Tuesday 1 January 2013

Hot Wallpapers Hd

Source(google.com.pk)
Hot Wallpapers Hd Biography
Love sucks.

Lola Carmichael's known it since her boyfriend broke up with her the night she expected him to propose. Only with a deadline looming for her next romance novel, she better find inspiration fast.

Enter arrogant sports radio DJ Sam Touchdown Taylor. Who'd have thought a playboy ex-jock would be just what she needs to get her creative juices flowing…and her heart beating again.

When Lola discovers Sam is using her to win back his dream job, she knows she should give up on Happily Ever After, but part of her hopes heroes do exist…and dreams do come true.

Get a sneak peek of Kate Perry's Dream of You (available today!) with this EXCLUSIVE scene from Chapter 4!

The door to the sound booth opened, and a blonde with big blue eyes poked her head in. He couldn't see anything below her shoulders, but everything above looked right.

“Excuse me, is this Ladies' Night?” she asked.

Did the rest of her match that sexy voice? He sat up at attention. “Yeah. I'm the host.”

“You?” She looked him up and down.

What? He frowned. “What's wrong with me?”

“Nothing's wrong with you. If I wanted someone to beat up my ex-boyfriend, you're the one I'd call.”

It should have been a compliment, but coming from her bowed lips, it sounded more like a slam. Which was damn disappointing, because he really liked the look of her.

“I thought Sam Taylor was a woman,” she said.

“I'm all male, sweetheart.”

“I can see that.” She gave him an all-over, candid appraisal that would've had a lesser man blushing.

Okay, she wasn't immune to him either. That was good.

He had a feeling that'd be a hard resolve to keep around this blonde. “Look, I have a show to run, so if you tell me who you're looking for I can help you find him.”

“I'm looking for you.” She stepped inside.

He'd been right—she was hot. Tall. Curvy in all the right places and then some. She wore white jeans, a red top, and heels that made her already long legs obscene.

They were the type of legs that men imagined wrapped around their waist.

Sam moved his tongue in his mouth to make sure he hadn't swallowed it.

As if she could read his thoughts, she heaved a sigh. She sounded more exasperated than flattered—and why not? She was the type of gorgeous that probably dealt with men ogling her all the time.

He didn't like that thought.

Then she surprised him by saying, “I'm Lola Carmichael, your guest.”

“The romance writer?”

She rolled her eyes. “Duh.”

He grinned, liking her spirit. For the first time all day he felt hopeful. Maybe this program was going to be more entertaining than he'd thought. He pointed to the chair across from him. “Please have a seat.”

She arched her brows at his polite request. He expected her to make a wise-ass remark, but she surprised him by taking the chair, all calm grace.

“We're on in thirty,” he said. He felt energized and alive, which was shocking after dreading the new program all week. He put on his headphones. “Speak into your mic, and this will be over soon.”

“That's what she said.” She adjusted her seat closer to the console.

“Welcome to Ladies' Night,” he managed to say without gagging. “I'm your host, Touchdown Taylor—”

“Touchdown?” Lola repeated incredulously.

Only she said it right into her microphone, just like he'd instructed. He frowned at her. “And this is Lola Carmichael, writer of bodice rippers, friend of Fabio, and our guest for tonight's show.”

“Thank you, Touchdown.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

God save him from high-and-mighty women. “It was a college nickname.”

“It's just if you're hosting Ladies' Night, maybe you'll want a different nickname. Touchdown gives the wrong impression. Unless you score a lot.” She leaned into the microphone. “Don't you think so, ladies?”

He pulled her microphone away from her. “We're here to find out about you, Ms. Carmichael, not to talk about me.”

She grabbed the microphone back. “But I'm sure your audience wants to get to know you too. Isn't this your first show?”

“For Ladies' Night? Yes.”

“So what's a macho man like you doing in a place like this?”

He had the urge to shake her—or push her down and kiss her to shut her up.

Before he could reply, she turned her husky voice into the microphone and said, “It's too bad you can't see him, ladies. He's just like a hero from one of my novels. Tall, dark, and handsome. His hair is mussed up enough to be sexy without being unkempt, and he has those broad shoulders that make all of us sigh in lust.”

He only wanted one woman to sigh in lust, and she was seated across from him.

“He has a strong chin too.” She looked at him thoughtfully, but then she shook her head. “I'm telling you, he's wasted in radio.”

“And you?”

She blinked at him, suspicious. “Me?”

“You don't look like any writer I've ever seen.”

“And how many romance writers have you seen?”

Actually, none. “Danielle Steele lives in San Francisco. You don't look like her.”

“Of course not. She's old enough to be my mother.” Lola wrinkled her nose. “So what do I look like?”

Like his own personal heaven and hell. “Like a showgirl, yellow feathers in your hair and a dress cut down to there.”

She leaned forward and pointed a threatening finger at him. “Do not quote Barry Manilow to me.”

He grinned, wondering if he could find that track to play sometime in the next hour. “Is Lola Carmichael your real name?”

“Yes, Lola Carmichael is my real name.”

He could tell it was a sore subject for her by the way her eyes went both icy and hot. He felt bad for poking her in a soft spot so he changed the subject. “Tell us about your latest book, Here and Forever.”

For a moment he didn't think she'd reply, but then she said, “It's the story of a man and woman who are rivals for the same job, but in their competition find love.”

Sam snorted.

“What?” She frowned at him.

“Who got the job?”

“What does that matter?”

“No guy is going to hook up with a woman who wins out over him.”

Lola stuck her pretty nose in the air. “That's not true.”

“Yeah, it is. You might as well cut his balls off. But then I doubt you write about real men.”

“I do, too.”

“Sure, sweetheart, whatever you say. They probably bring flowers and candy in order to woo women,” he said scornfully.

“What's wrong with that?”

“It's bull”—he cleared his throat and pulled back—“it's hokey, is what it is. You're giving women a false sense of reality.”

“I write about romance and true love. That's real.”
Hot Wallpapers Hd 
Hot Wallpapers Hd 
Hot Wallpapers Hd 
Hot Wallpapers Hd 
Hot Wallpapers Hd 
Hot Wallpapers Hd 
Hot Wallpapers Hd 
Hot Wallpapers Hd 
Hot Wallpapers Hd 
Hot Wallpapers Hd 
Hot Wallpapers Hd 

Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers

Source(google.com.pk)
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers Biography
To prevent three royal dukes from marrying their way onto the throne, heroic, selfless agents for the crown will be dispatched...to seduce the dukes' intended brides. These wickedly debauched rakes will rumple sheets and cause a scandal. But they just might fall into their own trap...

After he's blamed for a botched assignment during war, former cavalry officer Rhys Warrick turns his back on “honor.” He spends his nights in brothels doing his best to live down to the expectations of his disapproving family. But one last mission could restore the reputation he's so thoroughly sullied. All he has to do is seduce and ruin Miss Olivia Symon and his military record will be cleared. For a man with Rhys's reputation, ravishing the delectably innocent miss should be easy. But Olivia's honesty and bold curiosity stir more than Rhys's desire. Suddenly the heart he thought he left on the battlefield is about to surrender...

Get a sneak peek at Connie Mason and Mia Marlowe's Waking Up with a Rake (available January 1, 2013) with a special excerpt introduced by Mia Marlowe:

Connie Mason and I have been working on a trio of Regency stories called The Royal Rakes. They’re based on the very real “Hymen Race Terrific.” After Princess Charlotte died in 1817, the Prince Regent’s unmarried brothers realized they had an opportunity to wed, bed, and breed in order to present George III with a legitimate grandchild who would one day wear the crown. But not everyone wanted the royal dukes to succeed. And what better way to stop them than make sure a dedicated rake came between them and their intendeds?

In Waking Up with a Rake, Lord Rhys Warrington has been blackmailed into seducing Olivia Symon, a wealthy heiress who’s caught the interest of the Duke of Clarence.  However, when someone makes an attempt on Olivia’s life, Rhys realizes someone else might be trying to keep her from becoming royal in a more permanent way.

Chapter 9

Rhys was just about to reach for the crystal knob when the door opened a crack and Olivia peered out at him.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“Standing in the hall where anyone might see me,” he whispered.

The door swung wide and she yanked him into her chamber. Then she carefully closed the door behind him. The latch clicked with an almost imperceptible snick.

“You’re far gentler with oak and hinges than you are my forearm,” he said softly.

“The door hasn’t done anything to irritate me,” she whispered back. “Now what do you want?”

In the soft light of the banked fire, he gave her a swift assessing glance. Her correctly virginal night rail was covered by an equally correct wrapper. Her long hair was plaited in a loose braid that draped heavily over one shoulder. Despite the fact that she was arguably the most “missish” woman he’d ever seen, his body was of the contrarian opinion that she was still entirely swiveable.

“What do I want?” Rhys repeated. “Besides to come in, you mean.”

“Yes, obviously, besides to come in. And for heaven’s sake, keep your voice down.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, unknowingly lifting them for his more careful perusal.

He forced his gaze away. No point in antagonizing her more.

“Keep my voice down, yes, of course.” He put a finger to his lips to shush himself, walked over, and plopped down on the foot of her bed. “As to what I want, why, I think that should be self-evident. I want to stay the night.”

“You most certainly—” her own voice had risen well above a whisper, but she caught herself and continued in a furious hiss, “—will not.”

He patted the mattress beside him, inviting her to sit. “What about our wager? May I remind you that you lost this evening?”

“I didn’t lose.” Olivia remained standing, and as still as if she was carved of marble. “You cheated.”

“I suppose I did from your point of view. Be that as it may, you still lost and therefore you owe me an unspecified favor.” He waved away her objections. “We didn’t set any ground rules that precluded trickery when we made our bet. Perhaps that’s something you should consider the next time you decide to wager with me.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“So sure about so many things, aren’t you?” The fact that he suspected she was in danger should have made this little interview deadly serious, but he was enjoying the view too much. Backlit by the fire, her otherwise chaste night rail and wrapper were nearly transparent. The shadowy silhouettes of her legs were easy to make out. “And only this morning you were certain you’d never call me Rhys in public. Whether you like it or not, you owe me a favor.”

“Not this one. You are not staying.”

He stood and walked toward her. “Shall it be noised about that the daughter of Horatio Symon is a welcher?”

“Shall it be noised about that Lord Rhys Warrington is a cad? Oh, wait, it already is. I was simply foolish enough to give you the benefit of the doubt.” She backtracked a few steps, then held her ground in a defensible position next to the pair of chintz-covered wing chairs by the fire. “Don’t you care what people think of you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Or what they think of me, evidently.”

“Nonsense. Unless you insist on talking too loudly, no one will know I’m spending my nights here.”

Olivia made a disgruntled little sound in the back of her throat as she plopped into one of the chairs. “I’ll know and—what do you mean by nights?”

“When the plain sense makes sense, seek no other sense, my old tutor used to say,” Rhys said, settling his hands on the arms of her chair and leaning toward her. She pressed herself into the tufted back, but the way her breath hitched told him she was excited by his nearness. “I mean just what I said. Nights as in plural, as in more than one, as in for as long as I remain a guest here at Barrowdell. That’s the favor you owe me and that’s what I’ll have. These chairs seem quite comfy. If you don’t care to share the bed, we might push them together so you could sit in one and prop your feet on the other.”

“No, I don’t care to share my bed, and I will not sleep on a chair in my own room either.” She pressed her palms against his chest and shoved. “Rhys, you’re not staying. How can I convince you of that? I ought not to have allowed you through the door.”

“Why did you then?” He straightened to his full height but wouldn’t move away so she could escape him.

“Because someone…because you…because…oh, hang it all! I don’t know.” The way she rubbed her forehead made him think she hadn’t been pretending when she pleaded a headache at supper. “You are, without doubt, the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.”

She shot him an evil glare. “It wasn’t meant as one.”

“Anytime one is designated ‘the most anything,’ it indicates a certain level of accomplishment beyond the common. That raises your comment to the ranks of a compliment, don’t you think?”

The glare dissolved and was replaced by such a look of entreaty that his chest ached with guilt over the discomfort he was causing her.

“Oh, Rhys, please go away.”

“I can’t.” He’d hoped to protect her without having to tell her that she needed protection. It was time to fall back on the truth. It was supposed to set one free, he’d heard. Rhys sat in the opposite chair and leaned forward. “Tell me. When you went back to the stable today, did Mr. Thatcher show you Molly’s saddle?”

“No, he didn’t,” she said wearily. “He’d already sent it to the saddler to be repaired.”

“Just my luck. You have a servant who’s the soul of discretion.”

“Why are you trying to change the subject?” She stood, determination radiating from her slight frame. “You’re not staying, so we don’t need to talk about Molly’s saddle or the quality of our servants or anything else, because…you’re not staying.”

“You’ve said that once or twice already.”

“Yes, well, I meant it every time.”

“I can see that you do,” he said. “And usually when a lady tells me no—and believe me, I can count on one hand the number of times that’s happened—I don’t argue. I bid the lady adieu and there’s the end of it. But unfortunately, this time I can’t take no for an answer.”

“Do I need to scream to convince you I sincerely don’t want you here?”

“That would certainly convince me of your sincerity, but you don’t want to do that,” he said. “Fair or not, if the two of us are found alone in your bedchamber, it would undoubtedly enhance my reputation. However, it would do no favors to your good name.”

Her look of loathing made him cringe inside, but he was careful to give no outward sign of it.

“You are despicable,” she said.

“More than you know,” he admitted. “But I have good reason for my boorish behavior this time. You see, your accident today was no accident.”

She sank back into the wing chair, wind spilling from her sails. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Molly’s saddle was deliberately tampered with.” He described what he’d discovered. She listened with far more calm than most debutantes would if they’d been told someone meant them harm. Certainly more calm than he’d have been greeted with if he’d gone to her mother with the story.

“So, you see, until we learn why someone wishes you ill, I’ll rest better if I know you’re secure,” he said. “If this person was bold enough to sneak into the stable and alter your saddle, they may be bold enough to slip into your chamber as well. That’s why I want to spend my nights here. Let me stay to keep you safe.”

She stood and paced before the fireplace, arms wrapped around herself. “It makes no sense. Why would anyone want to harm me?”

“You have captured the attention of the Duke of Clarence,” Rhys said. “Royal favor sometimes comes with unintended consequences.”

Mr. Alcock might not be the only one who wanted to see the match between the duke and Miss Symon fail. Someone else may have decided the best way to go about it was to remove the potential bride for good. It was a bloodthirsty scenario, but the scheme of seducing her was at least as underhanded. In both cases, the results would be lasting.

Rhys stomped down his guilt. He was trying to protect her now. That ought to count for something. For the moment, at least, he was on the side of the angels.

The guests in residence at Barrowdell didn’t seem the sort to be swept up in political intrigue. But in the shadowy realm of royal machinations, that only made it more likely Rhys’s supposition was right.

After all, who would guess the duke’s emissary was also trying to sabotage the match?

Or was there another unrelated reason Olivia Symon had fallen afoul of someone who would go to great lengths to harm her?

“So you want to spend the nights with me simply to keep me safe.” She cast him a wry smile. “That has to be a first for you.”

He shrugged. “You have the right of it. My motives are pure for once. I am here to protect you.”

She cocked her head at him, as if weighing his words for veracity. “You certainly kept me safe this morning. In the confusion and with my mare’s injury and all, I’m not sure I even thanked you properly.”

“Thank me now by letting me stay.”

She sighed. “Very well. If I can’t trust the man who pulled me from the ‘jaws of death,’” —she crossed her eyes, stuck out her tongue, and gave a quick imitation of her mother’s histrionics at the dinner table, collapsing back into her chair in a fake swoon—“whom can I trust?”

Rhys swallowed back a laugh but grinned so widely his cheeks hurt.

Then her expression sobered. “Thank you, Rhys. Truly.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“However, most people would not consider having a rake in my boudoir the least conducive to my safety.”

She had him there. Perhaps he’d been wrong to be so honest with her about his reputation. Then he noticed she bunched her wrapper tightly in her fists, the only outward sign of her inner turmoil. She’d just learned someone had tried to do her harm, yet she wasn’t dissolving into a frantic puddle.

His respect for her ticked up several notches. Rhys reached across the space between them and took one of her hands between his. Despite the warmth emanating from the banked fire, her skin was icy.

“I give you my word, Olivia. Nothing will pass between us that you don’t wish as well.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to it. He detected a slight tremble in her fingers. The softness of her skin made him ache to do more, but if he was going to win back her trust, he needed to be on his best behavior. “On my honor as a dissolute libertine, I so swear.”

She laughed, covering her mouth with her other hand to muffle the sound.

“I like hearing you laugh.” He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the back of the hand that he still held. “You ought to do it more often.”

“Not recommended when there’s a man in my chambers, I expect.” To his surprise, she smiled and actually squeezed his fingertips.

“Quite right. In this situation, there are better things to do.”

“No doubt.” She lifted a brow at him. “Those ‘better things’ are also not recommended for a young woman whose chief value is the possession of a maidenhead.”

“No matter what else might happen this night,” he said, lacing his fingers with hers. The tremble he’d noticed earlier ceased. “I promise you’ll greet the dawn in the same state of purity you now enjoy. However, it’s your choice whether or not you become a knowledgeable virgin.”

Wide-eyed, she gazed at him, as if she were trying to penetrate to the last wrinkle of his misshapen soul.

She really ought to turn away.

His profligate life of the past three years rose up to taunt him. The last thing he deserved was this delicate creature treating him as if he weren’t some sort of monster. She should raise the alarm, call out the peasants with pitchforks, and have him tossed off her father’s estate for good.

Instead she did the last thing he expected.

“If I were to let you educate me,” she said with only a slight quaver in her voice, “what would the first lesson be?”
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers
Hd Hot Girl Wallpapers

Hot Hd Wallpapers App

Source(google.com.pk)
Hot Hd Wallpapers App Biography
His Family or His Heart — One of Them Will Be Betrayed...

Ian MacGregor is wooing a woman who's wrong for him in every way. As the new Earl of Balfour, though, he must marry an English heiress to repair the family fortunes.

But in his intended's penniless chaperone, Augusta, Ian is finding everything he's ever wanted in a wife.

Get a sneak peek at Grace Burrowes's The Bridegroom Wore Plaid (available December 4, 2012) with an excerpt of Chapter 8.

Augusta tried not to think, not to feel as she and Ian made their way down the hillside. Going down was in some ways trickier than coming up—a metaphor for having said too much and implied even more with the man moving along in front of her.

She could love him. She ought to find some consolation in knowing she was capable of loving a man, any man. She had wondered, after all.

Ian turned to speak over his shoulder. “Watch your step. The footing is loose and tricky here. I’ve landed on my backside more than once.”

Watch your step. Going up, it had been easy to ignore the sheer drop on her left, the way the track was carved out of the hillside so the slope rose on her right almost like a wall. A shower of pebbles rained down from above, causing Ian to stop and turn to her.

“Best we keep moving.” He held out a hand, but Augusta hesitated one instant before allowing herself the pleasure and torment of joining her hand to his.

In that instant, several things happened in rapid succession. Another shower of pebbles rained down, this one also containing more sizable rocks. Instinctively, Augusta ducked her head and shrank back against the slope beside her.

Then a peculiar, dull thud from above. Her first thought was thunder, except the sound had a different resonance than thunder, made the earth shake in a different way.

Ian shouting her name.

The impact of his body against hers as he plastered them to the vertical wall of earth and rock.

The feel of him surrounding her, solid rock at her back, solid man everywhere else, as earth, pebbles, and rocks went bouncing down the slope around them.

“Don’t move.” His voice, a harsh rasp right in her ear.

And the feel of him so close to her they were breathing as one, as if they’d just been erotically intimate.

“Are you all right? Augusta, talk to me.” Still, he didn’t move, and the warmth of him contrasted starkly to the chill and shock moving through Augusta’s body.

“I am unharmed.” Her voice was calm, detached even. “You?”

“The blanket in the rucksack spared me the worst of it.”

She ought to be saying prayers of thanksgiving. She should be so grateful they hadn’t been killed she could think of nothing else. Though what would a life of ought-to-be and should-be get her, but more years, more decades tending her chickens in Oxfordshire?

She kissed him. Found his mouth with hers and anchored her hand in his thick, silky hair to keep him from turning his head. A young girl purporting to be a wealthy heiress got kissed from time to time—Augusta wasn’t a complete tyro—but kissing Ian mattered. This kiss had no pretensions to it about comfort, goodwill, incipient familial affection, or anything else polite and excusable.

She was desperate for him to kiss her back.

He growled, and she panicked, twining an arm around his waist to prevent him from leaving her. She drew back only long enough to pant two words.

“Please, Ian…”

“Augusta, love, we shouldn’t.”

And then she was giving thanks after all. His mouth settled on hers gently but firmly. Her desperation became something else entirely, and she realized she was going to be well and thoroughly kissed by a man who knew exactly how to go about it.

His mouth explored hers, moved over her lips slowly, like a weather front passing over the land, then moving on. She felt his nose grazing over her cheeks and forehead, her eyebrows, her jaw. She’d never been nose-kissed before, and it made her insides flutter wonderfully.

Then he was back to business, his mouth on hers, his tongue greeting her lips.

“Open, love.”

This was novel and more wonderful still, to taste the tea-sweet essence of him, to feel a part of him making its way delicately into her awareness and into her body.

Between them, she felt a rising ridge of male flesh against her belly, felt it pressing against her in a way that aroused wanting in places female and secret. She moved into him, felt his hand cradling the back of her head, felt sealed to him and still not as close as she wanted to be.

“Kiss me back, Augusta.”

His voice, low, harsh, and so very male, sent the wanting out from her depths to her breasts and her mouth and even the palms of her hands. She used her tongue as he had, to trace the contours of his mouth, to learn the taste of him, to join them in a way that felt so right, she wanted to weep with the beauty of it.

And still, it was not enough. Augusta kept one arm lashed around Ian’s waist and used her free hand to stroke the wool of his kilt. The fabric was smooth and soft beneath her palm, his hip a lean, elegant curve. He widened his stance, and Augusta realized that a man in a kilt was a man who might be intimately explored. She slid the kilt up along his thigh, bunching the material between their bodies.

His mouth went still on hers while Augusta raised the fabric higher.
Hot Hd Wallpapers App
Hot Hd Wallpapers App
Hot Hd Wallpapers App
Hot Hd Wallpapers App
Hot Hd Wallpapers App
Hot Hd Wallpapers App
Hot Hd Wallpapers App
Hot Hd Wallpapers App
Hot Hd Wallpapers App
Hot Hd Wallpapers App
Hot Hd Wallpapers App

Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd

Source(google.com.pk)
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd Biography
Some time ago I received an email from my friend, Joanna. She's getting her PhD in History and Sociology of Science (specializing in cold storage in the creation of bio banks.) (!) So along with many interesting facts and figures, she's come across some Historical Hot Guys in her studies. (Mostly Scientists, I think.)

Her note went a little something like this:

"You should do something on Humphry Davy! He was apparently the hottest chemist of the entire romantic era -- or maybe even evah!"

Done! And this is a special TWO FOR ONE DEAL since Sir Davy had a incredibly fine lab partner. But let's not get ahead of ourselves...

Behold! Sir Humphry Davy: Chemist, Lecturer, Poet, Physicist, Hot Guy!


Seriously? He's so dreamy, it's a little ridiculous. Even in black and white! Let's see another...this time in color...

Look...he's all pensive and shit. In this painting he looks ever so slightly mischievous too. Kinda like he's thinking about blowing something up. (And in fact, as a young man, he was dismissed as an apothecary apprentice when his idle experiments led to explosions of varying degrees. He humbly said later, "The most important of my discoveries has been suggested to me by my failures." That's a nice way of dressing up "creating small fires")

He was born in England in 1778. He had a talent for science at any early age. As a young man, his first area of interest was "investigating the medical powers of factitious airs and gases." His favorite? Nitrous oxide. While he didn't discover it, he sure "experimented" with it quite a bit. (And by "experimented" I mean he was "addicted.") I wish I could say he paved the way for the use of "laughing gas" as an anesthetic...but he didn't. But I hear he had some raging parties. (He did note in Researches, Chemical and Philosophical [1800] the "analgesic effect of nitrous oxide and its potential to be used for surgical operations." But that didn't happen until well after his death. 'Doh!)

In 1801, he took a post at The Royal Institution in London, where he found his true love. Electrolysis. Yup, we think of it solely as a hair removal process now...but actually it's "a method of using a direct electric current to drive an otherwise non-spontaneous chemical reaction." With that, the guy discovered:

sodium
potassium
calcium
magnesium
strontium
boron
barium

It's not just the label on a Centrum bottle...that's his resume!

He also dubbed dephlogisticated marine acid "chlorine" (It's much catchier, no?) AND he helped some other scientists flesh out "iodine."

His lectures were quite popular and naturally "the young and handsome Davy acquired a huge female following around London." (Thus, the "hottest Chemist of the Romantic era" stuff.) And if all THAT wasn't enough, he composed poetry, invented a miner's lamp and wrote a book about fly-fishing.

And if you're still not impressed, he was the FIRST SUBJECT EVER of a clerihew. Madness, you say! (I didn't know what it was either.) Edmund Clerihew Bentley wrote:

Sir Humphry Davy
Abominated gravy.
He lived in the odium
Of having discovered sodium.

Oh and there's a lunar crater named after him.

There was a slight mishap in Sir Davy's laboratory in his later years. He screwed up his eyesight when an experiment with nitrogen trichloride went a little sideways. This accident led him to take on an assistant...a Hot Guy by the name of Michael Faraday.

Granted, he doesn't have the same "zing" in his eyes but I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers. Or in his case, electrifying crackers.
He built on Davy's work. He discovered "electromagnetic induction, diamagnetism and laws of electrolysis." As a Chemist he discovered benzene (too bad it causes leukemia) and invented an early form of a Bunsen burner. (Apparently, Albert Einstein kept a picture of the ol' boy on the wall of his study. Score, Faraday!)

The two men were buddy-buddy for many years until Mike "went on to enhance Davy's work and in the end he became the more famous and influential scientist – to the extent that Davy is supposed to have claimed Faraday as his greatest discovery. However, Davy later accused Faraday of plagiarism, causing Faraday...to cease all research in electromagnetism until his mentor's death."

Man. Ain't that always the way? Boys will be boys, I suppose.

Holy crap. I literally have a stack of Historical Hot Guys to spotlight. How did THAT happen? Well, I'll tell ya: Hard work, luck and the kindness of friends. :)

I've had this one in the hopper for quite some time. I was flipping through the book Dorothea Lange: A Life Beyond Limits. I wasn't familiar with her name but I was surprised to learn that I was familiar with her photographs. She took this:
I don't usually go for blue eyes but okay. 

I found out some interesting things about the ol' boy too:

"William Hathorne, the author's great-great-great-grandfather, a Puritan, was the first of the family to emigrate from England, first settling in Dorchester, Massachusetts before moving to Salem. There he became an important member of the Massachusetts Bay Colony and held many political positions including magistrate and judge, becoming infamous for his harsh sentencing."

"William's son and the author's great-great-grandfather, John Hathorne, was one of the judges who oversaw the Salem Witch Trials. Having learned about this, the author may have added the "w" to his surname in his early twenties, shortly after graduating from college, in an effort to dissociate himself from his notorious forebears."

I think my favorite part of the Wikipedia article was learning about his kids. I'm mildly obsessed with the offspring of famous figures. And so we have Nate's fam...

He married transcendentalist painter and illustrator Sophia Peabody in 1842 and they had three children. Una, Julian and Rose (she was canonized [!]).I found this bit of information about Julian's birth particularly interesting. If Nate was excited to have a son he certainly camouflaged it well. From a letter he wrote to his sister:

A small troglodyte made his appearance here at ten minutes to six o'clock, this morning, who claims to be your nephew, and the heir of all our wealth and honors. He has dark hair and is no great beauty at present, but is said to be a particularly fine little urchin by everybody who has seen him.

Ouch. Thanks, dad.

I'm fairly certain Julian had a "nontraditional" upbringing. Consider this:

His parents had difficulty choosing a name for eight months. Possible names included George, Arthur, Edward, Horace, Robert, and Lemuel. His father referred to him for some time as "Bundlebreech" or "Black Prince", due to his dark curls and red cheeks.

I hope that "Black Prince" shit didn't go to his head and make him a devil worshipper.

Ah here's lil' Bundlebreech and Una now...
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd
Hot Guys Wallpaper Hd

Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd

Source(google.com.pk)
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd Biography
The timeline for hot rods and custom cars starts before World War II. Teens itching to tinker with cars and go fast were racing cheap Ford Model Ts on Southern California's dry lakes and street racing in Los Angeles even in the 1920s. The Harper, Muroc, and El Mirage dry lakes -- all 50 or so miles north of Los Angeles -- saw racing activity from the '20s up to World War II. Racing at El Mirage continues today.
Hot Rods Image Gallery
Speed junkies could jump in their hopped-up, chopped-down Model Ts and be at one of the dry lakes in less than three hours. Or, if the need was urgent, they could find a deserted back road or open field. At the lakes, the cars were timed with handheld stopwatches and placed in a class determined by the resultant time.
The vast majority of the cars being run were four-cylinder Ford Model Ts or their successor, the four-cylinder Model A. The cars were cheap, plentiful, lightweight, and easy to work on. They responded to simple "hop ups" like higher compression, ignition and timing adjustments, additional carburetors, and more radical cam grinds.
The drill was fairly simple: Buy the nicest roadster you could find (because roadsters were the lightest); strip off everything not needed to go fast, like the fenders, headlights, hood, and top; find some cheap used tires to replace your bald ones or to mount over your existing tires for a little extra tread; and go racing.
On the next page, learn more about the first speed shops!

When Robert Genat cited a Motor Trend road test of the OHC-6–powered Pontiac Tempest in the Jan. ’66 issue (see our cover story “The Non GTO”), we went looking for that story to dig up some more info on this car and its advanced (for the time) powertrain. In the story, John Ethridge likened Pontiac’s six to the XK-series Jaguar engine, particularly its exhaust note. “It starts to make music much like that of the XK-120M, which reaches a crescendo around 2,800-3,000 rpm and continues until the redline. Happily unlike the Jag, however, you can orchestrate this one to around 6,500 rpm without fear of something coming unstrung, because of its modern, short-stroke design.”

Ethridge’s test car was a Tempest Sprint, equipped with the higher-output (207hp) version of the 230ci six. It was backed by a four-speed manual transmission and 3.90 gears. The Saginaw trans had a fairly wide gap between First (3.11) and Second (2.20) gears, which proved to be an issue; Pontiac asked him to keep the revs below 5,800 rpm because the engine in the car was brand-new.


Still, Ethridge was able to click off 0-60 times of 8.2 seconds and a quarter-mile in 16.7 at 82 mph. And he did it in some fairly nasty, wet weather, judging by the photos. “However, we have it on good authority that, by using fairly simple drag racer’s techniques, [these times] can be further improved upon,” he wrote. As examples, Ethridge wrote about a Tempest Sprint with drag slicks, 4.33 gears, and no air cleaner that ran the quarter in 16.2 at 86 mph, and another with 3.11 gears and butyl tires in place of the slicks that ran 15.8 at more than 90 mph. The good authority he’s referring to was probably the crew at Royal Pontiac, which often massaged cars for the press.

According to the spec box, Motor Trend’s test car had a base price of $2,507 but cost $3,139.19 due to the Sprint package ($126.72), four-speed gearbox ($184.31), ride and handling package ($16), rally wheels ($42.02), 7.75x14 blackwall tires ($14.74), AM/FM radio ($29.12), and other options.



Read more: http://www.hotrod.com/muscle_car_review/mscp_1206_ohc_6_powered_pontiac_tempest_muscle_car_rewind/#ixzz2GnoGObrW

Ethridge came away impressed with the Tempest Sprint, saying it would “outperform most cars, which is remarkable for any six-cylinder these days. Even among cars that can beat it, it’s hard to find one that gives more psychologically satisfying performance. Whether accelerating through the gears, negotiating curvy roads, or cruising down freeways, this car delivers the utmost sensation of speed and motion. Not speed itself, but the sensation of it, is really what the enthusiast seeks.”

Hmmm. We’d guess there were some GTO owners who took issue with that last bit.



Read more: http://www.hotrod.com/muscle_car_review/mscp_1206_ohc_6_powered_pontiac_tempest_muscle_car_rewind/#ixzz2GnoMiE3g

Bangers are bitchin’, and prehistoric bangers are better yet. There are many dedicated fans of the old-and-slow 201ci, L-head four-bangers originally found in millions of Ford Model Ts, and Model A/B/C-equipped ’28–’34 Fords—and especially of the speed equipment manufactured for them. The good news is they’re popular enough that you don’t need to sweat scouring endless swap-meet spaces to score a find—much of it is reproduced and better than new. Bangers are now hotter than ever.

There was a time when the whole of hot rodding was based on making old Model Ts and later Model As run as fast or faster than anything in Anytown, USA. For the few who could afford it, a reground cam, improved ignition, and an overhead conversion could make a stripped-down roadster dance to the tune of 115 mph on the dry lakes. Bangers were the hardware to beat, even into the Ford flathead V8 era until about 1938, when hot rodders were able to apply their talents to four more cylinders—and the rest is hot rod history. Their depression-era cost and obsolescence after WWII make them a genuine score today.

For those eager to learn more, there’s the Secrets of Speed Society (SecretsOfSpeed.com), which publishes a quarterly journal with lots of tech and also holds meets throughout the year, where you can see and hear first-hand what the commotion is all about for a modest yearly membership.

If you’re ever near Lincoln, Nebraska, Speedy Bill’s Museum of American Speed (MuseumOfAmericanSpeed.com) is a treasure trove of virtually every speed part ever made, including super-rare and one-off banger hardware, plus long forgotten overhead conversions like Cook, Fargo, and Rutherford.

Once your roadster is running and you’re ready for something more than “motorvating,” the Southern California Timing Association (SCTA) has classes for racing both vintage flathead fours (VF4) and vintage overhead four-bangers (V4)—with Bonneville records of 152.1 mph in Gas Roadster and 169.3 mph in the Fuel Roadster class! Yes, you really can caffeinate half-an-eight.

Our friends at H&H Flatheads (Flatheads-Forever.com) in La Crescenta, California, have been collecting and assembling hot bangers for years and were kind enough to let us photograph these coveted gems. Check out what vintage speed looks like.



Read more: http://www.hotrod.com/thehistoryof/retrospective/hrdp_1210_vintage_ford_model_a_b_c_four_cylinder_engines/#ixzz2GnoVLsm9
Miller-Schofield Conversions:The Miller-Schofield overhead conversion was designed by Leo Goosen for race-car builder extraordinaire Harry Miller and was funded by a consortium of businessmen led by George L. Schofield. Their plan was to capitalize on the presumed long run of Model As spewing out of Ford’s plants. Model As were produced from 1928 to 1931. With Miller’s collapsing fortunes, the Miller Hi Speed head tooling was soon sold to Cragar and slightly reworked as a Cragar head sold through Bell Auto Parts. (Yes, Cragar S/S wheels are the offspring of this long-ago race-parts manufacturer.) Among many racing triumphs, the team of Miller and Goosen were best known for developing the Offy engine that dominated Indy for decades.

Read more: http://www.hotrod.com/thehistoryof/retrospective/hrdp_1210_vintage_ford_model_a_b_c_four_cylinder_engines/#ixzz2Gnog07Nk
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd
Hot Rods Wallpapers Hd
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...