Do you see that out there? The strange, unfamiliar light? It's called the sun. Let's go get us a little.

I don't think I am a traditional romantic who thinks about candlelight dinners and wonders if my husband is going to bring me flowers, though I'm delighted if he does. I'm more practical-minded. I find it incredibly romantic that my husband does the dishes.

The man was useless as tits on a bull, but he didn't deserve to die like that.

Winning can be addictive

Summerset, don't you ever sleep?" "It's Lieutenant Dallas. She's--" Roarke dropped his briefcase, grabbed Summerset by the lapels. "Has she been hurt? Where is she?" "A nightmare. She was screaming." Summerset lost his usual composure and dragged a hand over his hair. "She won't cooperate. I was about to call your doctor. I left her in her private suite." As Roarke pushed him aside, Summerset grabbed his arm. "Roarke, you should have told me what had been done to her." Roarke merely shook his head and kept going. "I'll take care of her.

I never had a plan, except to write. I love what I do, and have from the beginning. Loving what you do makes it a lot easier to work, every day, to face the tough spots and heel in for the long haul. Nothing against plans; they work for some people. But for me, if I'd been planning, worrying about numbers, trying to micro-manage my career, I wouldn't have focused on the writing. If you don't write, you're not read. If you're not read, you don't sell. So that's my Master Plan, I guess. Write the books, let the agent agent, the editor edit, the publisher publish.

Three weeks hadn't changed Cop Central. The coffee was still poisonous, the noise abominable, and the view out of her stingy window was still miserable. She was thrilled to be back.