Book : The Liar - Roberts, Nora

-Titulo Original : The Liar

-Fabricante :

Berkley

-Descripcion Original:

In a “sexy, suspenseful read,” #1 New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts delivers “a slow-burning fuse of a plot that ultimately explodes in a nail-biting conclusion.”* Shelby Foxworth lost her husband. Then she lost her illusions… The man who took her from Tennessee to an exclusive Philadelphia suburb left her in crippling debt. He was an adulterer and a liar, and when Shelby tracks down his safe-deposit box, she finds multiple IDs. The man she loved wasn’t just dead. He never really existed. Shelby takes her three-year-old daughter and heads south to seek comfort in her hometown, where she meets someone new: Griff Lott, a successful contractor. But her husband had secrets she has yet to discover. Even in this small town, surrounded by loved ones, danger is closer than she knows-and threatens Griff, as well. And an attempted murder is only the beginning... * Booklist (starred review) Review “Superlative writing and character development with plenty of down-home Tennessee charm. Riveting.”- Library Journal “Crazy eye-opening romantic suspense...my all-time favorite by one of my very favorite authors.”-Fresh Fiction “The first part of this absorbing book explores how Shelby Foxworth discovers her strength in adversity, and then segues into a charming courtship tale laced with a hint of danger. Proof once more that when it comes to romance, Roberts is in a class by herself!”- RT Book Reviews About the Author Nora Roberts is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than 200 novels. She is also the author of the bestselling In Death series written under the pen name J. D. Robb. There are more than 500 million copies of her books in print. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. For JoAnne, 1 In the big house-and Shelby would always think of it as the big house-she sat in her husband’s big leather chair at his big, important desk. The color of the chair was espresso. Not brown. Richard had been very exact about that sort of thing. The desk itself, so sleek and shiny, was African zebra wood, and custom-made for him in Italy. When she’d said-just a joke-that she didn’t know they had zebras in Italy, he’d given her that look. The look that told her despite the big house, the fancy clothes and the fat diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand, she’d always be Shelby Anne Pomeroy, two steps out of the bumpkin town in Tennessee where she was born and raised. He’d have laughed once, she thought now, he’d have known she was joking and laughed as if she were the sparkle in his life. But oh God, she’d dulled in his eyes, and so fast, too. The man she’d met nearly five years before on a starry summer night had swept her off her feet, away from everything she’d known, into worlds she’d barely imagined. He’d treated her like a princess, shown her places she’d only read about in books or seen in movies. And he’d loved her once-hadn’t he? It was important to remember that. He’d loved her, wanted her, given her all any woman could ask for. Provided. That was a word he’d often used. He’d provided for her. Maybe he’d been upset when she got pregnant, maybe she’d been afraid-just for a minute-of the look in his eyes when she told him. But he’d married her, hadn’t he? Whisked her off to Las Vegas like they were having the adventure of a lifetime. They’d been happy then. It was important to remember that now, too. She had to remember that, to hold tight the memories of the good times. A woman widowed at twenty-four needed memories. A woman who learned she’d been living a lie, was not only broke but in terrible, breathtaking debt, needed reminders of the good times. The lawyers and accountants and tax people explained it all to her, but they might as well have been speaking Greek when they went on about leveraging and hedge funds and foreclosures. The big house, one that had intimidated her since she’d walked in the door, wasn’t hers-