Fun on the sly
A beautiful woman, an exiled beauty. A jet-setting call girl and a stunning baroness. Get these two new books, now on the shelves and have a laughter-filled read.
Allie was sitting at the edge of the pool, wearing a sleek white onepiece with a diamond-shaped cutout that shows off her back, and a white sun hat, splashing her feet like a carefree child. I watched as she threw her hat onto a chair. She jumped into the water and began floating, in a rather aimless way, on her back, then switched to a butterfly stroke. I emerged from my sad cocoon, and tiptoed into Allison’s bedroom. Her suitcase was still on the floor with most of its contents untouched, except for one box of Trojans.
I couldn’t bear to look, but I did. I covered the ripped box with a T-shirt. Then, I removed the T-shirt and forced myself to count. She took FOUR condoms to Duncan’s room? The pile on her unused bed—maps, camera, books—was exactly as I left it before dinner. Just as I suspected. She fell asleep in his bed. In his arms. I felt a knot in my chest. That day in library when I wanted to grab Duncan and pull him very close. Why did I think he was off-limits to girls? What’s his deal? Is he bi? But wait. Allie never thought he was gay. Milt doesn’t either. What made me think it? Am I the last person in this house to figure out that Milt’s cook, object of all my lurid unprofessional fantasies, isn’t into guys at all? Let’s face it. When it comes to males under thirty, my gaydar’s a pathetic mess.
Excerpted from Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl by Tracy Quan
Price: Rs 295
Pages: 246 (With permission from Harper Perennial)
“You!” he cried. “Thou!” exclaimed Lady Godiva, emphasising the social gulf between them. Yes, recognition was mutual, and you know what happens when a hero finds himself unexpectedly prone on a supine heroine (especially when they’ve got off to a bad start) and her p.r.l. are only inches from his. A moment’s breathless pause as their eyes meet, and then he’s locked on to her like a hydraulic pump, apparently trying to eat his way through to the back of her head, and the only question before you go for pop-corn is: will her limp hand (a) clamp passionately round his neck, or (b) ball into a fist as she lands him a big one?
In this case, neither. Godiva was too stunned to resist (or was she secretly enjoying it, the wanton?), and when he unplugged presently for lack of breath, and she, too, had taken in life-giving oxygen, they stared bugeyed on each other for a space, snogging forgotten in simultaneous astonishment.
Excerpted from The Reavers by George Macdonald Fraser
Price: Rs 295
Pages: 230 (With permission from HarperCollins India)
