Third Time's the Charm - (c)2000 Jim Farris, All Rights Reserved

<body bgcolor="#000000" text="#FFFFFF" link="#FFFFFF" vlink="#FFFFFF" alink="#FFFFFF"> <script language="JavaScript"></script><p><embed src="Greensleeves.mid" align="baseline" border="0" width="82" height="45" autostart="FALSE" loop="TRUE"></p> <p align="center"><font size="7">Third Time's the Charm</font></p> <p align="center">(c)2000 Jim Farris, All Rights Reserved.</p> <p align="center"><font size="7">~~</font></p> <p align="center">Rita Mahoney was an ace reporter with the Daily Herald, trying to land her dream-job - a position at the sports desk.  Her first assignment?  Interview Tony D'Tillo, a hulking, mysogynistic boxer who hated her on first sight.  Yet, there was something more to this hulking woman-hater than met the eye...  Something deeper, which would touch Rita's soul and change her life forever. </p> <p align="center"><img src="box02i.jpg" width="111" height="139"></p> <p align="center"><br> A swiftly-paced Contemporary Romance, 'Third Time's theCharm' tells the story of a man torn by two worlds and haunted by his past, and the woman who steps into his life and heals his tortured soul.</p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="5">Excerpt from "Third Time's the Charm"</font></p> <p align="center"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="5">~*~</font></p> <p align="center"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Chapter One.</font></p> <p><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">The gym manager took one look at Rita and shook his head. "He'll eat you alive, lady," he replied, then burst out laughing.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"What? Why?" Rita asked, surprised. <em>'Damn - my first major break, after </em><em><u>years</u></em><em> of nagging my editor to transfer me to Sports instead of the Entertainment column, and this is what I get?'</em> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Rita tried to keep her expression smooth as she waited for Mr. Carstairs, the manager of Carstairs' Gym, to stop laughing long enough to answer. Behind her, through the open door that led into the small, grimy office decorated with no less than twelve (she counted) nude calendars, Rita could hear the steady <em>rattatta-rattatta-rattatta</em> of the speed bag being worked over by some young hopeful, and the low <em>thump-thump-thump</em> of another working on the heavy bag. Rita found the calendars offensive, particularly the current one, <em>Playmates of 2004</em>. 'Miss April' may have been sexy to Carstairs, but to Rita, it was blatantly lewd and crude. Rita tried not to breathe in the pungent, sweaty air of the gym too deeply as she waited for Carstairs to finally stop laughing.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Oh, lady! You may as well ask to interview a tiger in the zoo - even if you live, the tiger still ain't gonna say nothin'," he finally said, wiping tears of laughter from his bald, wrinkled face.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Alright - but <em>why?"</em> Rita insisted.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Well, you're a woman!" he replied, still chuckling. "Don't you know nothin' about Tony?"</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"No, that's why I'm here to interview him. All I know is that he's thirty-two, an up-and-coming boxer, turned pro four years ago at age twenty-eight, and in a month he'll be fighting a match that could put him on the track to the heavyweight title, if he wins. If I already knew what I needed to know, I wouldn't be here, now would I?" Rita replied dryly.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Carstairs grinned. "I like you, lady. You got moxie," he said, and reached into his the pocket of his shirt, producing a pack of Camels. "I'm tellin' you, though, you ain't gonna get <em>nothin'</em> outta him, and might just get your head bit off tryin'. Go back to your paper, lady, and tell your editor to give this job to a man."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Rita shook her head. "No way," she replied defiantly, and stifled her reaction at Carstairs lighting his cigarette. It was his office, she supposed he could do whatever he wanted here. "So why is he like that? Why does he not like women reporters?"</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Oh, hell, lady - it's not women reporters. It's women in <em>general.</em> Tony D'Tillo hates <em>all</em> of you," Carstairs replied, blowing a plume of smoke from his first drag.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><em>'That figures,'</em> Rita thought. <em>'My first assignment, and Sam gives me a boxer who hates women.'</em> Rita resisted the urge to wave her hand before her face and try to clear the smoke - it wasn't like the air in here was particularly fresh in the first place. "Why is he like that? Is he gay?"</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Carstairs stared at her for a moment with an astonished expression, then burst out laughing again. "Oh, lady! You go ask that to his face - just give me a few minutes to call the ambulance before you do, alright?"</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><em>'I'm getting nowhere here,'</em> Rita realized. Looking around in the office, she spotted an autographed baseball on top of a cabinet behind Carstairs. "Hey - is that Joe DiMaggio's autograph?" she asked, grasping at straws.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Yeah, what's it to you?" Carstairs asked, suspiciously. "I'm not selling it, if that's what you're wondering."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"No, it's just that he's always been my favorite player. Joseph Paul DiMaggio, the <em>'Yankee Clipper'," </em>Rita replied, and put a nostalgic look on her face. "One of the greatest, if not <em><u>the</u></em> greatest outfielder in baseball history, and definitely the best all-'round player in the forties. Played minor league in 'Frisco, then got snapped up by the Yankees. Between '36 and '51 when he retired, he helped the Yankees win ten AL championships and nine World Series titles, though he was in the military when they won the pennant in '43. In '39 and '40, he led the AL in batting, with averages of .381 and .352 - his career mark was .352, making him one of the best hitters ever to play, too. Hit safe in 56 consecutive games between May 15<sup>th</sup> and July 16<sup>th</sup> of '41. He played outfield so relaxed, some people thought he was lazy."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"He wasn't, though! He was just <em>damn</em> good!" Carstairs replied, grinning.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"You betcher ass, bud," Rita replied, which caused Carstairs to chuckle again. "Got MVP three times, in '39, '41 and '47, and was elected to the Hall of Fame in '55. His brothers Vincent Paul and Dominic Paul were also major league outfielders, but they never really did manage to step out of the big shadow Joe cast behind him."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Yeah, they were good, too. But Joltin' Joe was the best. So sad that he's gone, now," Carstairs said with a sigh.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Yeah. When I was a little girl, I wanted to grow up and marry him. It didn't work out, though - after Marilyn, he wasn't interested in marrying again," Rita replied with a straight face.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Carstairs looked up at her, and burst out laughing again. "Oh, come on! You weren't even a gleam in your ol' man's eye when Joe retired, if that! I'm sixty-six - I remember watching him play when I was... Eight or ten, I think. But you? You can't be more than thirty."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Actually, I'm thirty-four. But hey - a girl can dream, can't she?" Rita replied with a grin.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Yeah, I guess you can," he replied, nodding and glancing over his shoulder to his nude calendars. "Tell you what - you can dream about Joe, and I'll dream about Marilyn, okay?" he asked, grinning.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Okay," Rita replied. <em>'Bingo - she shoots, she scores!'</em> she thought to herself. It wasn't by chance she knew DiMaggio's career statistics, nor was it some feminist impulse that had made her push for a transfer to the Sports desk. Rita Mahoney had always loved sports - all sports - ever since she was a little girl, and she'd even played women's basketball in high school and college. She'd always been a bit of a 'tomboy' in that regard. She loved sports as much as any man she knew, and knew more about sports stats than most men did. Rita read the sports page as devoutly as many other women read the fashion or society pages - though she read the fashion pages to keep up with the latest trends, of course. Over the years, she'd found that sports made a great way to 'break the ice' with men, though in the end, her knowledge of sports often ruined an otherwise perfect relationship. Most men can't stand dating a woman who can argue sports stats with them - and <em>win.</em> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Here - siddown a minute. I'll try to tell you what I know of Tony the Tiger, okay?"</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Sounds good to me," Rita replied, and took a seat in the rickety chair before Carstairs' desk.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Okay. Now, you gotta unnerstan' he wasn't always like this. He was once a real nice guy. You know - opens doors for the ladies, gets up when they come into a room, yadda yadda. Got the picture?" he asked, and Rita nodded while he continued. "Well, about two years ago, somethin' happened. Nobody around here knows what. He was gone for about six months. Didn't show up to work out, nothin'. I caught him on the street one day, so I asks him. <em>'Tony,'</em> I says, <em>'Why you haven't been around?'</em> <em>'Al,'</em> he says back,<em> 'I got a girl. First in a long, long time. She needs me, Al. Can't work and take care of her and be at the gym, too. Something had to give.'</em> I want to ask him more, but he's in a rush," Carstairs explained, and paused to pull out another Camel and light up before he resumed his story.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"So, I'm thinking <em>'This must be serious, he's given up boxing, and that was his life.'</em> Still, nobody sees him around here. Maybe his friends over on Clancy street see him, but not around here. Then, one day, he just walks back in like nothing happened. Well, the word's gotten around that he had a girl, you know? So one of the boys asks him about it. <em>POW!"</em> Carstairs exclaimed, clapping his fist into his palm for emphasis. "Broke Johnny's jaw, knocked him out cold. Anybody who asks him about his girl - same thing. And when some of the boys have their girlfriends visit them here..," he said, his voice trailing off. Carstairs shook his head. "You can just <em>feel</em> it. You can see it in his eyes. He <em>hates</em> them. <em>All</em> of them," he said, then looked into Rita's eyes. "It's no good, lady. Give it up. He ain't gonna talk to you - and he might just knock your pretty little block off if you say the wrong thing. Yeah, he's on his way up. He might even make heavyweight champ in a few years. But lady, you haven't <em>seen</em> him in the ring, I'll bet."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"I've seen him fight. I got tickets to his last bout two months ago - he was on the ticket with another boxer I was interested in seeing," Rita replied.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Carstairs chuckled. "A dame who likes sports. Now I've seen everything," he muttered, then shook his head. "Well, if you've seen that fight, then you know what I'm talking about. The man is an animal. He hits so hard it makes Tyson's punches look like love-taps. He knocked Eddie Fisher, the guy he was fighting then, right out of the whole damn ring! Did you see that when you saw that fight?"</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Yup. Bell rings, three quick jabs to push him back to the side of the ring, a body blow that doubled Fisher over and knocked him into the ropes, then a right cross that sent Fisher between the ropes and down to the floor. Ref couldn't stop it when Fisher hit the ropes, even if he wanted to - it just happened too fast. Fisher had a broken rib from where D'Tillo punched him, and a broken elbow from hitting the floor."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Exactly right. That's why I'm telling you, lady - don't mess with him. Just go back to your paper and tell your editor to send a man out to do the job. You ask him the wrong thing, and he's likely to put you in the hospital with one punch. The man is an animal."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"No way. I'm not giving up," Rita replied firmly. "So when does he usually come in?"</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Carstairs sighed. "Okay, lady. It's your funeral," he said, and pointed behind Rita, out the open door. "See that big gorilla in the black turtleneck walking towards the showers?" </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Rita turned and looked over her shoulder, out the door. "That's him?" she asked, spotting an enormous, black-haired man in a crew-cut on the other side of the gym, walking with his back to her, a gym-bag under one arm.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Yup. He just walked in while you and I were talking. Give him a few minutes to change, then you can try to talk to him in the gym. I'll stay here by the phone so's I can call an ambulance after he decks you."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Rita turned back to look at Carstairs, and was a little shocked when she saw his expression - he wasn't joking. He was deadly serious. "He-he hasn't actually punched a woman, has he?"</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Not that I know of, no. But then again, none of the gals who sometimes visit here ever get close enough to find out if he will or not. Trust me, lady - you can see it in his eyes. He hates you. All of you."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Rita nodded. "Well, I'll just have to be careful, then," she replied, and stood, holding out her hand. </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Carstairs rose, shaking her hand gently. "It's been nice knowing you, lady."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Rita went back out into the gym, and waited. She tried to remain calm, but it was <em>extremely</em> difficult. <em>'Come on, Rita. He can't be that bad. If he was </em><em><u>really</u></em><em> a monster, even Carstairs wouldn't let him in here - he does have a reputation to maintain, after all,'</em> she thought to herself.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Several minutes later, Tony "The Tiger" D'Tillo stepped out from the locker room and strode over to the speed bag. He was wearing black Nike's with white stripes, black shorts and a black 'muscle' shirt. He also had a tiny black pager clipped to the waist of his shorts, small enough to fit in Rita's hand - though who might want to page this gorilla, Rita had no idea. He seemed totally consumed, his eyes focused only on the bag. The bantam-weight hopeful that was carefully and precisely swatting at the bag sensed more than saw the looming shadow behind him, and stopped. He turned, saw Tony behind him, and blanched. "Oh - sorry, Tony. I guess I'm done for now. I can use the other speed bag over there," he said, gesturing with gloves that seemed comically large on him.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"That's alright, Jack. I can wait," Tony replied, in a voice that sounded to Rita like nothing more than a deep growl.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"No, really. Go ahead, Tony," the smaller man replied, smiling weakly as he backed away.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Thanks, Jack," Tony replied, and after taking a moment to adjust the height of the bag to about his head level, he began methodically bashing away at it. Rita noticed he wasn't wearing gloves over his ham-sized fists - he merely started punching.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Rita stared unabashedly at the man. He was, in a word, huge. She hadn't really been able to tell when she saw him fight two months ago, as her seat hadn't been that close to the ring. Now, less than fifteen feet from the man, she realized just how huge he really was. Rita guessed, since he appeared to be at least a head and a half taller than her, that he was probably about six foot six. In build, Carstairs hadn't been too far off with his 'gorilla' remark. He was enormously broad-shouldered, with a physique that made Swartzenegger look like a 98-pound weakling. <em>'Steroids, I guess,'</em> Rita thought to herself. His face, though, caught her eye more than did his massive, rippling muscles. It wasn't that his face was ugly, per se, Rita realized - it was actually quite a handsome italian face. No, it was the scar.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">He had an ugly scar that ran from above his left eye, across the bridge of his nose, down under his right eye and to the right corner of his mouth. Rita couldn't tell what it was from, but it certainly looked frightening. The scar twisted the right corner of his mouth downwards slightly, to where it always looked like he was frowning. The only other defect he had that Rita could see was that the knuckles of his hands had enormous calluses over them, but that wasn't unusual for a boxer.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">With a sudden motion that startled Rita so badly she nearly leapt out of her skin, Tony clapped both his hands around the speed bag, stilling it instantly. He then slowly turned to her, and glared down at her. "Why are you staring at me?" he rumbled.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"I-I-I...," Rita stammered, then composed herself with an effort. "Mr. D'Tillo, I'm Rita Mahoney of the <em>Daily Herald</em>. I was wondering if I might interview you for the sports column of our paper."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Tony looked down at Rita, and she blanched slightly. The expression on his face was <em>not</em> a pleasant one - Rita imagined it was the look Tony might give a cockroach, just before he stepped on it. </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Leave me alone," he rumbled, and glowered at her menacingly.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Rita backed up a step, her heart pounding. Tony simply turned back to the speed bag, and resumed methodically bashing it. Rita felt a touch at her elbow, and jumped. She turned - it was Carstairs.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"I tried to tell you. You're lucky, I guess - no broken bones," Carstairs replied, grinning at her fear. He then looked Past Rita's shoulder. "Hey, Tony? Where's Frankie today?"</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"His emphysema is bothering him. Got some kind of lung infection yesterday. He's in the hospital. Doctor says he'll be out in a couple weeks. You should lay off those cigarettes, Al, or you'll be joining him someday," Tony replied. After a moment, dawned on Rita that the same voice he'd used with Jack and Al was the same one he'd used with her - a deep, rumbling growl. Either he was angry all the time, or that simply was the way he normally sounded. Judging by what Carstairs had said, she was betting it was most likely the former.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Who's Frankie?" Rita asked quietly.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Tony's trainer, Frankie Fiarello," Carstairs replied offhandedly, then shrugged. "Well, lady, whatcha gonna do now? Risk bothering him again, or give up?"</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Rita glanced back to Tony, who apparently had resumed his focused concentration on the speed bag, and was totally ignoring her. <em>'Jesus God. He really </em><em><u>does</u></em><em> hate women. I wonder why?'</em> she thought to herself. She shook her head, and turned to Carstairs. "Well, for now I'm going back to my editor."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Ah - get a man to do the job? That's best."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">Rita frowned - the failure at her first assignment for the sports desk stung her pride. "Maybe. I don't know yet. I'll see you later, Mr. Carstairs."</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3"><br wp="BR1"> <br wp="BR2"> </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="3">"Bye, lady," he replied, chuckling. </font></p> <p align="center"><font color="#FFFFFF" size="5">~*~</font></p> <p align="center"><em><img src="thirdtime.gif" width="250" height="350"></em></p> <p align="center"><em>Available now from </em><a href="http://www.diskuspublishing.com/thirdtimesacharm.html"><em>DiskUs Publishing</em></a><em>.</em></p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"><em>Reviews:</em></p> <p style="TEXT-INDENT: 20.4pt">"This was a thoroughly enjoyable and highly entertaining book. I especially enjoyed the way Rita learned that appearances are not always what they seem and that Tony learned all women are not alike. I look forward to reading more of J. Farris' work." </p> <p style="TEXT-INDENT: 20.4pt">~~ Kathy Boswell, The Best Reviews, Member, Reviewers International Organization (RIO) </p> <p align="center">~~*~~ </p> <p style="TEXT-INDENT: 20.4pt">***** Outstanding! The author did a bang-up good job on this story! And the ending ROCKS! *****  </p> <p style="TEXT-INDENT: 20.4pt">HUNTRESS BOOK REVIEWS (Reviewed by Detra Fitch) <a href="http://www.huntressreviews.com/emodern.htm">http://www.huntressreviews.com/emodern.htm</a> </p> <p style="TEXT-INDENT: 20.4pt"> </p> <p align="left">"Farris delivers a one-two punch straight to the heart with <em>Third Time's the Charm</em>, creating dynamic characters you'll cheer for and a plot that keeps you on the edge of your chair. It's a knockout!" <br> <br> Leta Nolan Childers, Best-selling author of <a href="http://www.diskuspublishing.com/letanolanchilders.html"><em>Best Laid Plans</em></a></p> <p align="center"><a href="http://www.ccnow.com/cgi-local/cart.cgi?diskus_1584955465-DOWN_http://www.diskuspublishing.com/BookCatalog.htm" target="_top"><img src="oneclickdown.gif" alt="Click here to purchase this e-book now! (you must have Cookies enabled)" border="0" width="125" height="75"></a></p> <table border="0" width="100%"> <tr> <td><a href="javascript:history.back(1)"><font size="5"><em>Back</em></font></a><font size="5"><em> </em></font></td> <td align="right"><a href="redirect_original.htm" target="_top"><font size="5"><em>Home</em></font></a></td> </tr> </table> </body>