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Product Details
Publisher: Island Books
Release date: November 10, 1997
Language: English
Shipping Weight: 7.2 ounces
Number of Pages: 448 pages
ISBN-10: 0440224640 ...
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Product Description
From Library Journal
A serial killer is stalking young women in Boston, and the police are at a loss for clues. The best they've come up with so far are a composite drawing of the killer and some educated hunches. Totally frustrated, Detective Harry Jordan turns to Mallory Malone, the beautiful star of a prime-time investigative TV show, in hopes of obtaining some air time from her for the case. The arrogant Malone agrees to meet Jordan but expects to deny his request as unworthy of her talents. What she does not expect, once they do meet, is the electric attraction between them. As the case unfolds and their relationship blossoms, Malone is faced with revealing her deepest personal secrets in order to catch the killer. This top-notch romantic thriller is one of the best yet from the author of Secret of the Villa Mimosa (LJ 9/1/94), combining tension, sensuality, and great characterization. Highly recommended.
-?Susan G. Clifford, Palos Verdes Lib. District., Cal.
Copyright 1997 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Booklist
Adler's novel juxtaposes a particularly gruesome murder against sex and romance, sort of Silence of the Lambs meets Danielle Steel. Harry Jordan is an unusual cop: the urbane scion of an old-money Boston family and a Harvard-educated lawyer. Faced with a stalled serial-killer investigation, Harry agrees to let Mallory Malone, the host of an America's Most Wantedtype program, feature his case on the air. Predictably, romantic sparks fly, but there's something mysterious about the beautiful Mallory. Eventually Harry pries his lover's deepest secrets out of her and finds she may hold the clue to the murderer's identity. Nerve-jangling suspense, steamy sex, glamorous characters, and graphic descriptions of the victims' last moments will grab readers' attention and may even make up for the too-glib dialogue, sadly predictable plot, and overwrought prose. Still, the novel definitely packs a wallop, and that alone will draw a sizable segment of the thriller-reading audience. Emily Melton
From Kirkus Reviews
Adler breaks out of rich-and-famous romances and into the champagne-laced serial-killer variety--and comes through with a smooth by-the-numbers plot. The latest from the author of The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (1995), etc., reads like a compilation of serial-killer plotlines, with elements reminiscent of everyone from Dean Koontz to Alfred Hitchcock. But the very familiarity of the events here will likely keep her romance audience securely hers as she leads them into new territory. Three women in Boston have been murdered in the same manner, leading Homicide Detective Harry Jordan to believe that Boston has a serial killer on its hands. Occasional witnesses saw the murderer fleeing and his photo-likeness has been rendered by a police artist. He will kill again unless Harry can stop him, so Harry tries to enlist Mallory Malone, a Manhattan TV journalist who specializes in let's-catch-the-perp cop shows, and have her run the photo nationally. When Harry takes Mallory out to dinner and pops the question, however, she not only shies off from the photo but gives Harry the icy shoulder. As it happens, Harry is the son of wealth, has a fabulous apartment and a fancy cabin in the woods (wherein farsighted readers will foresee the heroine stalked by the villain), while Mallory herself has a splendid apartment overlooking Central Park. Everybody, of course, has something to hide. Mallory's big secret is her former incarnation as a nonentity in bottlecap glasses in Seattle, where her father abandoned the family and her mother threw herself into the Pacific, following which the teenaged Mary Mallory was raped and impregnated by the very serial killer Harry Jordan now seeks 20 years later! Despite some nasty plot turns, the outcome, of course, is never in much doubt. Sweetness and flight, performed with procedural aplomb. -- Copyright ©1996, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
Review
"[A] top-notch romantic thriller."
--Library Journal
"Now or Never is Adler at her best."
--Brazosport Facts
"Nerve-jangling suspense."
--Booklist
"Mesmerizing."
--Harriet Klausner, Internet Bookwatch
"Engrossing and exhilarating."
--Romantic Times
Product Description
She can keep the doors locked. The lights on. Her fingers crossed. But she can't stop the memories of a terrifying crime. Or keep it from happening again.
The murderer took his time choosing his pretty victims. Then he took his time killing them. What was left when he finished made even veteran Boston cop Harry Jordan feel sick. But this time the killer made a mistake. His victim was found alive.
Armed with a police sketch of the man, Harry wanted national publicity, the kind he could get from Mallory Malone, the "TV detective." Her top-rated show reenacted heinous crimes and often jogged witnesses' memories enough to shake loose the clue that could break the case.
But not this time.
This case was different for self-made career woman Mallory Malone. This cop was different. The case scared her; the cop was falling in love with her. Her instincts told her to run. But the killer already knew her name. Her address. And a secret that could destroy them both.
Elizabeth Adler was born in Yorkshire, England. She is married to an American lawyer and has one daughter. They have lived in Brazil, England, France, and Ireland and currently live in California. She is the internationally acclaimed author of Léonie, Peach, The Rich Shall Inherit, The Property of a Lady, Fortune Is a Woman, and The Secret of the Villa Mimosa.
From the Publisher
"[A] top-notch romantic thriller."
--Library Journal
"Now or Never is Adler at her best."
--Brazosport Facts
"Nerve-jangling suspense."
--Booklist
"Mesmerizing."
--Harriet Klausner, Internet Bookwatch
"Engrossing and exhilarating."
--Romantic TimesFrom the Inside Flap
She can keep the doors locked. The lights on. Her fingers crossed. But she can't stop the memories of a terrifying crime. Or keep it from happening again.
The murderer took his time choosing his pretty victims. Then he took his time killing them. What was left when he finished made even veteran Boston cop Harry Jordan feel sick. But this time the killer made a mistake. His victim was found alive.
Armed with a police sketch of the man, Harry wanted national publicity, the kind he could get from Mallory Malone, the "TV detective." Her top-rated show reenacted heinous crimes and often jogged witnesses' memories enough to shake loose the clue that could break the case.
But not this time.
This case was different for self-made career woman Mallory Malone. This cop was different. The case scared her; the cop was falling in love with her. Her instincts told her to run. But the killer already knew her name. Her address. And a secret that could destroy them both.
Elizabeth Adler was born in Yorkshire, England. She is married to an American lawyer and has one daughter. They have lived in Brazil, England, France, and Ireland and currently live in California. She is the internationally acclaimed author of Léonie, Peach, The Rich Shall Inherit, The Property of a Lady, Fortune Is a Woman, and The Secret of the Villa Mimosa.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Rain bounced from the slick sidewalk as Harry hurried around the corner to Ruby's. It plastered against his skull, dripping inside the collar of his old black leather bomber jacket.
The dog trotted at his heels, shooting wary glances at the flashing sky, skittering nervously at the quick rumble of thunder. Harry hoped Mallory Malone would make it through the thunderstorms that had plagued the area all day, but he wouldn't blame her if she canceled. It was a bitch of a night.
The bell on Ruby's glass-paneled door jangled as he pushed inside. The small cafe was jammed, every booth and Formica-topped table taken. There were a couple of cops and some regular locals he recognized, plus a few strays. The plate-glass windows above the red-checkered curtains were steamed, shutting out the miserable night; and the smell of hot coffee and fried food and chicken gravy hovered permanently over the room, like smog over L.A. A couple of matronly waitresses in red and white aprons and wilting caps maneuvered laden trays skillfully between the scarred red vinyl banquettes, and blue cigarette smoke wreathed to the nicotine-yellow ceiling.
Squeeze shook himself, scattering a waterfall of raindrops over Harry's fraying Levi's, then sat on his haunches, sniffing the air eagerly.
Grabbing a paper napkin, Harry mopped the water from his face and the inside of his collar, then tried to catch the waitress's eye.
"Hey, Doris," he called as she hurried back behind the counter. "How long for a booth?"
She shrugged. "Ten, fifteen maybe."
He grabbed her arm. "I need a guarantee on that, sweetheart." He smiled at her. She was plump and fiftyish and harassed, and he had known her since she was plump and forty and had time to flirt. Time had taken its toll, but they were still good friends.
"You bringing a hot date to Ruby's tonight, cheapskate?" she asked, raising a painted eyebrow.
He laughed, and then his cellular phone beeped. Turning away from the noisy room, he pressed it to his ear. "Jordan."
"Detective, where the hell is this Ruby's?" Mallory Malone sounded irate. "The limo driver has never heard of it."
He grinned. "Everybody who's anybody in Boston knows exactly where Ruby's is, Ms. Malone. Put him on the phone, I'll give him directions."
Harry hated to think of what might have happened if he had kept Ms. "Star" Malone waiting. He edged into the booth, his back to the wall so he could see her come in. Squeeze slid under the table out of the way--and his big head sank onto his paws as he prepared for a snooze.
As he watched, the door swung open and Mallory Malone stepped inside. She glanced around, her eyebrows raised, as though she were wondering if she could possibly be in the right place.
Harry slid quickly from the booth and loped toward her. "Ms. Malone."
Her head swung around and their eyes met. He hadn't realized from TV that hers were such a deep blue, nor that her lashes were so long. When she lowered them and looked down at his outstretched hand, she looked unexpectedly shy. She was smartly dressed in a gray cashmere sweater and skirt with a red jacket, and her golden hair was beaded with glittering raindrops. She looked as out of place in Ruby's as a tropical flower in Alaska. And she had cold hands.
As she shook Harry's hand, Mal thought uncomfortably that she was overdressed in her cashmere, while Jordan looked scruffily at home in his faded jeans and the beat-up jacket. He was younger than she had expected and, damn it, he was attractive. His rain-wet dark hair was plastered to his narrow skull, his gray eyes were penetrating as they looked into hers, and his firm mouth looked sexy. He had at least a day-old black stubble and looked way too sure of himself. Disconcerted, she removed her hand.
"Detective Jordan," she said coldly. "It took my driver half an hour to find this place."
"I'm sorry, though it's really not that hard."
Antagonism crackled between them. She glanced disparagingly at the counter with its mirrored display of pies and chocolate cake; at the steamy little kitchen and the cracked red vinyl banquettes and the waitresses slinging hash and fried eggs and burgers and cholesterol.
She raised a superior eyebrow. "Slumming, Detective Jordan?"
Harry gritted his teeth. What the hell did she expect, Le Cirque? "I'm sorry it's not up to your standards, ma'am. But it is close to the precinct house, and I am on duty." He shrugged. "Besides, cops can't be choosers, with what they earn. All the guys eat here."
Her blue eyes narrowed. "Most cops, Jordan. But not rich cops."
Harry knew he was in trouble. She hated Ruby's, she hated cops, and she hated rich cops even more. He wondered how she knew--then he guessed it was the same way she had known his unlisted home number. She made it her business to know exactly who she was interviewing, whether it was on TV or not.
Heads turned in recognition as he led her to the table at the back, but she seemed unaware that there were other people in the place. As she slid into the booth opposite him, her foot encountered the soft bulk of the dog. Startled, she peeked underneath, then a sudden smile lit up her face.
Harry stared at her, dazzled. It was as though somebody had switched her on.
"Say hello to the lady, Squeeze," he instructed, and the dog, true to his name, squeezed out from between their knees. He sat next to Mallory, then raised his right paw politely.
"Oh, cute." She threw Harry a for-God's-sake glance. But she took the paw and patted the dog, murmuring sweet nothings to it.
"Back, Squeeze," he commanded, and the dog slunk obediently under the table again. He rested his head on Harry's shabby suede Paraboots, waiting for him to make his next move.
"Okay, Jordan," she said, suddenly all business, "you're on."
"I feel like I'm auditioning for the show," he said uneasily.
"You may be. So get on with it."
He told her the facts about the murders and that there had been no connection between the three young women--they had not come from the same towns or even from the same states. They had not known each other. They had not lived near each other. They had not attended the same colleges.
"These were not random killings," he said. "This guy is precise. He's an organized killer. He knew exactly what he was doing. I think he knew where his victims lived and their daily routine, what times their classes were, and when they were likely to be alone."
Mal's eyes widened, and a little shiver ran down her spine. "You mean he stalked them?"
"I believe he did."
"That's terrible," she said soberly. "A maniac on the loose around all these college kids. He can just take his pick. Don't you have any line on him at all?"
"Forensics is working on scene-of-crime evidence--fibers, hairs, semen. We'll have the DNA in a couple of weeks, and I'm certain it will link him to the two previous attacks. And the students are aware of the danger now. They've been warned not to wander around campus after dark. The schools have escort services to walk young women back to their dorms. It'll help for a while."
"You think he'll strike again?"
"I'm certain of it. The FBI's Behavioral Science Unit has a psychological profile. They say we're looking for a guy with a deep psychosis against women. Cutting off their hair is symbolic--he's divesting them of their femininity. Rape proves his power over them, and the slitting of the wrists probably brings him to a climax he can never otherwise reach. For him, it's probably the ultimate moment of power. The women are helpless, they feel pain--they are dying while he lives."
Her horrified eyes met his. "Oh, my God."
He nodded grimly. "So now you see why we have to catch him before he strikes again. From his pattern I'd guess he'll take his time--perhaps a couple of months. He'll survey the scene, pick out his victim, trail her, maybe even break into her house, get the feel of her, the scent of her. Like an animal stalking its prey. He's methodical. That's why he's been so successful."
"Why do men do these things?"
Harry shrugged. "Studies show that all murderers of this type come from dysfunctional homes--drug abuse, alcohol, criminal activities, you name it. There's often mental illness in the family, and they probably suffered serious emotional and physical abuse in childhood. Usually the mothers ...
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