Let's start with a word count from the six sentences of this not-at-all-novel. Frequency of the word 'body' or derivations thereof: 4. While repitition is a valid and oft-used literary technique, the style of the remainder of Michaels's (Mary Ruth Kuczkir) text indicates that she is simply a very -- very, very, very, very, as she might say -- bad writer.
How bad? Worse than Danielle Steel, worse than the woman who wrote the romance novel involving the Amish (don't ask), worse than a single postcoital bonobo typing on a rusty Smith-Corona after what Michaels would undoubtedly call a 'marathon session.'
Frequency of throwing manuscript across the room (first chapter only): > 4, possibly as many as twelve.
And don't tell me that I can't appreciate a good story; I can. Even a poorly written but well-plotted book can hold my attention. Nobody could write in a style justifying this plot. It's absurd, all of it.
Anyone who claims that this is good - or even 'not incredibly bad' - is either a) a bored housefrau, b) approaching said bonobo in terms of cerebral efficacy, or c) . . . well, that's about it.
A waste of resources, human and otherwise.