By Jeffrey Robinson
At Trump Tower--the iconic big apple development at the nook of 56th road and 5th Avenue--there exists a global of luxurious, glamour, intercourse, lust, and bare power.
But at Trump Tower, not anything is kind of what it kind of feels to be.
Move in and meet your neighbors:
The "garbage" investors who're prepared to do company with South American funds agents; the facility couple, a television anchor and her dealer husband, for whom intercourse is usually an tricky online game; the Hollywood agent who's plotting to possess the realm; the British rock megastar lower than condo arrest who sends out for solid instances, intercourse, and rock n' roll; the version with some of the most recognized faces on the planet who simply occurs to be stored by way of males who don't recognize of every others lifestyles; the Broadway famous person who's banned from the development; one of many richest males on the earth who believes his blameless daughter remains to be blameless; the company proprietor who's being pressured out by way of somebody who wishes her enterprise; the mysterious and venomous lady who desires to construct a tropical rainforest; the assistant to the Director of Operations who's prepared to do something to get the overall Manager's task; and Pierre Belasco, the overall supervisor and ringmaster of Trump Tower whose task is "ultimate discretion."
In the nice culture of Arthur Hailey, Harold Robbins, Dynasty, and Dallas comes Jeffrey Robinson's Trump Tower, the place everyone's lifestyles is a drama.
Leave your modesty downstairs. Trump Tower is the sexiest novel of the last decade.
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Additional resources for Trump Tower
Whenever it stopped of its own accord at one of those holes bordered with thorns that farmers dig along the edge of their ploughed land, Charles, waking with a start, would quickly remember the broken leg, and try to recall all the fractures that he knew. It was no longer raining; day was breaking, and, on the leaﬂess branches of the apple trees, birds sat motionless, ﬂuﬃng out their tiny feathers in the cold morning wind. The ﬂat landscape extended as far as the eye could see, the clumps of trees round the farms making widely spaced splashes of dark purple on that vast grey surface which, at the horizon, merged with the dreary tones of the sky.
When he entered Les Bertaux his horse took fright, and shied violently. It was a prosperous-looking farm. Through the open half-doors of the stables you could see huge draught horses placidly feeding from brand-new mangers. A stream of vapour arose from the big manureheap that ﬂanked the buildings, and, standing out among the hens and turkeys, ﬁve or six peacocks––that luxury of Pays de Caux farmyards––were pecking for food. The sheep-run was long and the barn tall, with walls as smooth as the back of your hand.
Père Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. They put oﬀ any discussion of money matters, there was plenty of time for that, since the marriage could not decently take place before the end of Charles’s mourning, that is to say, not until the following spring. The winter passed in waiting. Mademoiselle Rouault busied herself with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered from Rouen, and she made herself nightgowns and nightcaps with the help of fashionplates which she borrowed. During the visits Charles made to the Madame Bovary farm they talked about the preparations for the wedding, wondering which room they’d use for the wedding feast, how many courses they’d have, and what particular dishes they’d serve.