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" One of the most elusive things about the white shark is their, uh..." His eyes moved to hers and he held them there." Their what?" she asked when he didn't finish, a bit rapt by his expression.He kept his eyes locked on her. " Their mating." " Mating," she repeated, feeling a flutter in her stomach at the way he was looking at her...then suddenly not looking at her." We don't know if individual animals spawn in a certain spot every time --- kind of like a human might go to a particular pub if she wants some action. Juan an example, mind you?She folded her arm, feeling her cheeks heat up. " Pub Uh-huh." Jeff leaned against the railing, his expression looking smug at her embarrassment. " For all we know, sharks are just, ya know, doing it everywhere." " Like the Kardasians?" ...." But who know. Maybe, if we play just the right mood music, you and I will get lucky, Sharona Blaire." Was he talking about shark reproduction... or human?And... was he flirting? Earlier, he'd gone cold and hostile when she'd tried to apologize. The man was a ball of contradiction. A very sexy, very nice-smelling contradiction." Well." She swallowed, staring in his eyes. " I'm all for getting lucky. "
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" This is a love story, Michael Deane says.
But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke love Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the Mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omerta` --the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story. "
― Jess Walter , Beautiful Ruins