter Bowman)

I'd Know You Anywhere © by Laura LIppman

About Laura Lippman:

Laura Lippman grew up in Baltimore and returned to her hometown in 1989 to work as a journalist. After writing seven books while still a full-time reporter, she left the Baltimore Sun to focus on fiction. The author of two New York Times bestsellers, What the Dead Know and Another Thing to Fall, she has won numerous awards for her work, including the Edgar, Quill, Anthony, Nero Wolfe, Agatha, Gumshoe, Barry, and Macavity.

I’d Know You Anywhere is Laura Lippman’s 18th book.

To learn more about Laura’s work, visit her website or connect with her on Facebook.


*Please be sure to visit these other outstanding blogs also on tour:


Tuesday, August 24th: red headed book child
Wednesday, August 25th: Shhh I’m Reading
Thursday, August 26th: Staircase Wit
Monday, August 30th: A Bookworm’s World
Tuesday, August 31st: Thoughts From an Evil Overlord
Thursday, September 2nd: Bibliofreak
Tuesday, September 7th: Proud Book Nerd
Wednesday, September 8th: Books and Movies
Thursday, September 9th: Wordsmithonia
Monday, September 13th: Raging Bibliomania
Tuesday, September 14th: Lesa’s Book Critques
Thursday, September 16th: she reads and reads
Monday, September 20th: My Random Acts of Reading
Tuesday, September 21st: Jen’s Book Thoughts
Wednesday, September 22nd: nomadreader
Thursday, September 23rd: Book Chatter
Monday, September 27th: In the Next Room
Thursday, September 30th: Café of Dreams

Wishing Wednesday

Wishing Wednesday is a day that I love to share books that are on my wish list.  Understand, my wish list is the the size of Mount Everest, as I am sure that many of yours is as well, lol.  Anyone who wants to join me in Wishing Wednesday, please feel free to do so!  I would love to hear what you are wishing for!! 

 

 

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"I've struck it!" Mark Twain wrote in a 1904 letter to a friend. "And I will give it away--to you. You will never know how much enjoyment you have lost until you get to dictating your autobiography." Thus, after dozens of false starts and hundreds of pages, Twain embarked on his "Final (and Right) Plan" for telling the story of his life. His innovative notion--to "talk only about the thing which interests you for the moment"--meant that his thoughts could range freely. The strict instruction that many of these texts remain unpublished for 100 years meant that when they came out, he would be "dead, and unaware, and indifferent," and that he was therefore free to speak his "whole frank mind." The year 2010 marks the 100th anniversary of Twain's death. In celebration of this important milestone and in honor of the cherished tradition of publishing Mark Twain's works, UC Press is proud to offer for the first time Mark Twain's uncensored autobiography in its entirety and exactly as he left it. This major literary event brings to readers, admirers, and scholars the first of three volumes and presents Mark Twain's authentic and unsuppressed voice, brimming with humor, ideas, and opinions, and speaking clearly from the grave as he intended. 


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