Friday, August 29, 2008

Whirlpool

Okay, I have to come out of the closet about something. Ever since I randomly picked up and read Midnight in Ruby Bayou, I have loved Elizabeth Lowell. She writes these amazing murder/mystery/suspense/romance novels.
That said, I just finished Whirlpool, a rewrite of The Ruby (a title that almost makes more sense).

It's one of those books where I was going to go to bed at midnight, but then I got involved, and when I looked up, it was almost 1. And I only had another 30 or so pages (probably less...), so I figured I might as well finish it.

She's an innocent jewelry maker. He's a field worker for a private security company. When Laurel's father gives her a priceless egg, then snatches it away again, Cruz (which is a terrible first name) is the only one who cares enough to keep her safe in the big, bad world of international jewel thievery.

And, yeah, if it sounds a lot like other Elizabeth Lowell plot lines, it's because it is. But they work so well!

Anyway, this novel takes them from LA to the desert (not unexpected), creating a world of mystery and mayhem that includes double-crossings, triple-crossings, and really, really untrustworthy women.

Except, of course, our innocent female protagonist who's just trying to keep her head above water, and her male counterpart who knows the dirty secrets of the world and is a little tired of looking at them. She bring revitalization to his life, the he thinks she can't love him because of the choices he made.

Madness, chaos, and near-certain death occurs, only to have the calvary charge in last minute and save them all. Damsel in distress proves she's a lot tougher than he thinks, white knight proves he actually has a heart, then love and flowers ensue.

Yeah, they're all really like that. But they're all so different that they work, and work well.

A side note on this one, though--Elizabeth Lowell writes more graphic love scenes on a regular basis, but these have a bit of S&M, and gets a little...intense. Not suitable for people under the age of 17. Well, maybe. Teens these days, let me tell you.

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