Written in the mid-80's, some of the attitudes and technology is dated, but the plots and snappy repartee remain fresh. There's nothing wimpy about Beverly Sommer's heroines...
It started out just like every other day...Veronica Warner never imagined it would end with a taxi driver with dark curls, soulful eyes and slightly accented English would fall head over heels for her at first sight. The next thing she knows, he is sending her flowers and offering her rides in his cab. She makes it a rule never to date taxi drivers---even if they are Russian playwrights with eyes that conjure dreams of a nowy night, a bearskin rug, and a roaring fire. But Anatoly Grushenko didn't understand her rules. And he's a very persistant man...
It started out just like every other day...Veronica Warner never imagined it would end with a taxi driver with dark curls, soulful eyes and slightly accented English would fall head over heels for her at first sight. The next thing she knows, he is sending her flowers and offering her rides in his cab. She makes it a rule never to date taxi drivers---even if they are Russian playwrights with eyes that conjure dreams of a nowy night, a bearskin rug, and a roaring fire. But Anatoly Grushenko didn't understand her rules. And he's a very persistant man...
It stared out just like every other day at work. I was sitting in my cubicle, staring at the stack of files that needed dictation. As an insurance adjuster for a taxi service, I never run out of work. Taxis are always hitting pedestrians in crosswalks. Bikes are always running into taxis. And tourists in rental cars unaccustonmed to the streets of San Francisco, are always rolling back and hitting taxis.
Then he appeared--the taxi driver with the dark curls and the souful green eyes. Speaking in slightly accented English, he told me he'd had an accident. I gave him the appropriate forms to fill out. But the paperwork took a backseat to the profound discovery made by the driver. Anatoly Grushenko thought I was sweet.
That's how it began. The next thing I knew, he was sending me flowers and offering me rides in his cab. I make it a rule never to date taxi drivers--even if they are Russian playwrights with eyes that conjure dreams of a snowy night, a bearskin rug and a roaring fire. But Anatoly didn't understand my rules. And he's a very persistant man...
Then he appeared--the taxi driver with the dark curls and the souful green eyes. Speaking in slightly accented English, he told me he'd had an accident. I gave him the appropriate forms to fill out. But the paperwork took a backseat to the profound discovery made by the driver. Anatoly Grushenko thought I was sweet.
That's how it began. The next thing I knew, he was sending me flowers and offering me rides in his cab. I make it a rule never to date taxi drivers--even if they are Russian playwrights with eyes that conjure dreams of a snowy night, a bearskin rug and a roaring fire. But Anatoly didn't understand my rules. And he's a very persistant man...
