Undercover Love Quotes

They'll say you are bad or perhaps you are mad or at least you should stay undercover. Your mind must be bare if you would dare to think you can love more than one lover.

I’d like to know more about this undercover agent who posed as my daughter’s date. The ubiquitous Tall, Dark, and Smoldering.' Nick put on his best meet-the-parent smile. 'I generally prefer to go by Nick.

Boyfriend huh? I didn't realize we had taken things to that level." "Oh, I'm sorry--this is my first undercover operation," Jordan said. "I'm a little unclear about the rules. Are we seeing other people in this fake relationship?

Have you ever watched a leaf leave a tree? It falls upward first, and then it drifts toward the ground, just as I find myself drifting towards you.

Fear is a powerful motivator, but so is love.

Don't take this next undercover assignment. Stay with me instead." Nick's eyes pierced hers, refusing to let her off that easily. "Tell me why." "Because... I love you." She exhaled. No take-backs. The words were out there forever. And it felt great.

If he'd expected to be pampered and coddled through his undercover assignments, he would have gone to work for the CIA.

Let me leave you my number. Anything comes up, or if anyone bothers you-" "You're bothering me.

You know how a river goes on and on? That's my love for you.

We spend a lot of time talking about the unfairness of how our toxic musculine society forces us to be ashamed of embracing romance novels. Yet we buy our books in secret. It's time we practice what we preach.

The night before, I'd gone overboard with my Lila poems, and maybe it's true that I was hoping that in them he'd see the genius of me, the beauty of my words in his hands.

Because Rowdy Yates was that and then some. He was also drop-dead gorgeous in a devilish, careless, edgy way. Where Reese tempered his sex appeal, Rowdy threw it out there without reserve, bludgeoning innocent bystanders with his raw magnetism.

It's nice when grown people whisper to each other under the covers. Their ecstasy is more a leaf-sigh than bray and the body is the vehicle, not the point. They reach, grown people, for something beyond, way beyond and way, way down underneath tissue. They are remembering while they whisper the carnival dolls they won and the Baltimore boats they never sailed on. The pears they let hang on the limb because if they plucked them, they would be gone from there and who else would see that ripeness if they took it away for themselves? How could anybody passing by see them and imagine for themselves what the flavour would be like? Breathing and murmuring under covers both of them have washed and hung out on the line, in a bed they chose together and kept together nevermind one leg was propped on a 1916 dictionary, and the mattress, curved like a preacher's palm asking for witnesses in His name's sake, enclosed them each and every night and muffled their whispering, old-time love. They are under the covers because they don't have to look at themselves anymore; there is no stud's eye, no chippie glance to undo them. They are inward toward the other, bound and joined by carnival dolls and the steamers that sailed from ports they never saw. That is what is beneath their undercover whispers.

I love you.” Jack focused on her face, watching her pupils dilate in reaction to his words. “I love you and I’m staying here in Elliott. I’m quitting undercover work and maybe the police force altogether. We’ll do whatever you want. Date me. Move in with me. Marry me. Make me beg. I don’t care.” He pressed a kiss against her mouth with a sigh. “Whatever you want.

We all have scars. Some just run deeper or are more visible than others.

I wanna be even more like the people I love ~Toga

So can you believe how weird I've gotten and how normal you've gotten?" "It's astounding," he says,which cracks us both of up. "Except most of the time," he adds, "I feel like I'm undercover." "Me too." I pick up a stick, start digging with it. "Or maybe a person is just made up of a lot people,"I say. "Maybe we're accumalating these new selves all the time." Hauling them in as we make choices, good and bad, as we screw up, step up, lose our minds, find our minds, fall apart, fall in love, as we grieve, grow, retreat from the world, dive into the world, as we make things, as we break things.

Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to look at me this way?” She assumed he was teasing her. “What are you talking about? You didn’t even like me for most of the time we’ve known each other.” He bent his head before turning to go, his voice low and confident in her ear. “Or maybe I’m just that good of an undercover agent.

Eyes narrowing, she whispered, “Are you accusing me of PMS?

To believe God when He said He works all things together for good for those who love Him.

I may be wearing a mask, But I'm smiling if you ask!

Her eyes widened. “Ooh… was it hate sex? I’ve always wanted to have hate sex.

You look like you should be on a Wheaties box with this haircut.

SCORPIUS: You loved his mother. I don’t remember everything. I know you loved his mother. Harry’s mother. Lily. I know you spent years undercover. I know without you the war could never have been won.

When do you leave?” she asked. His fingers paused. “Labor Day weekend.” So soon. Only two and a half weeks away. She nodded, going for a joke. “Good. That’s about when I was planning on getting sick of you, anyway.” “Pfft. I’m already counting down the minutes until I can make my escape from this room.” “It’s your room.

He crossed his arms. "wait. I thought you said I was going to fall madly in love with you. Now I don't care about you? Make up your mind." She winced. plot hole. "You think you care about me because you're the type to fall in love. But you don't really care about me." "so your fear isn't that I'll actually fall in love with you, just that I will think I'm in love with you." She looked sideways. "Yes." He gazed down at her, the corner of this mouth tilting in a reluctant smile. "Damn, Liv, you're complicated.

Mothers of the fathers of the fatherless children, you are a mother, therefore, you should truly understand and be sincere regarding where the mother of your son’s children is coming from. Not to mention, grandparents, you are not helping your son by making undercover moves. More so, you are hindering him from being a father, and you are helping him stray off track even further. As mothers, we have to work together for a far greater change than being biased and taking someone’s side, especially knowing they are in the wrong.

He loved a shadow I'd created in his mind.

He growled low in his throat. “I don’t think I can do this the nice way, Jessica.

John turned to her, with streaks of dried blood along his face. “Thank goodness we got the easy job.

For the record, you are knocking it out of the park with this speech.

What my brain was saying: You’re an idiot. He is a job. What my pussy was saying: Why aren’t you naked? What my heart was saying: We’re toast. I’m in love.

He’s the kind of man everyone notices. He doesn’t stand a chance of staying undercover. He stands out from a million miles away. The fact that he doesn’t realize that only makes him more attractive.

Lexi became more than just a dog to me that summer. She was my confidant, a lantern in the darkness, an angel undercover. Whenever I think of her today, I realize just how fortunate I was to have her as a friend – to have know Lexi was to have known love.

Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.

I was often more at risk from my supposed brothers in blue than from my adopted brothers in the gang. Just as there were some decent qualities—loyalty, love, respect—among the outlaw bikers, there were some law-enforcement officers who were little more than outlaws with badges.

Before entering Joaquin’s house I always reminded myself that this wasn’t exactly where I was meant to be, but pit stops are okay on the road of life, aren’t they? I thought of myself as some kind of spy, undercover as a girl with low self-esteem, bringing back detailed intelligence reports on the dark side for girls with boyfriends who looked like lesbians and watched Friday Night Lights with them while eating takeout. They could have their supportive relationships and typical little love stories. I’d be Sid and Nancy–ing it up, refusing to settle for the status quo. I’d be cool.

Okay, I’ve got the hidden microphones with GPS here,” Agent Bounter said. “Let’s get one on you.” “Now, sir?” 
“The Russians are on the radar. It’s time.” As Bounter turned to pick up the tiny button-size microphone, Grant clenched his hands into fists, his anticipation building. It’s time.

He wasn’t undercover, damn it. He put that shit right out there. It was probably why he didn’t date much. Hello, my name is Kai and I would really like to hurt you. But only if you enjoy getting hurt. How about some coffee? We could talk about the proper use of exotic anal plugs. Yeah, that sent the ladies running and not into his arms.

But many of us love the fact that Ricardo was able, nearly two hundred years ago, to produce insights that illuminate our understanding today. It’s easy to see the difference between nineteenth-century farming and twenty-first-century frothing, but not so easy to see the similarity before it is pointed out to us. Economics is partly about modelling, about articulating basic principles and patterns that operate behind seemingly complex subjects like the rent on farms or coffee bars.

So why do you need me?” “To make sure Huxley isn’t in over his head. It’s his first undercover assignment. I don’t like holding back an agent, and Huxley hasn’t given me any reason to do that here. Everyone has to have his or her first undercover assignment sometime. But the U.S. attorney has her eye on this case, and that means there’s no room for error.” “Is there ever room for error in any of your cases?” Davis acknowledged that with a grin. “No. But this time, there’s particularly no room for error. It’s the way I classify things: basically no room for error, no room for error, and particularly no room for error. It’s very technical.

I was thinning the hellebore when I saw a woman in an oversize suit jacket and a fedora trying to throw a rope into a window two stories high to rescue her friend in the dark and rain. I've traveled all over the world and I've seen many things, but I've never seen anything like that. And then the alarm went off and she didn't run. She didn't give up. She refused to leave her friend and tried to scale a sheer brick wall with her bare hands. I didn't know love and loyalty like that existed. I only knew what it meant to be alone. I had to meet her." "We didn't meet," I said. "You grabbed me and dragged me into the bushes." "That's what you do when you find the love of your life," he said. "You love me?" His voice was soft as he turned away. "I think I loved you from the moment you threw that rope.

Last Victorian and Edwardian Britain saw a mega-change in reading habits. For the first time fiction took the primary place in book publishing, and the medium was taken up by briliant and entertaining authors with an agenda for 'a brave new world'. Such men as Thomas Hardy, H. G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw were the opinion-makers for coming generations. 'With the next phase of Victorian fiction', wrote G. K. Chesterton, 'we enter a new world; the later, more revolutionary, more continental, freer but in some ways weker world in which we live today.' Chesterton did not live to see the full consequences of the change but W. R. Inge predicted what was coming when he wrote: No God. No country. No family. Refusal to serve in war. Free love. More play. Less work. No punishments. Go as you please. It is difficult to imagine any programme which, if carried out, would be more utterly ruinous to a country situated as Great Britain is today.

The situation with Jordan was starting to seem too real for his comfort. This normally would be the point when he, sensing a possible attachment, would back away from the situation. But with her, he was trapped. Consequently, all he could do was carry on as usual, being that guy who didn’t let things become real, who was always handy with a quip but didn’t have feelings deeper than that. Because he didn’t. Undercover agents didn’t allow themselves to become attached to a case or anyone involved with it. He wasn’t complaining—he’d signed on for this. He’d worked hard to get where he was, and being the best undercover agent in the Chicago field office was a major accomplishment. It was his specialty, the thing that differentiated him from the other agents in the office. Without that distinction, he’d be just another guy with a badge, a gun, and cool facial scruff. Hell, he’d be Pallas. That alone was more than enough motivation to get his head back in the game.

It’s nice when grown people whisper to each other under the covers. Their ecstasy is more leaf-sigh than bray and the body is the vehicle, not the point. They reach, grown people, for something beyond, way beyond and way, way down underneath tissue. They are remembering while they whisper the carnival dolls they won and the Baltimore boats they never sailed on. The pears they let hang on the limb because if they plucked them, they would be gone from there and who else would see that ripeness if they took it away for themselves? How could anybody passing by see them and imagine for themselves what the flavor would be like? Breathing and murmuring under covers both of them have washed and hung out on the line, in a bed they chose together and kept together nevermind one leg was propped on a 1916 dictionary, and the mattress, curved like a preacher’s palm asking for witnesses in His name’s sake, enclosed them each and every night and muffled their whispering, old-time love. They are under the covers because they don’t have to look at themselves anymore; there is no stud’s eye, no chippie glance to undo them. They are inward toward the other, bound and joined by carnival dolls and the steamers that sailed from ports they never saw. That is what is beneath their undercover whispers. But there is another part, not so secret. The part that touches fingers when one passes the cup and saucer to the other. The part that closes her neckline snap while waiting for the trolley; and brushes lint from his blue serge suit when they come out of the movie house into the sunlight. I envy them their public love. I myself have only known it in secret, shared it in secret and longed, aw longed to show it—to be able to say out loud what they have no need to say at all: That I have loved only you, surrendered my whole self reckless to you and nobody else. That I want you to love me back and show it to me. That I love the way you hold me, how close you let me be to you. I like your fingers on and on, lifting, turning. I have watched your face for a long time now, and missed your eyes when you went away from me. Talking to you and hearing you answer —that’s the kick. But I can’t say that aloud; I can’t tell anyone that I have been waiting for this all my life and that being chosen to wait is the reason I can. If I were able I’d say it. Say make me, remake me. You are free to do it and I am free to let you because look, look. Look where your hands are. Now.

Anna is not just a woman, not just a splendid specimen of womanhood, she is a woman with a full, compact, important moral nature: everything about her character is significant and striking, and this applied as well to her love. She cannot limit herself as another character in the book, Princess Betsy, does, to an undercover affair. Her truthful and passionate nature makes disguise and secrecy impossible. She is not Emma Bovary, a provincial dreamer, a wistful wench creeping along crumbling walls to the beds of interchangeable paramours. Anna gives Vronski her whole life, consents to a separation from her adored little son—despite the agony it costs her not to see the child and she goes to live with Vronski first abroad in Italy, and then on his country place in central Russia, though this "open" affair brands her an immoral woman in the eyes of her immoral circle. (In a way she may be said to have put into action Emma's dream of escaping with Rodolphe, but Emma would have experienced no wrench from parting with her child, and neither were there any moral complications in that little lady's case.) Finally Anna and Vronski return to city life. She scandalizes hypocritical society not so much with her love affair as with her open defiance of society's conventions.

I had become something of a bird man – a passion that has remained with me – and could tell a Himalayan griffon from a bearded vulture and could identify the streaked laughing thrush, the orange bullfinch, Tytler’s leaf warbler and the Kashmir flycatcher, which was threatened then, and must surely by now be extinct. The trouble with being in Dachigam was that it had the effect of unsettling one’s resolve. It underlined the futility of it all. It made one feel that Kashmir really belonged to those creatures. That none of us who were fighting over it – Kashmiris, Indians, Pakistanis, Chinese (they have a piece of it too – Aksai Chin, which used to be part of the old Kingdom of Jammu and Kashmir), or for that matter Pahadis, Gujjars, Dogras, Pashtuns, Shins, Ladakhis, Baltis, Gilgitis, Purikis, Wakhis, Yashkuns, Tibetans, Mongols, Tatars, Mon, Khowars – none of us, neither saint nor soldier, had the right to claim the truly heavenly beauty of that place for ourselves. I was once moved to say so, quite casually, to Imran, a young Kashmiri police officer who had done some exemplary undercover work for us. His response was, ‘It’s a very great thought, Sir. I have the same love for animals as yourself. Even in my travels in India I feel the exact same feeling – that India belongs not to Punjabis, Biharis, Gujaratis, Madrasis, Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, Christians, but to those beautiful creatures – peacocks, elephants, tigers, bears . . .’ He was polite to the point of being obsequious, but I knew what he was getting at. It was extraordinary; you couldn’t – and still cannot – trust even the ones you assumed were on your side. Not even the damn police.

Rick could not move and it had nothing to do with Brew's crushing weight on top of him. Behind his closed eyes, he saw the stars of the universe and they beckoned him to join them. He felt as if he was levitating off the bed, accepting that invitation, and the only thing holding him back was Brew. If the man so much as moved, lifted up onto his forearms, Rick was sure he would float away. As if Brew read his mind, he moved and the floating feeling that was coursing through Rick's body was so strong that his body ignored his mind's intent to grab onto Brew.

Rick's memory turned to fantasy as his mind took a different path than what reality had already turned into history.

In 1991, a college sophomore studying music in the American Midwest made the mistake of selling some drugs to the wrong person. Until then, he hadn’t done much more than smoke pot and sell some of it to his friends. Petty vandalism at his high school was as high stakes as his criminal career had been. Then, as these things tend to go when you’re just 18 years old, he tried to push the envelope and test his boundaries. He started experimenting with hard drugs like LSD. But he was naive, and the brashness of youth got the best of him. He sold some of that LSD outside his circle—to an undercover policeman. And as if his luck couldn’t get worse, like a scene out of a TV movie of the week, the judge, under pressure to make an example out of this young man, sentenced him to 6 to 25 years in prison. It’s a faceless, timeless story that transcends race, class, and region. A young kid makes a mistake that forever changes their lives and their family’s lives as well. We are all too familiar with how stories like this usually end: The kid spends their most impressionable years behind bars and comes out worse than when they went in. Life on the outside is too difficult to contend with; habits learned on the inside are too difficult to shed. They reoffend; their crimes escalate. The cycle continues. This story, however, is a little different. Because this young man didn’t go back to jail. In fact, after being released in less than 5 years on good behavior, he went on to become one of the best jazz violinists in the world. He left prison with a fire lit underneath him—to practice, to repent, to humble himself, to hustle, and to do whatever it took to make something of his life. No task was too small, no gig was too tiny, no potential fan was too disinterested for him not to give it everything he had. And he did. The story is a little different for another reason, too. That young man’s name is Christian Howes. He is my older brother.

After Blood’s recent release from prison, Lieutenant Fyte was determined to do whatever necessary to gain sufficient evidence to lock Blood away for the rest of his life- including infiltrating Blood’s cartel with undercover officers. Therefore,

This grimy ass motherfucker told me that if I wanted that search warrant to go away forever, that I had to kill Blood. From what he told me, he already had it out for Blood, but once his Undercovers went missing, he knew that Blood had something to do with it.

Undercover cops, bodies in lakes, and paying off the police was indictment list status. This

You think I want to get involved with someone in the witness protection program?” I laughed. “That’s just my theory. Besides, if you get close to her, maybe you can learn the truth about her name.” “What’s it worth to you?” I stared at him. “What are you talking about?” “For me to go undercover, to get the information you want.

If I could undo everything," Tony said, "I would never have gone to that party. I was an idiot, Kelly, and it cost me the love of my life.

He leaned over to grasp my hand. “I don’t want to hurt you, Anna.” “Then don’t.” I loved how much bigger his hand was than mine. “Tell me the truth. Are you an undercover FBI agent?” “No.” He snorted. “God, no. Why would you ask that?” “Because I don’t want you to be the bad guy,” I whispered. “You’re too good to be the bad guy.” I straightened. “In fact, you told me that you weren’t the bad guy. Remember?” “Yeah,” he said softly. “When I’m with you, I don’t feel like the bad guy.

Love doesn’t come with a guarantee of time, daughter. We never know if it will last. We can strengthen the odds by working at it. But that’s all we can do. In fact, love only promises one thing. While it lives in your heart, it will multiply tenfold, and fill you with more joy than you ever could have imagined.

During the Second World War, an American woman figured out how to sweep the globe of undercover Nazis.

So despite all the lovely comforting stuff we are told, senior police understand very well that the primary function of policing is to protect property. Despite all the pretence about serving the people, and some of the genuinely good and difficult work police have to do, such as dealing with rape victims and missing children, the police are primarily enforcers for the state and for the state of things as they are. When this is understood you can make sense of ‘illogical’ police activities like spying on justice campaigners or environmental activists as if they were the Mafia, to the extent of going undercover and marrying members of activist groups. If you delude yourself into thinking the police’s primary function is to serve the people none of this makes any sense . 14 When masses of the public protest government injustice, such as millions protesting against an unjust war, it’s obvious that the police are there to protect the state, not ‘the people’.

Malcolm looked around the room. “Just so we have this straight. I’m going undercover in a cult that might be planning to use explosives to harm a lot of people in the name of the Bible.” He tried to quiet the rioting in his head. “I’ve slept with the mark, who we all know I want to save. The new shrink wants to get into my head, and I don’t want that.” “I really do want inside your head,” Nari said, her eyes lighting up. Mal ignored her and looked at Wolfe. “You’re a little nuts and now have a kitten in your pocket.” Wolfe nodded. “And you, our leader.” Mal focused on Angus. “Not only are you obsessed with a serial killer case that might just exist in your mind and splits your focus, but you have a high-heel-loving dog that’s also an alcoholic.” “What’s your point?” Force asked, his dark eyebrows slashing down. His point? What the hell was his point? He scrubbed both hands down his whiskered jaw. “I’m not going to ask what could go wrong. You know why? I just want to know what’s going to go right.” “Probably not much,” Wolfe said cheerfully. Then he fed another Goldfish Cracker to his kitten while the dog clip-clopped around the room and scratched up something called Jimmy Choos.

Welcome to a whole new twist on the love stories of Barefoot Bay! In this new series, readers can expect a light splash of suspense and a dash of danger on the gorgeous

For the WriterChicks…a brain trust without equal, a circle of friends who never let go, and women I love with my whole heart.

ON THEIR WAY out, Nick held Huxley’s front door open for her. “Boyfriend, huh? I didn’t realize we had taken things to that level.” “Oh, I’m sorry—this is my first undercover operation,” Jordan said. “I’m a little unclear about the rules. Are we seeing other people in this fake relationship?” He followed her down the steps to the sidewalk. “You expect me to make this decision on the spot? I’m a man, Jordan; I can’t be pressured into these kinds of things.” She flashed him a sweet smile. “Lucky for you, it will all be over soon. Tomorrow you can have a fake freak-out over commitment issues that will lead to our fake breakup. After that, I think our characters will need some very real time apart.” She began walking toward the street.

Could his luck finally be turning around? He’d believed for so long that his mate didn’t exist. That he didn’t deserve love because of what happened. Maybe he was wrong. But

How unsettling is desire! That devil never sleeps or keeps still. Desire is naughty and doesn’t conform to our ideals, which is why we have such a need of them. Desire mocks all human endeavour and makes it worthwhile. Desire is the original anarchist and undercover agent - no wonder people want it arrested and kept in a safe place. And just when we think we’ve got it under control it lets us down, or fills us with hope. Desire makes me laugh because it makes fools of us all. Still, rather a fool than a fascist.

I am judgmental. I’m so scared of my own weaknesses that I punish other people for theirs. I . . . I don’t make it easy for people to trust me. To love me.

Madilyn is just Madilyn… She is one girl that I secretly look up to. Yeah, it’s safe to say she is my girl crush, yet nobody needs to know. Like underneath all the ratty clothing, and regardless of what everyone says about her, she is one hot, sensual, and totally cute girl, in my mind. She is so much to hang with, we have so much that we like about one another the list could go on forever. Even though I have girlfriends that are so- popular we are not always together, really all they want to do is party and hook up and that gets old fast with me. Madilyn is just different… Every time we are done doing it, (I say- I love you my awesome nard- Madi-lyn) (Shush!) I look at her like- Do you see me here with my one finger up to my lips, hitting the tip of my nose? You’re my dirty little secret. You and I, we have to keep this undercover. I was thinking as she winks at me with those big bright eyes, and then she walks in the door. Jenny- ‘Looks at me saying- ‘What that freak was that all about.’ I said- ‘I think she was just picking a wedgie.’ The girls were like- ‘Oh? Oo-okay?’ Jenny said- ‘Oh that’s good, a butt picker scratch and sniffer!’ I just roll my eyes, like- you- poor girl, you can’t win no matter how hard you try.

That it will never come again Is what makes life so sweet. ~Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

know

Was my smart, kind mother really so, to be blunt, stupid? Maybe. My sex is so often disappointing – I remember once reading about a woman who married a man who convinced her that he was a spy. He persuaded her to sign over her life savings to him, to the tune of £130,000, saying that he was undercover and needed it to tide him over until his handlers could safely make contact. She’d never asked for proof, so desperate was she for this ridiculous charade of a love affair to be real. And to compound her humiliation, she’d willingly posed for photos in a weekly magazine and told her story, looking downtrodden and sad.

The dancer moaned and scrabbled at the cage mesh. She made guttural honks of frustration and excitement. The raspberry mouth opened to reveal the long black tongue and pointed pink teeth. It was a lot of noise and fuss, but nothing especially frightening. Nothing new, right up until the ghoul's cold pupils fixed on her - fixed, then suddenly transfigured. No mindless hunger. The badly painted lips peeled off those sharp pink teeth. "Amy," the ghoul panted. "Amy, I still dream about you.

Sadie, our cat-who-may-be-an-evil-overlord-in-disguise, heads me off. Leaping in front of the kitchen door, she arches her back in a ripple of fur and hisses. Sadie is the ugliest cat I have ever seen. She has white, fluffy hair that looks like it’s been shocked with electricity in all the wrong places, unpleasant green eyes, and a flat face, as if someone dropped an iron on her when she was little. A face only my parents love.

You are so fucking sexy when you're bossing people around," Jack said, nuzzling my neck as he pulled me behind an azalea bush. "Have you ever done it outdoors?" "Didn't last night count?" We'd sneaked up to the roof of Jack's hotel for a little loving beneath the stars. "There were no trees or bushes, no flowers or grass. I want you naked in the hellebore moaning my name." He pulled me into his chest, squeezing me so hard, my breath came out in a huff. "Jack, you know how much I love sexy times with you. But I've got a minister to ordain, a wedding to run, a heist to plan, a necklace to steal, and a bride to kidnap. I can't juggle any more balls.

It’s a girl thing. We are excellent at fantasy.

I have this fear about not ever having that first kiss again. You know, the one that’s all hot and heavy and leaves you breathless. The one where the whole world melts away, and you know that the only thing he sees in that moment is you. I guess it’s just a fear of never being seen again.

I think there are layers of trust. There’s the casual trust where you tell someone about your day and you trust them to care enough to listen. Then there are deeper layers where some people think they can trust someone not to hurt them.

When he turned the key in the ignition, there was a blinding flash followed by total blackness. In that brief instant, Ryan knew his life was over. Two days later, William Holden attended a memorial service for Ray Ryan at the Ziemer Funeral Home East Chapel with its tall white colonnades and trimmed green lawn. The service was held in the presence of several uniformed police officers and undercover FBI agents, one of whom posed as a window washer across the street. Ryan’s ashes were taken to Africa, where his tearful widow Helen Kelley scattered them at the base of Mount Kenya. Afterwards, Holden called Adnan Khashoggi and told him he wanted to sell the Safari Club. “Why?” Khashoggi asked. “Because it’s no fun anymore.

Hollywood and espionage are both immoral businesses – a volatile combination which is hardly conducive to a normal person’s psychological wellbeing. Holden knew his life would have been far less complicated if he had taken his father’s advice and become an industrialist chemist. But that realization came too late. Stefanie Powers recently confirmed that Holden was definitely involved in undercover surveillance. “The CIA asked him that if he came across any interesting observations to contact them,” she said. However, it is unlikely that the details of his covert activities will be revealed any time soon. Holden’s CIA file is subject to the agency’s “sources and methods” protections and its contents are classified.

He’s everything my depraved inner self wants: a man to love me, but a beast to fuck me.

He was known for being a bit more hardcore in his play than the other Doms. Hell, some of the subs called him Dexter—the undercover sadist. He wasn’t undercover, damn it. He put that shit right out there.

Verbal arguments were not her strong suite. She always lost herself to the mad and then spent the next several hours coming up with brilliant comebacks in the mirror. She could feel herself

that he knew would love to be in the

Love happens. It’s what you do with it that matters. If you embrace it, it will give you a joy you have never known was possible. If you ignore it, it has the power to haunt you.

Since you’re obviously in need of something to do, instead of shouting at me through this whole drill, isn’t there some tree you could fell with your bare hands, or a boulder somewhere that needs tossing?

I remember when Elvis died. I wrote my sentiments with words of a little girl in my dear diary, "Many people wanted to see his body. They literally wanted to dig his bones out just to make sure that he was being buried. And I could not understand why. Why people could not leave him alone and let his soul rest in peace." I couldn't get it. I didn't grasp it at that time. In a head of a little girl it was hard to believe that there were mysteries to be solved. That there ruled a conspiracy theory that people thought it was odd that he was buried and the casket was never opened. They didn't believe he was dead! Oh yes. Elvis Lives! And as the world needs his songs, his words, his thoughts, his love, his light more than ever before.

Mmm,” she mumbled against him. “If I knew that was going to happen, I’d have brought over a recipe booklet on the first week.” “Well, it’s not every day a woman has me make her dinner.

In loving memory of Jessica Courson, my first true best friend and the one who taught me the important life lessons about loving God with all of my heart … and that time is short. In only sixteen years on this earth, she was able to be my undercover angel, shining with joy and hope and abundant love. I pray her life lessons will be passed on through these pages.

Being a Christian is having the kind of belief that is proven through actions. If you knew there was a bomb in your house, ready to go off at any minute, you would leave the building immediately. If you told me you believed there was a bomb in your house, about to go off, but you just sat on your couch watching television, I would have to question whether or not you really believed there was a bomb. In the same way, if you really believe God loves you and died on the cross to pay the price for your sins, you will make Him your Lord and do what He says.

One of Rowling’s most sophisticated points is that naïve teen political choices can have major, even lifelong repercussions on one’s romantic and family future. Snape has no romance in his life and never will, for three reasons. On his first chance, he destroyed his own prospects and faith in himself when he repelled the love of his life with his hateful politics, which eventually brought about her death. On his second chance, he will atone for this with undercover work that makes romance too risky. Thirdly, he would have had a difficult time attracting romance in any case because life is painfully—agonizingly—unfair to the homely.

We aren’t the people who “make things happen.” Codependents are the people who consistently, and with a great deal of effort and energy, try to force things to happen. We control in the name of love. We do it because we’re “only trying to help.” We do it because we know best how things should go and how people should behave. We do it because we’re right and they’re wrong. We control because we’re afraid not to do it. We do it because we don’t know what else to do. We do it to stop the pain. We control because we think we have to. We control because we don’t think. We control because controlling is all we can think about. Ultimately we may control because that’s the way we’ve always done things. Tyrannical and dominating, some rule with an iron hand from a self-appointed throne. They are powerful. They know best. And by God, it will be done this way. They will see to it. Others do their dirty work undercover. They hide behind a costume of sweetness and niceties, and secretly go about their business—OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS.

authors of more recent books have also praised the bureau for destroying the Nazi networks in South America. But the FBI didn’t intercept the messages. It didn’t monitor the Nazi circuits. It didn’t break the codes. It didn’t solve any Enigma machines. The coast guard did this stuff—the little codebreaking team that Elizebeth created from nothing. During the Second World War, an American woman figured out how to sweep the globe of undercover Nazis. The proof was on paper: four thousand typed decryptions of clandestine Nazi messages that her team shared with the global intelligence community. She had conquered at least forty-eight different clandestine radio circuits and three Enigma machines to get these plaintexts. The pages found their way to the navy and to the army. To FBI headquarters in Washington and bureaus around the world. To Britain. There was no mistaking their origin. Each sheet said “CG Decryption” at the bottom, in black ink.

You loved someone in spite of the bad; you loved them in good times and in disasters.

Cloak and Dagger was lost in the summertime NBC schedule, lumped into a mystery block with several other shows of far inferior quality. It never attracted a sponsor and got almost no critical attention, but the recent discovery of the entire run reveals a gripping show with every story an unpredictable departure from formula. It was the story of the wartime activities of the OSS—the Office of Strategic Services—“this country’s first all-out effort in black warfare … dropping undercover operators behind enemy lines, organizing local partisans to blow bridges and dynamite tunnels, operating the best spy systems of Europe and Asia.” It was a tense half-hour of patriots and traitors, of love affairs doomed by war, of triumph, tragedy, and failure. The stories did not always end with the lovers embraced and the mad-dog Germans reeling in defeat: the hero-agent, in accomplishing his mission, sometimes gave up his life. It opened with a question by actor Raymond Edward Johnson: Are you willing to undertake a dangerous mission for the United States, knowing in advance you may never return alive? It was transcribed and had a definite “canned” sound, which may also have helped turn listeners away.

They never found Captain Henry, but Samuel finally got his answer from Belle: Yes, she said, she would be his wife. She believed that God had intended them to “meet and love,” and that He had purposely sent her a Yankee, a Union boy from Brooklyn. “Women,” she reasoned, “can sometimes work wonders; and may not he, who is of Northern birth, come by degrees to love, for my sake, the ill-used South?

Well, you’re right. We are unworthy of God’s love. But don’t feel awkward talking to Him. He loves you more than you will ever know. It might only be awkward at first.

Manisha is a nagin, her people hunted as monsters and rebels by the kingdom. To stay alive, Manisha must pretend to be a human orphan. She enters the service of the kingdom’s great temple, where she hides her true identity and tries to rise in rank, going deep “undercover” in the hopes that she may someday bring down the system from the inside. Pratyush is the last slayer, a hero born with epic strength and skill, who has his own reasons for disliking the kingdom, but who sees no choice except to honor his debt to the King and protect the kingdom from monsters. When Manisha and Pratyush meet, the chemistry between them is immediate, but love between them would be strictly forbidden.

Unsurprisingly, the nation’s xenophobia has seeped into popular culture. Bollywood, long known for its extensive Muslim involvement across the entire industry, is being forced to toe the anti-Islam perspective. Many in Bollywood happily pushed the hard-line Hindu nationalist agenda, releasing films that openly celebrated the actions of the Indian armed forces. In a similar vein, the Israeli series Fauda, which features undercover Israeli agents in the West Bank, has been hugely popular among right-wing Indians, looking for a sugar hit of war on terror and anti-Islamist propaganda in a slickly produced format. During the May 2020 Covid-19 lockdown, the right-wing economist Subramanian Swamy, who sits on the BJP national executive, tweeted that he loved Fauda.28 The post-9/11 “war on terror” suited both India and Israel in their plans to pacify their respective unwanted populations. To this end, Israel trained Indian forces in counterinsurgency. Following a 2014 agreement between Israel and India, pledging to cooperate on “public and homeland security,” countless Indian officers, special forces, pilots, and commandoes visited Israel for training. In 2020, Israel refused to screen Indian police officers to determine if they had committed any abuses in India. Israeli human rights advocate Eitay Mack and a range of other activists petitioned the Israeli Supreme Court in 2020 to demand that Israel stop training Indian police officers who “blind, murder, rape, torture and hide civilians in Kashmir.” The court rejected the request, and in the words of the three justices, “without detracting from the importance of the issue of human rights violations in Kashmir.