- बीड़ा ❧ Maheshwari Silk Saree ❧ 04
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In the past almost everything such houses created had pragmatic design roots in infantry or cavalry uniforms. Abstracted, most elements of the modern suit would have been familiar to Napoleon. Reacting to the reality that men no longer need that kind of armor, Ms. Nichanian turned her talent to producing relaxed American-style sportswear, like drawstring trousers and funnel-neck pullovers in cotton poplin, all in subtle spice colors. And, of course, there were the expected sneakers and sandals. Those familiar with Mr.
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Jagger know he is abnormally disciplined in his habits, having learned long ago the effort required to make difficult things look easy. Leaving aside some lizard-skin boots with stacked heels, the collection stopped well shy of ostentation and ran to the beautifully proportioned and the chromatically assured: gently narrowed bone-white trousers, a draped cinnamon silk sweater, pale-blue track pants with dark side stripes, a dove-gray windbreaker worn with pushed up sleeves atop a shirt of faded lilac.
Usually the plaudits for this particular conglomerate go to Kim Jones, possibly the best utility player working in fashion. As in most past collections, his spring effort for Louis Vuitton was set in motion by the wanderlust that is either Mr. When someone not long ago brought the designer an atlas of obscure islands, he realized that he had already made landfall on most.
Thus, the idea to build a collection around island life might have started with that, or it might equally have originated in the widespread return of the Hawaiian shirt or, for that matter, from the popular Instagram feeds of adventuring pro surfers like John John Florence. In Mr. They were shown with bucket hats reminiscent of the Hawaiian Punch guy, patch-pocket pullover jackets and voluminous khakis or skinny board shorts.
There were also a couple of suits tossed in almost desultorily, the way you might pack something fancy for a vacation, just in case. The new Louis Vuitton collection had a beachy ease, a look that in the eyes of this viewer seemed unmistakably American. You could imagine Mr.
बीड़ा ❧ Maheshwari Silk Saree ❧ 04
You know the one: the 44th president of the United States. But no amount of training could have prepared her for the reality of seeing that first, fresh, vampire kill. Regan had turned away and covered her mouth, trying in vain to keep her dinner down. It had been Michael who had come to her aid, who had offered her a handkerchief and assured her that it happened to everyone sooner or later. They had been friends from that night forward.
Now, she stood in the shadows, watching two men wearing masks and gloves slip the body into a black plastic bag for the trip to the morgue while the forensic team tagged and bagged possible evidence from the scene. She had a hunch that whoever had perpetrated the crime knew exactly what he was doing and that whatever evidence he had left behind, if any, would be useless.
Regan watched the ambulance pull away from the curb. Once the body had been thoroughly examined, the medical examiner. Regan was jotting down a few notes when she felt a shiver run down her spine. Making a slow turn, she peered into the darkness as every instinct for self-preservation that she possessed screamed a warning. He emerged from the shadowy darkness on cat-silent feet.
She never left home without it. The gun was loaded with five silver bullets that had been dipped in holy water. The hammer rested on an empty chamber. He spoke with the kind of calm assurance that left no room for doubt. Joaquin Santiago moved toward her like a sleek black panther on the trail of fresh game. Supernatural power radiated from him like heat from a blast furnace. He was tall and well-muscled, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and long, long legs.
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In movies, vampires were usually depicted as pale and gaunt, with stringy hair and long fingernails, but there was nothing pale or gaunt about Santiago. His dusky skin and the contours of his face proudly proclaimed his Spanish and Native America heritage. He wore snug black trousers, a black silk shirt, a long black coat reminiscent of the kind cowboys had worn in the Old West, and a pair of supple black leather boots. He looked like the angel of death come to call. Regan took a deep breath. Even though she had never met Joaquin Santiago before tonight, she knew who he was.
Before the local Undead had been confined to You Bet Your Life Park, Santiago had been the undisputed master of the city, feared by vampires and humans alike. In person, he more than lived up to the hype that surrounded him. Dark blue eyes that were vibrant and direct and glowed faintly, even in the dark.
Eyes that could hypnotize with a glance. She lifted her chin a notch. Score one for me, Regan thought with an inner smile of satisfaction. She tried not to stare at him, but it was difficult.
He was easily the most handsome individual, man or vampire, she had ever seen. Of course, all vampires, male and female, seemed to be beautiful. It was part of their preternatural allure, but she was willing to bet that this man had been drop dead gorgeous even before the Dark Trick had been worked upon him. Though he looked to be in his early thirties, she knew he was an old vampire, perhaps ancient. Only the old ones possessed that eerie stillness.
He nodded, once, curtly. Three people were killed that no one knows about, and you were worried about a little bad publicity? We did not check their identification. Feeling suddenly chilled, Regan wrapped her arms around her body. Three people had died violently and their loved ones would never know what happened to them. They would be listed as missing persons, their families left to forever wonder what had become of them.
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It catered to humans during the day and the Undead after dark. The restaurant had long been considered neutral territory, a place where daring humans and curious vampire could mingle without fear, if they so desired. Besides, she was supposed to hunt and destroy vampires, not have cocktails with them. He laughed softly. She was afraid; afraid of the effect he had on her senses, afraid of that air of male supremacy that rolled off him in waves, but she would have chewed her tongue off and swallowed it whole before she would have admitted it.
She had encountered vampires before, but never one this old, or this powerful. She was still trying to think of a suitable reply when, without a word, he was gone. Regan glanced around, surprised to find that everyone else was gone, as well, and that she was alone in the Park. Though every instinct she possessed urged her to run from the place just as fast as she could, she turned and walked sedately toward the street where she had left her car. One of the first things she had learned was that showing fear in front of a vampire, or any predator, for that matter, was never a good idea. Regan slipped her hand into her jacket pocket.
She was a hunter. She was supposed to be brave. Her finger curled around the trigger.
Why had she parked so far away? She was still a good distance from the curb when she realized someone was watching her from the darkness. She glanced casually over her shoulder, expecting to see hell-red eyes staring back at her. Someone was following her.
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She heard faint, mocking laughter off to her left and she veered to the right. Fingers of cold sweat trickled down her spine. The sense of being followed grew stronger, the eerie laughter grew louder.