Eve, we're going to be married in a few days." The jittering started again, big time. "Yeah." "If he keeps looking at you like that, I'm going to have to hurt him.

I didn't get fired." "You didn't punch your boss and get fired from the Tribune? That's what I heard." "I punched what could loosely be called a colleague for cribbing my notes on a story and since the editor–who happened to be the asshole's uncle–took his word over mine, I quit." "To write books. Is it fun?" "I guess it is." "I bet you killed the asshole in the first one you wrote." "You'd be right. Beat him to death with a shovel. Very satisfying.

If people let other people alone, people would be better off. It's always people that screw things up for people anyway.

I'd always loved to read - and come from a family of readers - but I never thought about writing as a career.

Life is like a moustache. It can be wonderful or terrible. But it always tickles.

No. No, I don't believe you'd betray me with her. I don't believe you'd cheat on me. But I'm afraid, and I'm sick in my heart that you might look at her, then at me. And regret.

Hey. Hands off.” ", "“Please. Please, please, soooo pretty. Lemme just have one little touch.” "“Peabody, isn’t it embarrassing enough you’re wearing pink cowboy boots, again, without standing here drooling on my coat?”", [J.D. Robb, Celebrity In Death]