Donald I. Fine, Inc. ISBN 0-917657-32-2
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I love my husband. The man married me when he didn't even have to. Then he set me up in a huge house to domesticate the kinks out of my system while he ran his computer company. In four years of marriage he's only raised his voice once, and that was when I pulled his ears in front of Most Distinguished Herr Hans Baumann, the president of a European computer company. But that was Martin's own fault. You see, every time he says "You don't understand," I don't care where we are or whom we're with, I yank his years. It's a stupid expression and I'm trying to get Martin to stop using it.
"A cannonade of manic moments in the sexual Armageddon of Eva Hathaway... a screaming meemie of a randy, comic first novel, a marathon of stand-up wisecracking that just might be a sleeper."
"A dazzling new woman writer has written a hilariously sexy novel. Delightful, rollicking, erotic!"
Fantastic - a racy romp by a multi-talented author who revels in puns and luxuriates in sensuous sex scenes...has fun manipulating her colorful cast of characters and keeps the reader laughing from beginning to end.
Cleveland Plain Dealer
"A mordantly funny, wonderfully wry first novel. Weber portrays each character with enchanting humor and poignancy, and the resolution of Eva's plight is memorable."
"An absolute delight...a first novel of humor and passion...Weber presents a well-wrought story replete with a marvelous main character and astonishing detail...downright riveting."
Los Angeles Herald Examiner
"A witty and wicked novel that's like a breath of fresh air…Eva plunges into the 1980s, poking fun at propriety, relationships, marriage, neurotic Jewish men, uptight WASPs, children, and just about everything else."
Richmond Times Dispatch
"Weber's fresh, brash voice and wacky humor are reminiscent of Mark Twain and Fran Liebowitz at their most curmudgeonly. This is a wingdinger of a first novel with a voice so audible it tickles the ear. Eva's bed marathons…are laid out with a ribaldry that would make Tom Jones blush."
"The book of the season…zany, raunchy, sexy."
John Barkham Reviews
Donald I. Fine, Inc. ISBN 1-55611-01809
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Of course women are the superior gender, Rhoda dear. Example? I defy you to name one man who can urinate and tie his shoelaces at the same time.
"Almost every line, scene, and situation has you laughing. So why does Weber leave you with a lump in the throat?"
Los Angeles Times
"Sexual rancor can be extremely amusing and luckily a few writers know it. Harold Pinter is one and another is Janice Weber...plenty of smiles, chuckles, and belly laughs."
New York Times
"This is a genuinely funny book. It strengthens Janice Weber's place among the country's foremost comic novelists."
John Barkham Reviews
"A burst of fresh air. The author makes fun of just about everything and reminds us that contemporary literature can still be fun."
St. Martin's Press, Inc. ISBN 0-312-07758-0
[ Buy ] Soon to be available on audio
I'm Smith. There are only two of us left now. Used to be seven but Vassar got her wrists slashed under the Eiffel Tower, Wellesley slipped into the Bosphorus on Valentine's Day, Holyoke did a swan dive off a balcony in Tokyo…bad luck. At least each of them had the foresight to make her death like a bimbo suicide. Last year Bryn Mawr then Radcliffe vanished in Africa, leaving Barnard and me alone with Maxine the Queen. At least I think we're alone. For all I know, the Queen's slapping another seven debutantes through boot camp. She certainly isn't treating her two survivors like priceless gems. On the contrary, my last few adventures leave a whiff of suspicion that she's trying to cancel me. Of the seven, I've been the Queen's class brat and Maxine seems to resent my outlasting the sweetheart Vassar, who heeled like a champion spaniel, or Holyoke, who would hack off her right foot for America. I'm a patriot, not a kamikaze, and have occasional difficulty taking orders from a lady with an IQ sixty points below my own. Worse, the Queen has the joie de vivre of a tortoise. Maxine doesn't like to diddle with reality as if it were fiction. She rarely exploits coincidence, never plays God…then has the gall to laugh when I tell her that gambling with my own little life keeps me humble. By now Maxine's half convinced I stay alive just to irritate her; no one joins this outfit without a sensational death wish and I've had many opportunities to indulge myself lately. The ante just hasn't been high enough. Smith's eyeballs will not become buzzard's lunch; Smith's brains will not dribble like slugs over a black leather couch unless the history of the world is at stake. I detest anticlimaxes.
"Ms. Weber is an American concert pianist who writes as well as she plays. Leslie Frost is a person one would very much like to know better. May she return… one of the Notable Books of the Year 1992."
New York Times
"Passion, danger, lots of behind-the-scenes looks at the concert stage and the recording studio - that flapping sound is the reader turning pages at an obsessively fast pace."
"An amazing tour de force...turns the espionage thriller into a magnetic lure which won't let you go even after you have read the last word."
New England Book Review
"Beneath her sparkling prose is Ludlum lifted into the unexpected medium of literacy."
A virtuoso manipulation of hallmark preposterous super-spy novel elements - and it's very, very funny indeed."
"High-spirited and engaging...the hard-boiled heroine has enough panache to keep readers turning the pages."
"Makes James Bond look like a Quaker…the web of intrigue is neatly spun, and Frost finds herself caught up in situations she cannot resist even though she knows they aren't safe…Weber's novel will leave readers dying for more."
Optioned for film by Meredith Lavender and Marcie Ulin, creators of "Eight Days a Week"
Warner Books, Inc. ISBN 0-446-51772-0
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I believe that my wife is having an affair. No, she hasn't bought thick, new perfume or leopard print lingerie, hasn't revamped her hair…there's just an energy about her that I can't place. She's restless at night and leaves our bed to sit in the atrium, where I find her staring at the pale moon beyond the glass. Sometimes she even falls asleep on the couch out there. I rarely wake her then; instead, I pour myself a scotch and sit across from her on the white wicker chair, waiting, studying, wondering what dreams could occupy that lovely head. I am fairly sure she is not dreaming about me, not in a starring role anyway. We've been married too long for that. Her face is so still that she could be dreaming of nothing at all…but why leave the bedroom, leave me, to dream about nothing? No, she dreams, Emily definitely dreams. Suddenly her face contracts and she sighs. It is a sexual and exquisite sound, so full of longing that I can almost feel another man there with her in the shadows. When she wakes up afterward, sees me sitting across the way, she stares at me a tiny second as if trying to remember my name. "Ross," she recollects finally. "What are you doing here?"
Good question, darling.
"Adultery is the devil's food consumed by a bunch of Boston based overachievers in this lusciously complex, irresistible tale. An utterly absorbing, sexy, exhilarating read that also packs a lasting emotional wallop."
Warner Books, Inc. ISBN 0-446-51773-9
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In a few seconds the president of the United States would begin to snore. I had been watching his eyelids droop for the last quarter hour; too many glasses of Riesling at a state dinner, compounded by the strain of trying to see through my gown, had finally knocked him out. Couldn't take his inattention personally since the man didn't know Brahms from Buxtehude. To him, violins without bluegrass were like Novembers without elections. And the poor sod had been up since six trying to run the country. He had probably blown the morning at the hospital with Jordan Bailey, second in command. He could have visited a mistress on the way back to the White House, then spent the afternoon hallucinating with his spin doctors. After that, anther screaming match with wife Paula as he zipped her into that atrocious orange dress. Let him snore, I thought. It was impossible to get mad at Bobby Marvel. He just wasn't a serious president.
"An entertaining and convoluted story that dresses its cynicism about the Washington scene in a cheerful procession of laughs, sex, and intrigue."
"Weber's crisp writing is a pleasure. Ludlum and DeMille fans will welcome this new Leslie Frost caper."
by Amanda Brown and Janice Weber
St. Martin’s Press (ISBN: 978-0-312-36673-5)
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The elastic on Wyeth McCoy’s sleep mask snapped just as his nightmare reached a horrific climax. In his dream he had been best man at a squillion dollar wedding. The bride had arrived late, drunk, then had fallen into a pew while barreling up the aisle. Her nosebleed left hideous splotches on a gown previously owned by Elizabeth Taylor; the sight of blood caused the groom to become sick all over his powder blue tuxedo. When the organist wouldn’t stop playing Take Me Out to the Ball Game, people began pelting him with their cell phones until he fled, taking all four harpists with him. The preacher couldn’t remember the names of the couple getting married and neither could Wyeth, a humiliating snafu since he had known the groom since childhood. Nonetheless the ceremony stumbled on until Wyeth, desperately searching for the wedding ring, discovered it dangling from his own pierced earlobe. The mother of the bride began pulling it with all her might, tearing it free just as his sleep mask gave up the ghost.
"From Brown (Elle Woods, 2007) and Weber (Hot Ticket, 2000), an energetic farce skewering the lives of the rich and obnoxious. Great, silly fun, guaranteed to be seen at a beach near you."