Mostrando resultados por autor "Anne Malcom" en Todas las categorías

Gwen Alexandra does not need a man in her life. Especially not a man who looks like Chris Hemsworth and Joe Manganiello's love child. One wearing leather, riding a Harley, and covered in tattoos. Gwen can bet every pair of her Manolos that Cade Fletcher is trouble. From the moment she meets him, the attraction sizzles between them. Gwen has a problem when it comes to attractive men in motorcycle clubs. The last one she got involved with almost killed her.

The hottest restaurant in Hell's Kitchen, run by the 'Ice Queen', Avery Hart. She is a revolutionary in the culinary world, earning Michelin Stars and feeding presidents while starving her demons at the same time. Her life is in her kitchen. Where she controls every ingredient, every sear, every plate. Kane 'The Devil' Rhodes is chaos personified. He's famous for his death-defying stunts, for his medals, for his roguish charm. The moment he sees Avery Hart, he knows what he wants. He wants her. To unravel her. Melt the ice queen. Make her his.

Beau Shaw is a Grade-A jerk. Working for him is hell. Living under his roof is worse. If it weren't for Clara, the little girl who's stolen my heart, I'd have walked away a million times over. But I can't leave her. She's given me warmth, magic, and a home I never imagined, even if I'm only the nanny. That's a fact Beau reminds me of every day. He shows me what I am—an intruder in their fragile little family. They've only just caught their breath after years of drowning, battling a disease that almost stole Clara's light.

The good girl falls for the bad boy. Can we name a bigger, or better cliché? Despite my ideas about the deep misogyny associated with this particular one, I've somehow found myself in the middle of it. Except, I'm not the good girl. I'm exceptional at playing that role. But I'm not. My secrets make sure of that. And he's not a boy. He's a man. Older than me by decades. An outlaw. A villain. A member of one of the most notorious MCs in the country. The Sons of Templar.

Nora Henderson is of the opinion that chocolate cures almost everything. Which, among a few other reasons, is why she opened her bakery in the small town of Jupiter, Maine five years ago. Nora's life is good. On the surface, at least. Underneath the frosting and the sweet décor of her bakery is a broken engagement, doubt, and anxiety spirals.

I'm not a worldly woman. I'm not cultured, well-traveled, or well educated. I'm just a housewife. A mother. I'm the woman with the handsome husband, beautiful daughter, the large house. If you saw it from the outside, you'd probably think I have the perfect life. You would most definitely be wrong. But I don't blame you. We all see what we want to see, turning a blind eye to what others want to stay hidden. Especially when it comes to love. They say love is blind. But I'm more apt to say it's wretched. Love is what made me stay. But love is also what saved me.

Living a life in darkness causes the soul to char to ash. Battling demons by turning himself into a monster is the only way he can survive...the only way he can keep a grip on sanity. That grip is precarious at best, every day is a silent battle with demons that threaten to yank him into the truest form of darkness, the abyss he'll never escape. Then it happens. Light shines through the cracks. Happiness. Mia Spencer's life is full of it. She has an amazing new job, friends, family, and the light of her life - her daughter Lexie.

Amy Abrams doesn't do love. She grew up in an Upper East Side penthouse, which had about as much affection within its tastefully decorated walls as Castle Dracula. Then it happens. Love. It comes right out of the blue and knocks her off her six-inch heels. She learns that love comes with pesky side effects such as heartbreak. Amy promises herself that she'll never open herself to that horrible feeling again. She doesn't count on an infuriating, albeit drool-worthy biker to roar into her life and ruin the plans she had of locking up her heart.

Life is counted in tiny breaths, ones that measure the length of your existence. Life stole the ability to make those breaths easy when Lily was nine years old. Turned her quiet. Made her curl into herself, and shut out a world that threatened to bury her under its weight. The end of her world is what brings him back - her biker. His chocolate eyes pierce her soul while his club tempts her with a life that she didn't know she could ever have. Especially not when she was clutching the tattered remains of her existence.

Evil doesn't exist. Neither does "good". Vampires do, though. I just happen to be one. I've cruised through the centuries managing to avoid all the wars, supernatural and human, but still going to all the best parties. I would say I avoided bloodshed, but it's kind of part of the whole "vampire" thing. I've lived on the fringes of a society that considered cruelty and sadism favorable character traits for almost 500 years. Now, I'm in the middle of a war that might just put my non-beating heart in a lot of danger.

She survived the deadliest serial killer of her generation. Or so everyone thought. No one knew how many pieces of her he took to the grave with him. She hid her scars, her nightmares. She hid everything until she couldn't. Then she ran. But Colby followed her. He'd follow her to the ends of the earth. To hell and back. Sariah knew he would. Because Colby had already wrenched her out of hell once. Because Colby loved her. Only Colby loved the girl she was before. The carefree girl she used to be. She had to show Colby that girl was gone. By any means necessary.

Calliope Derrick is in trouble. Not that she'll admit it. She'd sooner go to her grave than ask for help—especially from a man. Wall Street's wolf in heels, Calliope built an empire, shattered egos, and earned a reputation as the woman who made grown men cry in their private jets. But after a betrayal that threatens everything she's worked for, she trades skyscrapers for lighthouses and flees to Jupiter, Maine. She tells her family it's just a break. A vacation. A reset. She's lying. She's here to plot revenge. Not to fall in love.

My life is about the story. I've risked my life for it. Many times. I chase the story so I can escape having to face my own. But this one is different. This story will make my career. My life. Or it will end it. The Sons of Templar MC. The most notorious and dangerous outlaw motorcycle club in the country. And I'm going to get the scoop. Or I'll die trying.

Marrying Kip Goodman was a last resort. But she was desperate. Desperate enough to marry a man she despised. All she had to do was get through the year married to a cocky alpha male who only thought of women as notches on his bedpost.

Magnolia Grace is a horror writer, despite what the name might suggest. One of the best in the business, if you ask around. Pressure comes with that title. Expectation for the next nightmare. The next bestseller. Sickness. That's what it is. She can't be healthy. Because that means she won't write. And she hasn't been writing.

Souls are interesting things. Not something you can prove you possess. Not something that can be measured, like a heartbeat. But something that can be destroyed by the absence of a heartbeat. No, you cannot prove you possess a soul. But once that soul dies, there doesn't need to be proof that you don't have one. Once that blackened pit opens inside you, the world can see it. The world cowers from it.

This isn't a fairy tale. I'll save you the trouble by telling you that now. This is the tale of a girl who spent her life bouncing around foster homes, who had her innocence stolen in the darkness before she knew it was something that could be lost. Her demons followed her everywhere after that night. They chased her to the medical school she dropped out of, to the strip club she sold herself in, and finally caught her in a river of sin where they tried to drown her.

For decades, Janet Malcolm's books and dispatches for the New Yorker and the New York Review of Books poked and prodded at reportorial and biographical convention, gesturing toward the artifice that underpins both public and private selves. In Still Pictures, she turns her gimlet eye on her own life—a task demanding a writer just as peerlessly skillful as she was widely known to be. Still Pictures, then, is not the story of a life but an event on its own terms, an encounter with identity and family photographs as poignant and original as anything since Roland Barthes's Camera Lucida.

My life was never black and white. Heck, it wasn't even black, white and gray. Lines were not drawn between good and evil, and if they were, I would have jumped those suckers for fun. But now it was simpler. It wasn't black and white. Or gray. It was only one thing. Blood. A crimson-tinted world. That was all I needed. All I wanted. Him.

The Sons of Templar MC. I'm sure you've heard of them. They're infamous. Murderers. Criminals. Outlaws. But to me, they're family. My husband wore the cut for well over a decade. For almost as long as he wore a wedding ring. Our marriage survived wars. Deaths. Blood. The cuts were deep. And they never healed quite right. But we survived. Until we didn't. He promised me forever. And he gave it to me. His version of it, at least. Mine was longer, though. Much longer.