The Deadliest Bite

Lotus and Aaron exchanged looks that were, to give them credit, only slightly weirded out. Aaron said to Lotus, “My dad’s dead. How about yours?”

She shrugged. “He’s kind of a jerk. But he’s the only one I have. Had.” She frowned at Vayl. “Until now.” She raised her eyebrows at Aaron, who nodded for her to continue. “As long as you promise not to bite us or try to turn us, we’re cool with you coming to visit. But you have to cal first.”

“And plan on staying at a hotel,” Aaron put in.

Lotus added, “Also? Don’t be kil ing anybody in the towns where we live. We don’t want to have to move every time you decide to stop by for a chat.” She turned to Aaron. “Do you have anything else?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” He pointed at me. “She’s kinda scary. So she has to learn how to bake cookies. I was thinking anybody who knows how to bake cookies should be okay.” He wiped a band of sweat off his forehead and resolutely avoided my glare as he turned to Lotus, who said, “Actual y, that makes a lot of sense. What do you think, Vayl?” I leaned over and whispered in Vayl’s ear. “How did they know I don’t know how to bake cookies?”

Minute shrug. “Perhaps they can see it in your eyes?” He waited.

I humphed. “Okay. But they have to be chocolate chip.”

“I do not think they care which kind you make, as long as you promise to learn.” I sat back in my chair, wil ing Vayl not to chuckle as he leaned forward and shook hands with his children, saying, “We have a deal,” so formal y he might’ve been sitting across from a couple of big-time CEOs.

Soon afterward Lotus and Aaron found rooms for themselves, leaving us alone with our pets, our grubby clothes, and our wildly divergent thoughts.

“It has been quite an adventure, my pretera,” Vayl said.

“Yeah.” I’d sent my inner girls on a mission to knock on al the doors of my mind. If anyone who wasn’t supposed to be there answered, I just might have a nervous breakdown. But so far… no demons anywhere. I was beginning to accept the fact that Brude was gone forever.

“I found my children.”

“And they are unique.”

“Helena is a wonder as wel .”

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “About her.”

He took my hand and led me to the bathroom, where he slowly began to peel off my torn and bloody clothes. Whenever he found a scratch or bruise he paused to lay a kiss on it as he explained,

“Yes. She is your ancestress. And yes, I have looked after your line ever since I adopted her. For the most part I have kept a respectful distance, so that the good fortune that has befal en your family members has seemed to be just that. And it seemed that the same would be true of you. I had never even seen you until after Matt died. But your circumstances demanded that I come closer. I felt you needed protection from something, though I could not pinpoint what that was.”

“Because it was myself,” I whispered, as I began to unbutton his tattered shirt.

He nodded. “The moment I saw you, everything changed for me.” He wrapped his hands around mine and I looked up into his eyes. “I had never felt for a woman the way I did for you then. I loved you instantly.” He raised my hands to his lips, his ring glinting in the soft glow of the single light we’d left on as he brushed them softly against each knuckle until I could feel the tingle of his touch down the backs of my thighs and into my feet. “You are part of my soul.” I waited until he had thoroughly kissed each finger, then I freed my hand so I could part the front of his shirt and slowly pul it down his arms so I could enjoy each new bit of skin and muscle it revealed. His chest, as broad and curl-covered as it had been the day he was turned, rippled under my fingers as I swept them across it and down to his flat, hard stomach. I looked up into his emerald eyes as I began to undo his belt. “I never wanted to be this close to you. But you’re irresistible, you know.” As I freed the leather band and dropped it to the floor, I wrapped my arm around his waist and pul ed him so close I could feel already that I’d excited him in the extreme. “You’re like air to me now. Without you, I couldn’t breathe. I wouldn’t want to.”

I raised my lips. Instead of dropping his head he lifted me in his arms, holding me effortlessly while I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his hips, pressing my breasts into his chest.

“I love you, Vayl,” I said between multiple kisses along his jaw and neck.

“And I love you, Jasmine.” Long pause while we shared a kiss so phenomenal that when it was finished I had to think for a minute before I could remember where in the world we were standing.

“Are you stil cool with me spending more downtime with family? Because, you know, that would mean you’d have to hang out with them too.”

He took another moment to kiss my forehead. “I relish the thought. Perhaps, one day, you would like to join Evie and Cassandra in motherhood?”

I regarded him seriously. “I don’t know. Do you think we could pul that off?”

“Perhaps. We are becoming so… different. Also, I hear I am a wonderful father.” I threw my arms around him. “You are. Which is a good thing, because it’s entirely possible I’d suck as a mother.”

“I doubt it.”

“You know,” I whispered in his ear, “it’s also entirely possible we may never find out.”

“I do not care,” he said earnestly. “We wil be together. And think of the fun we wil have trying!” I snorted. Then I stopped. Because I was entertaining a couple of ideas, and it was suddenly taking al my concentration to stand upright. Then I got a whiff of myself. I said, “I hate to ruin the moment. But I stink. Plus, I think I might have gorgon blood on my bra.” Vayl chuckled. “That is more than blood.”

“Eeeeewww!”

“The last one in the shower has to unwrap the hotel soap.”

“Get outta my way!”

extras

meet the author

Cindy Pringle

JENNIFER RARDIN began writing at the age of twelve. She penned eight Jaz Parks novels in her life.

She passed away in September 2010.

introducing

If you enjoyed

THE DEADLIEST BITE,

look out for

TEMPEST RISING

Book 1 of the Jane True series

by Nicole Peeler

Living in small town Rockabill, Maine, Jane True always knew she didn’t quite fit in with so-called normal society. During her nightly, clandestine swim in the freezing winter ocean, a grisly find leads Jane to startling revelations about her heritage: she is only half-human.

Now Jane must enter a world filled with supernatural creatures that are terrifying, beautiful, and deadly—all of which perfectly describe her new “friend,” Ryu, a gorgeous and powerful vampire.

It is a world where nothing can be taken for granted: a dog can heal with a lick; spirits bag your groceries; and whatever you do, never—ever—rub the genie’s lamp.

I eyebal ed the freezer, trying to decide what to cook for dinner that night. Such a decision was no mean feat, since a visiting stranger might assume that Martha Stewart not only lived with us but was preparing for the apocalypse. Frozen lasagnas, casseroles, pot pies, and the like fil ed our icebox nearly to the brim. Final y deciding on fish chowder, I took out some haddock and mussels. After a brief, internal struggle, I grabbed some salmon to make extra soup to—you guessed it—freeze.

Yeah, the stockpiling was more than a little OCD, but it made me feel better. It also meant that when I actual y had something to do for the entire evening, I could leave my dad by himself without feeling too guilty about it.

My dad wasn’t an invalid—not exactly. But he had a bad heart and needed help taking care of things, especial y with my mother gone. So I took up the slack, which I was happy to do. It’s not like I had much else on my plate, what with being the vil age pariah and al .

It’s amazing how being a pariah gives you ample amounts of free time.

After putting in the laundry and cleaning the downstairs bathroom, I went upstairs to take a shower. I would have loved to walk around al day with the sea salt on my skin, but not even in Rockabil was Eau de Brine an acceptable perfume. Like many twentysomethings, I’d woken up early that day to go exercise. Unlike most twenty-somethings, however, my morning exercise took the form of an hour or so long swim in the freezing ocean. And in one of America’s deadliest whirlpools. Which is why I am so careful to keep the swimming on the DL. It might be a great cardio workout, but it probably would get me burned at the stake. This is New England, after al .

As I got dressed in my work clothes—khaki chinos and a longsleeved pink polo-style shirt with Read It and Weep embroidered in navy blue over the breast pocket—I heard my father emerge from his bedroom and clomp down the stairs. His job in the morning was to make the coffee, so I took a moment to apply a little mascara, blush, and some lip gloss, before brushing out my damp black hair. I kept it cut in a much longer—and admittedly more unkempt—version of Cleopatra’s style because I liked to hide my dark eyes under my long bangs. Most recently, my nemesis, Stuart Gray, had referred to them as “demon eyes.” They’re not as Marilyn Manson as that, thank you very much, but even I had to admit to difficulty determining where my pupil ended and my iris began.

I went back downstairs to join my dad in the kitchen, and I felt that pang in my heart that I get sometimes when I’m struck by how he’s changed. He’d been a fisherman, but he’d had to retire about ten years ago, on disability, when his heart condition worsened. Once a handsome, confident, and brawny man whose presence fil ed any space he entered, his long il ness and my mother’s disappearance had diminished him in every possible way. He looked so smal and gray in his faded old bathrobe, his hands trembling from the antiarrhythmics he takes for his screwed-up heart, that it took every ounce of self-control I had not to make him sit down and rest. Even if his body didn’t agree, he stil felt himself to be the man he had been, and I knew I already walked a thin line between caring for him and treading on his dignity. So I put on my widest smile and bustled into the kitchen, as if we were a father and daughter in some sitcom set in the 1950s.

“Good morning, Daddy!” I beamed. “Morning, honey. Want some coffee?” He asked me that question every morning, even though the answer had been yes since I was fifteen.

“Sure, thanks. Did you sleep al right?”

“Oh, yes. And you? How was your morning?” My dad never asked me directly about the swimming. It’s a question that lay under the auspices of the “don’t ask, don’t tel ” policy that ruled our household. For example, he didn’t ask me about my swimming, I didn’t ask him about my mother.

He didn’t ask me about Jason, I didn’t ask him about my mother. He didn’t ask me whether or not I was happy in Rockabil , I didn’t ask him about my mother…

“Oh, I slept fine, Dad. Thanks.” Of course I hadn’t, real y, as I only needed about four hours of sleep a night. But that’s another thing we never talked about.

He asked me about my plans for the day, while I made us a breakfast of scrambled eggs on whole wheat toast. I told him that I’d be working til six, then I’d go to the grocery store on the way home. So, as usual for a Monday, I’d take the car to work. We performed pretty much the exact same routine every week, but it was nice of him to act like it was possible I might have new and exciting plans. On Mondays, I didn’t have to worry about him eating lunch, as Trevor McKinley picked him up to go play a few hours of cheeky lunchtime poker with George Varga, Louis Finch, and Joe Covel i. They’re al natives of Rockabil and friends since childhood, except for Joe, who moved here to Maine about twenty years ago to open up our local garage. That’s how things were around Rockabil . For the winter, when the tourists were mostly absent, the town was populated by natives who grew up together and were more intimately acquainted with each other’s dirty laundry than their own hampers. Some people enjoyed that intimacy. But when you were more usual y the object of the whispers than the subject, intimacy had a tendency to feel like persecution.

We ate while we shared our local paper, The Light House News. But because the paper mostly functioned as a vehicle for advertising things to tourists, and the tourists were gone for the season, the pickings were scarce. Yet we went through the motions anyway. For al of our sins, no one could say that the True family wasn’t good at going through the motions. After breakfast, I doled out my father’s copious pil s and set them next to his orange juice. He flashed me his charming smile, which was the only thing left unchanged after the ravages to his health and his heart.

“Thank you, Jane,” he said. And I knew he meant it, despite the fact that I’d set his pil s down next to his orange juice every single morning for the past twelve years.

I gulped down a knot in my throat, since I knew that no smal share of his worry and grief was due to me, and kissed him on the cheek. Then I bustled around clearing away breakfast, and bustled around getting my stuff together, and bustled out the door to get to work. In my experience, bustling is always a great way to keep from crying.

Tracy Gregory, the owner of Read It and Weep, was already hard at work when I walked in the front door. The Gregorys were an old fishing family from Rockabil , and Tracy was their prodigal daughter.

She had left to work in Los Angeles, where she had apparently been a successful movie stylist. I say apparently because she never told us the names of any of the movies she’d worked on. She’d only moved back to Rockabil about five years ago to open Read It and Weep, which was our local bookstore, café, and al -around tourist trap. Since tourism replaced fishing as our major industry, Rockabil can just about support an al -year-round enterprise like Read It and Weep. But other things, like the nicer restaurant—rather unfortunately named The Pig Out Bar and Gril —close for the winter.

“Hey, girl,” she said gruffly, as I locked the door behind me. We didn’t open for another half hour.

“Hey, Tracy. Grizelda back?”

Grizelda was Tracy’s girlfriend, and they’d caused quite a stir when they first appeared in Rockabil together. Not only were they lesbians, but they were as fabulously lesbionic as the inhabitants of a tiny vil age in Maine could ever imagine. Tracy carried herself like a rugby player, and dressed like one, too. But she had an easygoing charisma that got her through the initial gender panic triggered by her reentry into Rockabil society.

And if Tracy made heads turn, Grizelda practical y made them spin Exorcist style. Grizelda was not Grizelda’s real name. Nor was Dusty Nethers, the name she’d used when was a porn star. As Dusty Nethers, Grizelda had been fiery haired and as boobilicious as a Baywatch beauty. But in her current incarnation, as Grizelda Montague, she sported a sort of Gothic-hipster look—albeit one that was stil very boobilicious. A few times a year Grizelda disappeared for weeks or a month, and upon her return home she and Tracy would complete some big project they’d been discussing, like redecorating the store or adding a sunroom onto their little house. Lord knows what she got up to on her profit-venture vacations. But whatever it was, it didn’t affect her relationship with Tracy. The pair were as close as any husband and wife in Rockabil , if not closer, and seeing how much they loved each other drove home to me my own loneliness.

“Yeah, Grizzie’s back. She’l be here soon. She has something for you… something scandalous, knowing my lady love.”

I grinned. “Awesome. I love her gifts.”

Because of Grizzie, I had a drawer ful of naughty underwear, sex toys, and dirty books. Grizzie gave such presents for every occasion; it didn’t matter if it was your high school graduation, your fiftieth wedding anniversary, or your baby’s baptism. This particular predilection meant she was a prominent figure on wedding shower guest lists from Rockabil to Eastport, but made her dangerous for children’s parties. Most parents didn’t appreciate an “every day of the week” pack of thongs for their eleven-year-old daughter. Once she’d given me a gift certificate for a “Hol ywood” bikini wax and I had to Google the term. What I discovered made me way too scared to use it, so it sat in my

“dirty drawer,” as I cal ed it, as a talking point. Not that anyone ever went into my dirty drawer with me, but I talked to myself a lot, and it certainly provided amusing fodder for my own conversations.

It was also rather handy—no pun intended—to have access to one’s own personal sex shop during long periods of enforced abstinence… such as the last eight years of my life.

“And,” Tracy responded with a rueful shake of her head, “her gifts love you. Often quite literal y.”

“That’s al right, somebody has to,” I answered back, horrified at the bitter inflection that had crept into my voice.

But Tracy, bless her, just stroked a gentle hand over my hair that turned into a tiny one-armed hug, saying nothing.

“Hands off my woman!” crowed a hard-edged voice from the front door. Grizelda!

“Oh, sorry,” I apologized, backing away from Tracy.

“I meant for Tracy to get off you,” Grizzie said, swooping toward me to pick me up in a bodily hug, my own wel -endowed chest clashing with her enormous fake bosoms. I hated being short at times like these. Even though I loved al five feet and eleven inches of Grizzie, and had more than my fair share of affection for her ta-ta-riddled hugs, I loathed being manhandled.

She set me down and grasped my hands in hers, backing away to look me over appreciatively while holding my fingers at arm’s length. “Mmm, mmm,” she said, shaking her head. “Girl, I could sop you up with a biscuit.”

I laughed, as Tracy rol ed her eyes.

“Quit sexual y harassing the staff, Grizzly Bear,” was her only comment.

“I’l get back to sexual y harassing you in a minute, passion flower, but right now I want to appreciate our Jane.” Grizelda winked at me with her florid violet eyes—she wore colored lenses—

and I couldn’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl.

“I’ve brought you a little something,” she said, her voice sly.

I clapped my hands in excitement and hopped up and down in a little happy dance.

I real y did love Grizzie’s gifts, even if they chal enged the tenuous grasp of human anatomy imparted to me by Mrs. Renault in her high school biology class.

“Happy belated birthday!” she cried as she handed me a beautiful y wrapped package she pul ed from her enormous handbag. I admired the shiny black paper and the sumptuous red velvet ribbon tied up into a decadent bow—Grizzie did everything with style—before tearing into it with glee. After slitting open the tape holding the box closed with my thumbnail, I was soon holding in my hands the most beautiful red satin nightgown I’d ever seen. It was a deep, bloody, blue-based red, the perfect red for my skin tone. And it was, of course, the perfect length, with a slit up the side that would rise almost to my hip. Grizzie had this magic ability to always buy people clothes that fit. The top was generously cut for its smal dress size, the bodice gathered into a sort of clamshel -like tailoring that I knew would cup my boobs like those hands in that famous Janet Jackson picture. The straps were slightly thicker, to give support, and crossed over the very low-cut back. It was absolutely gorgeous—very adult and sophisticated—and I couldn’t stop stroking the deliciously watery satin.

“Grizzie,” I breathed. “It’s gorgeous… but too much! This must have cost a fortune.”

“You are worth a fortune, little Jane. Besides, I figured you might need something nice… since Mark’s ‘special deliveries’ should have culminated in a date by now.” Grizzie’s words trailed off as my face fel and Tracy, behind her, made a noise like Xena, Warrior Princess, charging into battle.

Before Tracy could launch into just how many ways she wanted to eviscerate our new letter carrier, I said, very calmly, “I won’t be going on any dates with Mark.”

“What happened?” Grizzie asked, as Tracy made another grunting declaration of war behind us.

“Wel …” I started, but where should I begin? Mark was new to Rockabil , a widowed employee of the U.S. Postal Service, who had recently moved to our little corner of Maine with his two young daughters. He’d kept forgetting to deliver letters and packages, necessitating second, and sometimes third, trips to our bookstore, daily. I’d thought he was sweet, but rather dumb, until Tracy had pointed out that he only forgot stuff when I was working.

So we’d flirted and flirted and flirted over the course of a month. Until, just a few days ago, he’d asked me out. I was thril ed. He was cute; he was new; he’d lost someone he was close to, as wel .

And he “obviously” didn’t judge me on my past.

You know what they say about assuming…

“We had a date set up, but he cancel ed. I guess he asked me out before he knew about…

everything. Then someone must have told him. He’s got kids, you know.”

“So?” Grizzie growled, her smoky voice already furious.

“So, he said that he didn’t think I’d be a good influence. On his girls.”

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” Grizzie snarled, just as Tracy made a series of inarticulate chittering noises behind us. She was normal y the sedate, equable half of her and Grizzie’s partnership, but Tracy had nearly blown a gasket when I’d cal ed her crying after Mark bailed on me. I think she would have torn off his head, but then we wouldn’t have gotten our inventory anymore.

I lowered my head and shrugged. Grizzie moved forward, having realized that Tracy already had the anger market cornered.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said, wrapping her long arms around me. “That’s… such a shame.” And it was a shame. My friends wanted me to move on, my dad wanted me to move on. Hel , except for that tiny sliver of me that was stil frozen in guilt, I wanted to move on. But the rest of Rockabil , it seems, didn’t agree.

Grizzie brushed the bangs back from my eyes, and when she saw tears glittering she intervened, Grizelda-style. Dipping me like a tango dancer, she growled sexily, “Baby, I’m gonna butter yo’

bread…” before burying her face in my exposed bel y and giving me a resounding zerbert.

That did just the trick. I was laughing again, thanking my stars for about the zil ionth time that they had brought Grizzie and Tracy back to Rockabil because I didn’t know what I would have done without them. I gave Tracy her own hug for the present, and then took it to the back room with my stuff. I opened the box to give the red satin one last parting caress, and then closed it with a contented sigh.

It would look absolutely gorgeous in my dirty drawer.

We had only a few things to do to get the store ready for opening, which left much time for chitchat. About a half hour of intense gossip later, we had pretty much exhausted “what happened when you were gone” as a subject of conversation and had started in on plans for the coming week, when the little bel above the door tinkled. My heart sank when I saw it was Linda Al en, self-selected female delegate for my own personal persecution squad. She wasn’t quite as bad as Stuart Gray, who hated me even more than Linda did, but she did her best to keep up with him.

Speaking of the rest of Rockabill, I thought, as Linda headed toward romance.

She didn’t bother to speak to me, of course. She just gave me one of her loaded looks that she could fire off like a World War I gunship. The looks always said the same things. They spoke of the fact that I was the girl whose crazy mother had shown up in the center of town out of nowhere, naked, in the middle of a storm. The fact that she’d stolen one of the most eligible Rockabil bachelors and ruined him for life. The fact that she’d given birth to a baby without being married. The fact that I insisted on being that child and upping the ante by being just as weird as my mother. That was only the tip of the vituperative iceberg that Linda hauled into my presence whenever she had the chance.

Unfortunately, Linda read nearly as compulsively as I did, so I saw her at least twice a month when she’d come in for a new stack of romance novels. She liked a very particular kind of plot: the sort where the pirate kidnaps some virgin damsel, rapes her into loving him, and then dispatches lots of seamen while she polishes his cutlass. Or where the Highland clan leader kidnaps some virginal English Rose, rapes her into loving him, and then kil s entire armies of Sassenachs while she stuffs his haggis. Or where the Native American warrior kidnaps a virginal white settler, rapes her into loving him, and then kil s a bunch of colonists while she whets his tomahawk. I hated to get Freudian on Linda, but her reading patterns suggested some interesting insights into why she was such a complete bitch.

Tracy had received a phone cal while Linda was picking out her books, and Grizelda was sitting on a stool far behind the counter in a way that clearly said “I’m not actual y working, thanks.” But Linda pointedly ignored the fact that I was free to help her, choosing, instead, to stand in front of Tracy. Tracy gave that little eye gesture where she looked at Linda, then looked at me, as if to say,

“She can help you,” but Linda insisted on being oblivious to my presence. Tracy sighed and cut her telephone conversation short. I knew that Tracy would love to tel Linda to stick her attitude where the sun don’t shine, but Read It and Weep couldn’t afford to lose a customer who was as good at buying books as she was at being a snarky snake face. So Tracy rang up Linda’s purchases and bagged them for her as politely as one can without actual y being friendly and handed the bag over to Linda.

Who, right on cue, gave me her parting shot, the look I knew was coming but was never quite able to deflect.

The look that said, There’s the freak who killed her own boyfriend.

She was wrong, of course. I hadn’t actual y kil ed Jason. I was just the reason he was dead.

Contents

FRONT COVER IMAGE

WELCOME

EPIGRAPH

EXTRAS

MEET THE AUTHOR

A PREVIEW OF TEMPEST RISING

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

JAZ PARKS NOVELS

PRAISE FOR THE JAZ PARKS SERIES

COPYRIGHT

JAZ PARKS NOVELS

Once Bitten, Twice Shy

Another One Bites the Dust

Biting the Bullet

Bitten to Death

One More Bite

Bite Marks

Bitten in Two

The Deadliest Bite

Praise for the Jaz Parks series

“The humor real y shines as Rardin’s kick-ass heroine guides readers through her insane life.”

— Romantic Times

Copyright

Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Rardin

Excerpt from Tempest Rising copyright © 2009 by Nicole Peeler Al rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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First eBook Edition: June 2011

Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

ISBN: 978-0-316-17503-6