Determined to even the score, Lauren seeks to have her own affair. It was supposed to be a quickie, but Lauren's night of passion takes a shocking turn when she witnesses an unexpected, unbelievable, and deadly crime. Now her horrifying secret threatens to tear her life apart, pitting her need to uncover the truth against her fear that the truth may be too horrible to bear. And whichever choice she makes may cost her dearlyher job, her marriage...or even her life.
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|Publisher:||Grand Central Publishing|
|Product dimensions:||5.20(w) x 7.90(h) x 1.20(d)|
About the Author
Hometown:Palm Beach, Florida
Date of Birth:March 22, 1947
Place of Birth:Newburgh, New York
Education:B.A., Manhattan College, 1969; M.A., Vanderbilt University, 1971
Read an Excerpt
By James Patterson Michael Ledwidge
Little, Brown and CompanyCopyright © 2007 James Patterson
All right reserved.
Chapter OneI KNEW THIS WAS a really terrific idea, if I didn't say so myself, surprising Paul for lunch at his office down on Pearl Street.
I'd made a special trip into Manhattan and had put on my favorite "little black dress." I looked moderately ravishing. Nothing that would be out of place at the Mark Joseph Steakhouse, and one of Paul's favorite outfits, too, the one he usually chose if I asked him, "What should I wear to this thing, Paul?"
Anyway, I was excited, and I'd already spoken to his assistant, Jean, to make sure that he was there - though I hadn't alerted her about the surprise. Jean was Paul's assistant after all, not mine.
And then, there was Paul.
As I rounded the corner in my Mini Cooper, I saw him leaving his office building, walking with a twenty-something blonde woman.
Paul was leaning in very close to her, chatting, laughing in a way that instantly made me feel very ill.
She was one of those bright, shiny beauties you're more likely to see in Chicago or Iowa City. Tall, hair like platinum silk. Cream-colored skin that looked just about perfect from this distance. Not a wrinkle or blemish.
She wasn't completely perfect, though. She tripped a Manolo on a street plate as she and Paul were getting into a taxi, and as I watched Paul gallantly catch hold of the pink cashmere on her anorexic elbow, I felt like someone had hammered a cold chisel right into the center of my chest.
I followed them. Well, I guess followed is too polite. I stalked them.
All the way up to Midtown, I stayed on that taxi's bumper like we were connected by a tow hook. When the cab suddenly pulled up in front of the entrance to the St. Regis Hotel, on East 55th Street, and Paul and the woman stepped out smiling, I felt an impulse rush from the lizard part of my brain to my right foot, which was hovering over the accelerator. Then Paul took her arm. A picture of both of them sandwiched between the storied hotel's front steps and the hood of my baby-blue Mini flashed through my mind.
Then it was gone, and so were they, and I was left sitting there crying to the sound of the honking taxis lined up behind me.
Excerpted from The Quickie by James Patterson Michael Ledwidge Copyright © 2007 by James Patterson. Excerpted by permission.
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