The arrangement /

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

A Pretty Woman tale turns toxic and deadly in this provocative thriller of sex, obsession, and murder from Robyn Harding, the "master of domestic suspense" (Kathleen Barber) and the USA TODAY bestselling author of The Swap and Her Pretty Face .

Natalie, a young art student in New York City, is struggling to pay her bills when a friend makes a suggestion: Why not go online and find a sugar daddy--a wealthy, older man who will pay her for dates and even give her a monthly allowance? Lots of girls do it, Nat learns. All that's required is to look pretty and hang on his every word. Sexual favors are optional.

Though more than thirty years her senior, Gabe, a handsome corporate finance attorney, seems like the perfect candidate, and within a month, they are madly in love. At least, Nat is...Gabe already has a family, whom he has no intention of leaving.

So when he abruptly ends things, Nat can't let go. But Gabe's not about to let his sugar baby destroy his perfect life. What was supposed to be a mutually beneficial arrangement devolves into a nightmare of deception, obsession, and, when a body is found near Gabe's posh Upper East Side apartment, murder.

Emotionally powerful and packed with page-turning suspense, The Arrangement delves into the sordid, all-too-real world of shadowy relationships between wealthy, powerful men and the young women who are caught in their web.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

The Arrangement 1 The Roommates The first thing Nat noticed when she awoke was the taste in her mouth: metallic, burnt, chemical. Jesus . . . What had she drunk last night? The pounding in her head answered: too much. She reached for the glass of water sitting on the floor next to her mattress. The tepid liquid soothed her parched throat but made her stomach churn and roll. She flopped back down, willing the nausea to abate. She didn't want to vomit into her overflowing wastebasket. And she didn't want to stumble through the apartment to the tiny bathroom she shared with her two roommates. Her insides were just starting to settle when she noticed Miguel, sprawled on his back, snoring softly beside her. Shit. Nat must have been really wasted to have brought her coworker home. Again. She had made a vow not to hook up with Miguel anymore. Not because he wasn't sweet, and funny, and hot--he was. But he was also a little in love with her, and she didn't want that to turn into a lot in love with her. They were just twenty-one, both students who worked at the same bar. A relationship with Miguel would be complicated, was bound to get messy. Nat had already been involved in one toxic, twisted, ultimately catastrophic relationship. She wasn't going to do complicated and messy again. She lay there, for a moment, observing her sleeping partner. Next to Miguel's warm, brown back, Nat's naked body looked fish-belly pale. Her father's Gaelic genes, the dismal winter weather, and her poor diet were to blame. When Nat was properly nourished and getting adequate sunshine, her skin was peaches and cream, in pleasing contrast to her thick dark hair. When she was perpetually bundled in a winter coat, hat, and scarf, subsisting on packaged ramen and frozen pierogies, her pallor became ghostly, her hair a flat, mousy brown. She needed sunshine, citrus fruit, and protein. But Mother Nature, and her bank account, were conspiring against her. The third thing she noticed that morning--after the toxic taste in her mouth, the pounding in her head, and the bartender in her bed--was the noise from the kitchen. A cupboard door banged aggressively. Pots and pans crashed together as they were dropped into the sink. Her roommates were pissed about something and were relaying it in their usual passive-aggressive manner. "I'm so fucking over this." The muffled voice belonged to Mara, an angular, ginger-haired NYU student. She was getting her master's in economics. Or was it political science? Something dry, dull, cerebral--at least to an art student like Nat. Mara was intense and easily irritated and borderline OCD. What normal college student organized her canned goods by expiration date? Cleaned the fridge and sink twice a week with a bleach solution? Carried her toiletries back and forth from her bedroom to the bathroom, because, if left there, they'd be contaminated, with . . . what? Mildew? Urine? Feces? "You were right," Toni grumbled, loud enough for Nat to hear, "we shouldn't have let an artist move in with us." The jab smarted. Toni and Nat had been friendly when Nat first rented the spare room in the Bushwick apartment, a couple years ago. Unlike Mara, Toni was funny, messy, normal. Nat had felt an instant affinity for the girl with the bright smile, dark skin, and thick mass of braided hair. The pair had stayed up late drinking wine on a few occasions, had bonded over their love of salacious reality television and their adulation of Mariah Carey. But they'd grown apart recently. Toni was a fourth-year nursing student now, who kept long and grueling hours. Apparently, she no longer had time for trash TV. Or a sense of humor. There was another bang, a jar being slammed onto the countertop, and more cursing from one of the roomies. Nat knew she had to get up, had to apologize, had to make things right. The rent for her tiny bedroom in the rundown apartment was straining her budget, and she was already on unofficial probation after breaking Mara's Crock-Pot. A note had been slipped under her door after she'd attempted to cook a frozen pot roast and cracked the ceramic vessel. If you can't respect my appliances and use them as per instructions, I'm going to have to reconsider your tenancy. Mara's name was on the lease, which gave her the power to choose her roommates. It was obvious she wanted rid of the messy, hard-partying art student in the third bedroom. Nat wasn't even sure what she had done to anger them this time, but she hoped it wouldn't constitute a second strike. Her Bushwick home was affordable (just), safe (relatively), and accessible (forty-two minutes by subway) to the Manhattan campus of the School of Visual Arts. Nat had to get out there and kiss some roommate ass. Ignoring her throbbing head and roiling belly, she dragged herself out of bed. Miguel didn't stir. How could he sleep through the ruckus? Nat's yellowing terry-cloth robe hung from a hook on the door, and she grabbed it, wrapping the musty garment around her. She noted then that she was still wearing panties. Maybe she and Miguel hadn't had sex? She felt disgusted with herself for not remembering. The night's events were hazy, blurry, jumbled. She'd gone to her job at Donnelly's bar after her illustration class. Her lover had slipped her a few shots of vodka to get her through her waitressing shift. After closing, they'd shared a bottle of wine, and maybe a few Paralyzers. Or had they been White Russians? She definitely had to cut back on her drinking. She stumbled into the kitchen and spotted the offending mess. A couple of pots were stacked in the sink. An open jar of tomato sauce, its contents dripping down the side, sat in a red ring on the table. It came to her in a flash of remembrance: pasta. She and Miguel had been hungry when they got home. Nat had made them rigatoni with jarred marinara. They'd sat at the tiny kitchen table and ate. And then Miguel was touching her, and kissing her, and they'd ended up in bed. Clearly, they had not halted their foreplay to wash the dishes. "Sorry, guys. I'll clean this up." Mara whirled around, her ubiquitous bleach spray in hand. "You should have cleaned up last night." "I know. I screwed up." Toni, pouring coffee from a French press into a chipped mug, didn't look up. "If you're hungry at four A.M., go to a diner." Nat remembered Miguel's suggestion to that effect. But she barely had enough money to cover her next tuition installment, and it wasn't looking good for her rent. Even a burger would have broken the budget. Miguel would have paid, she knew, but his finances had to be tight, too. She hadn't wanted to feel beholden to him, so she had offered to cook. And then, they'd ended up in bed. "Toni and I aren't comfortable with all the guys you've been bringing home," Mara said, attacking the tomato sauce on the table as if she were cleaning up a chemical spill. Nat felt her cheeks flush, a combination of humiliation and anger. All the guys? She could count on one hand the number of men she'd brought home since she'd been living there. Nat was not promiscuous; she was twenty-one. And her roommates weren't exactly virgins. Mara had had a fling with one of her TAs just last year. And Toni used to have noisy sex with a hot computer science student, back when she drank wine and watched The Bachelor, and laughed, on occasion. Both her roommates needed to lighten up, probably needed to get laid. Nat kept her voice calm. "I don't bring home many guys." Toni smirked. "Really? Isn't there a guy in your bed right now?" "No," Nat lied. "We heard his voice last night," Mara sniped. "It's not what you think," Nat retorted. "A friend from work walked me home. Friday nights are crazy at the bar, and we were hungry and exhausted, I made us some pasta and invited him to crash." It might have been true. She was still wearing her panties, after all. She watched the other women exchange a look. Was it doubt? Skepticism? Or guilt? Yes, that's what it was. They felt bad for accusing her when they didn't have all the facts. Nat hammered the nail in. "I'd appreciate not being slut-shamed when I was only helping out a colleague." "Sorry," mumbled Toni, dunking her lips into her coffee. Mara kept scrubbing, probably formulating an articulate apology. That's when Miguel walked into the kitchen--rumpled from sleep, hungover, handsome. And stark naked. "Is everything okay out here?" he said, hands inadequately covering his crotch. "I heard banging. . . ." Nat observed the expression on her roommates' faces. This time, it could not be misconstrued. Validation. And disapproval. Excerpted from The Arrangement by Robyn Harding All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Publishers Weekly Review

This disappointing melodrama from Harding (Her Pretty Face) finds college art student Natalie "Nat" Murphy, who's moved from her small hometown of Blaine, Wash., where she had a miserable childhood, to New York City, at her lowest. She's friendless, close to losing her scholarship, and in danger of being evicted because her roommates are sick of her excess drinking, bringing home random men, and being behind on her rent and other bills. A classmate suggests an option--a website connecting young women ("sugar babies") with wealthy men ("daddies"), who pay for companionship, but not necessarily sex. Reluctantly, Nat enters "the sugar bowl." Nat believes she has hit the jackpot with Gabe Turnmill, whose generosity includes giving Nat a new apartment. Nat quickly falls in love with Gabe, and their breakup puts her in a downward spiral of obsession that leads to violence. Nat's naïveté, however, borders on stupidity, and, given her slovenly habits, the sugar baby angle is a bit of a stretch. The arrogant Gabe, his wallet aside, is no catch. Lifetime movies have more tension and twists than this clichéd novel with its cardboard characters. Agent: Joseph Veltre, Gersh Agency. (Aug.)

Booklist Review

Naive art-school student Natalie is struggling to make it in New York City. She can't help but notice that her study partner, Ava, lives in a fancy apartment, wears the latest designer fashions, and seems to have a ready supply of cash. Ava introduces Natalie to SugarDaddy.com, a website where she can meet wealthy men willing to pay a hefty monthly retainer for young arm candy. ( Escorts get paid for sex. I get paid for my time, Ava explains.) Natalie signs up and quickly meets Gabe, a married man 30 years her senior. She makes the classic mistake, though, of falling in love . . . and Gabe is not having any of it. When he dumps her, Natalie spirals into an obsession that threatens her friendships, her mental health, and, whoops, someone's very life. Harding's latest is a potboiler that will appeal to readers who enjoy twisty thrillers and are looking for a bit of a soap opera.--Rebecca Vnuk Copyright 2019 Booklist

Kirkus Book Review

A newly minted sugar baby falls for her sugar daddy with deadly results in Harding's (Her Pretty Face, 2018, etc.) latest thriller. Welcome to the sugar bowl.Twenty-one-year-old art student Natalie Murphy is happy to be in New York City and away from Cole, the abusive boyfriend she left behind in tiny Blaine, Washington. Unfortunately, Nat has trouble making rent and is close to getting kicked out of her apartment. Luckily, Nat's impossibly stylish school friend Ava has a solution. Ava is a sugar baby: She dates wealthy, successful men who sponsor her upscale lifestyle, but Nat has a few reservations, mainly about sex. Ava explains that sex is only on the menu if Nat wants it. After Nat gets fired from her job, she posts a profile on a sugar daddy website and makes a date with the charming and handsome Angeldaddy, aka 55-year-old lawyer Gabe Turnmill. He tells Nat that he's divorced, but in reality, Gabe sees himself as a martyr who must take care of his wife of 29 years, Celeste, a cancer survivor who gained weight, making her undesirable to poor Gabe. After a few dates, lots of self-recrimination, ignored red flags, and wads of cash, Nat is smitten. It's not the money that has her hookedit's Gabe, who offers Nat an ongoing arrangement, including a monthly allowance, but when he eventually calls it off, Nat goes off the rails, and Gabe must contain the considerable fallout. Murder is, of course, inevitable. The world of sugar babies and their daddies is fascinating, but weak characterizations render Nat and Gabe, and their supporting cast, as little more than cardboard cutouts, and Nat hits every clichd beat of the scorned lover rendered psychotically hysterical by a powerful, sociopathic man. A lot can be parsed about arrangements with a built-in power imbalance that allow for predatory manipulation, but that's given only surface-level exploration. More effort is put into heightening the melodrama and engineering soapy twists.A missed opportunity. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Author notes provided by Syndetics

Robyn Harding is the author of numerous international bestsellers, including The Party , The Arrangement and The Drowning Woman . She has also written and executive produced an independent film. She lives in Vancouver, BC, with her family and two cute but deadly rescue chihuahuas. Visit her at RobynHarding.com or follow her on Twitter and Instagram @RHardingWriter or Facebook @AuthorRobynHarding.