Marriage Game

by Fern Michaels

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

In a dazzling celebration of the power of friendship and love, acclaimed bestselling author Fern Michaels brings her trademark wit and warmth to an action-packed story featuring a group of diverse women who bond Survivor -style under the most unlikely of circumstances...and find romance along the way. When Samantha Rainford—newly wed to Douglas Cosmo Rainford III—returns home from her honeymoon to find divorce papers waiting, she's shocked and heartbroken. Then she discovers that she's not the first to be abandoned—she's one of four (or maybe more) ex-Mrs. Rainfords—and decides it's time to put into practice that old truism: Don't get mad, get even. With the help of her longtime girlfriend Slick, a glamorous fashion model, Sam gathers together a highly unlikely team: Mrs. Kayla Rainford, an architect who moonlights as an exotic dancer; Mrs. Zoe Rainford, a plumber; and Mrs. Olivia Rainford, a former cheerleader and cartoon artist. Sam and Slick flunked out of FBI training school, but they still learned a few things there—like how to plan a mission. And the fivesome is determined to do whatever it takes to bring down Douglas Rainford III. Whatever it takes means attending a top-secret private special-ops training camp in the North Carolina mountains, where Sam meets fiercely disciplined ex-CIA operative Kollar Havapopulas. Six feet three and handsome as a Greek god, "Pappy" is the best at what he does—transforming civilians into highly skilled fighting teams. What he's less adept at, however, is telling a woman how he feels, and before long he discovers he's developing some very warm feelings for Samantha Rainford—an attraction that seems fated to be a total disaster. Two personalities as strong as Sam and Pappy are sure to strike sparks, but will the fire that burns between them consume everything in its way?

Release date: April 17, 2007

Publisher: Pocket Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

The Marriage Game

Chapter 1

Eight Months Later

Special Agent Jim Yakum approached Sam on her way back to the room she shared with Slick. “Hold on, Rainford.”

Sam turned, a feeling of dread settling over her. She stopped in midstride and waited, knowing full well what was coming. She bit down on her lower lip, her hands clenched into tight fists at her side. She wanted to cry, she really did. No one out of her class of thirty-two had worked harder, struggled more, and now here was Special Agent Yakum to tell her it had all been in vain. She was a washout. A wannabe FBI agent. She would never be called a fibbie. The bottom line was she couldn’t cut it.

The FBI agent shuffled his feet, looking over her head, then around the hall to make sure they weren’t overheard. “Look, Rainford, I just wanted to give you a heads-up. There’s no other way to say this other than to say it. You didn’t make it. I’m sorry.” Sam knew they weren’t just words. Yakum was sorry. Special Agent Yakum was one of the good guys. At least in her eyes.

God, she wanted to cry so bad, to stamp her feet and just pitch a fit. She knew she couldn’t do any of those things. She squared her shoulders and struggled for a sickly smile. “I know.” She absolutely refused to ask if she was the only one who didn’t make it.

The agent shrugged. “It was your lack of upper body strength, Rainford. If it’s any consolation to you, Hawkins didn’t make it either.” Hawkins was a six-foot-two, 180-pound hunk of a guy who was so good-looking he made your eyes water. The agent continued, “Nine others, not including you and Hawkins washed out. A total of a eleven washouts for this class.”

Sam turned and started down the hall. Yakum was still with her. “I guess that means you want me to leave now.”

“That’s your call, Rainford. I can walk you out to your car and that way you can avoid any…”

“Embarrassment? You’re thinking I’d rather slink out than walk out with my head up, is that it? Maybe the others will slink out, but I’ll go out the way I came in. I’ll walk out on my own, thank you very much,” Sam said, a catch in her throat. The hot tears were pricking her eyelids. She had to get to the room she shared with Slick. She wondered if Slick made it. She almost asked but knew the words would come out all garbled. Big girls didn’t cry. Especially big girls who wanted to be FBI agents.

They were at the door to her room. A hateful room, with stainless-steel this and stainless-steel that. She had one suitcase to pack. Ten minutes tops. She turned to the agent and said, “Thanks for the heads-up. I know you didn’t have to do that.”

“You worked hard, Rainford. Sometimes life just isn’t fair. Good luck.” Yakum held out a big, beefy paw. Sam shook his hand. “See ya around.”

“Yeah, see ya around,” Sam responded. Like she was ever going to see this big galoot anywhere.

Sam opened the door to see Slick sitting on her bunk, her packed bag at her feet. “What took you so long?”

“Yakum gave me the bad news. You washed out, too! I thought…”

Slick wiggled her fingers. “Not strong enough for rapid fire on an Uzi. I heard Hawkins washed out. Now that’s a mind-bender right there. C’mon, Sam, pack up and let’s head for Flip’s. I could use a drink. If you cry, I’ll smack you, Sam. Accept it, we weren’t good enough. I can live with that, and so can you. We can cry in our beer at Flip’s. Not here. Wait, wait, wait! I have an idea.” She ran to the closet and yanked out a scarlet spandex dress and tossed it to Sam. She had her own suitcase open within seconds. Five minutes later, she’d shed her jeans and donned skimpy thong underwear and a black push-up bra. “We’re going out of here in style, baby, and I don’t want to hear another word! That means makeup and hair-style. Fifteen minutes and we’re both runway material. Now, goddamn it, Sam, move!”

Sam moved.

Fifteen minutes later both women looked at their reflections in the stainless-steel mirrors fastened to the closet doors. Sam gasped. “We look like sluts!”

Slick waved her hand airily. “There are sluts, and there are sluts!”

In spite of herself, Sam laughed. “Should we call down to have someone take our bags?”

Slick took a second appraising look at herself in the mirror. Satisfied, she turned to Sam. “I say we leave the damn bags. I don’t want any reminders of this place, and I don’t think you do either. Take the makeup, though. Now, aren’t you glad I insisted we bring these outfits? The first rule in modeling is always be prepared.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam drawled. “I hope I don’t kill myself in these three-inch heels. The first thing I’m going to do is take a gardeniascented bubble bath when I get home to get the stink of this place off me. Are we really leaving our bags?”

“Yeah, let them paw through our cotton underwear and have wet dreams while they’re doing it. Is the bath before or after Flip’s?”

“After.”

Slick’s hand was on the doorknob. The time was four-thirty in the afternoon. Within seconds the hall would be full of agents and their classmates. Slick cupped her hands under her breasts, gave a little push, tugged the spandex down over her ass, and marched out to the hall. She turned to Sam, and hissed, “Strut, baby! I showed you how to do it, now make me proud of you. Head back, and push out that pelvis. Don’t look at anyone and follow me.”

Catcalls, whistles, and lewd comments followed them down the hall and out to the main concourse. A group of Marine officers stopped in their tracks, giving Sam and Slick stunned looks and raised eyebrows. Slick slowed, twirled her beaded purse before she wagged her finger under the officers’ noses. Sam winked, and said, “Your loss, boys!”

The wannabes sailed through the door unaware of the surveillance cameras aimed at them. The women high-fived each other as they walked toward the parking lot and Sam’s car.

“Last chance, home or Flip’s?” Slick asked.

“Flip’s. You drive, Slick. I want to make some calls. I think we should have a party at Flip’s.”

“Oooh, I like the way that sounds. Who are we inviting?”

“The first, second, and third Mrs. Rainford! My divorce was finalized yesterday. I think it’s time to compare notes. I used the FBI data bank to get their numbers, and I have full profiles on them. Hell, I even tried to do one on my ex. You won’t believe what I found out about that guy. He doesn’t exist. What do you think of that?”

Slick’s jaw dropped. “You married someone who doesn’t exist! How can that be? If you found the other…ah…wives, why can’t you find him? Did you get copies of the marriage licenses? You must have done something wrong, Sam. The FBI had files on everyone, and I do mean everyone.” She nibbled on a nail before she said, “What are you going to do?”

“Well, his identity is so secret that it can only be accessed by those with top secret security clearance. I’ll figure out some way to find out who Douglas Rainford really is. That’s a project for tomorrow.”

Slick slipped the car into gear. “Shouldn’t we…you know, do something…say something, you know, meaningful as we depart? Maybe something profound. How about a single-digit salute?”

“We made our statement in these outfits, Slick. You wanna yell, Semper Fi or something like that to all those gung ho Marines out there, go for it! The gardenia bubble bath can wait. Head for Flip’s.”

Slick lowered her window, her left hand hanging out while she steered with her right hand. The minute they roared through the gates, Quantico behind them, she offered up her single-digit salute. The cameraman off in the distance caught the salute in midair with his zoom lens. Women always had such interesting conversations. He laughed as he imagined the look on his superior’s face when he showed him the pictures and let him listen to the audio-tapes.

Flip’s was your regulation DC bar, with lots of mahogany and polished brass. By five forty-five the bar would be full of politicos, Pentagon workers, secretaries, and Hill staffers, most, if not all, on the make. Happy hour was from six to seven, and Flip turned out a good table, meaning wings, chips, salsa, and pizza rolls. Friday nights were a madhouse; it was when Flip served all-you-can-eat shrimp. Free, of course. The place hummed and bustled, and if you were lucky enough to get a table, you hung on to it for the night. Unless, of course, you got lucky and headed home for an early evening with a member of the opposite sex. On more than one occasion, the occupants of the table took a gratuity of twenty or so bucks from someone waiting for a table, enough to pay for the drinks before departing. It was DC, the land of power brokers and spin artists.

“These shoes are killing me,” Sam said as she moved through the revolving door. They were early enough that a table was available in the rear of the room, far enough away from the brass-and-mahogany bar that a person could actually hear what his or her companion was saying. The bar tables were high enough and round enough that five stools could fit comfortably. Each woman slid onto a stool, then looked at each other before they burst out laughing.

The man who was tailing the two women was Poke Donovan. His real name was Peter but he’d been christened Poke a lifetime ago because he always carried a poke in his back, a canvas bag with the tools of his trade. He settled himself at the far end of the bar, the end closest to them. He ordered a Heineken he intended to nurse for a while as he settled down to wait. He found himself a little chagrined that the two women hadn’t noticed him following them. So much for the FBI surveillance course they’d taken.

Poke eyed the red-hot wings Flip’s was known for. Certain his quarry wasn’t going anywhere, he walked over to the buffet and loaded up a plate that he carried back to his seat at the bar. The women were drinking margaritas by the pitcher. Before he dived into the wings, he pulled out his Blackberry and clicked it on. Two messages from the boss. Check in. Details please. His own return emails were just as succinct. On target. Too soon for details. He settled back to devour the wings.

He saw the first, the second, and the third Mrs. Rainford walk past the section of the bar where he was sitting. Lookers, all three of them. Definitely on a par with the two at the bar table. A miniature listening device in his ear enabled him to eat and listen to the conversation among the five women.

“Kayla Rainford. The first Mrs. Rainford,” the redhead said, offering her hand to Slick and Sam.

“Olivia Rainford. The second Mrs. Rainford,” the blonde said. She shook hands all around.

“Zoe Rainford. The third Mrs. Rainford,” a black-haired woman with eyes just as dark said.

“I’m the fourth Mrs. Rainford. Call me Sam. My divorce was finalized yesterday,” Sam said. “Please, sit down. Have a drink. This little party is on me.”

The women looked at Slick. “I’m Sara, but my friends call me Slick, and I don’t belong to your little club. I’m just a friend of Sam’s.” She poured from the pitcher and signaled the waitress for another.

Sam eyed the beautiful women and wondered what in the world had possessed her to initiate this meeting. Maybe it was washing out of the FBI. Maybe it was the signed divorce papers. Maybe she just wanted to know how the three women had gone on with their lives after Douglas divorced them. Maybe a lot of things.

“We need to make a toast,” Slick said. “I say we make it to new beginnings and to womanhood.”

The women raised their glasses and drained them. Slick poured again.

And they’re on their way, the man at the bar thought. He headed back to the buffet and filled his plate again. He was back on his barstool as the women started to explain their relationships with Douglas Rainford, III.

“I guess I’ll start, since I was the first. At least I think I was the first,” Kayla said. “Douglas used to come to see me dance. I’m an exotic dancer.” Sam raised her eyebrows. “Okay, I’m a belly dancer. I have muscles in my stomach that are like steel. My real job is working as an architect. I just dance three nights a week. I make more money dancing than I do at my real job. Douglas swept me off my feet,” she said, with a dreamy look in her eyes. “His money dazzled me, I admit it. The honeymoon was fantastic. He divorced me three weeks after the honeymoon. I walked away with five grand. One of the Prizzis called me into the office and served the papers on me right there. I have to tell you, it was a hell of a honeymoon. I had stars in my eyes the whole time. And the bait of the ten million down the road didn’t hurt either. That’s my story.”

“Mine is pretty much the same,” Olivia began. “Three weeks after the honeymoon, he gave me my walking papers courtesy of the Prizzi law firm. I didn’t see it coming either. I took my five thousand dollars and walked off into the night. I have to agree with Kayla, the honeymoon was out of this world. Nothing ever measured up to it. I can’t deny he was a hell of a lover.”

“I don’t have anything to add to that,” Zoe continued. “My own experience was identical. I think Mr. Douglas Rainford, III, is a honeymoon junkie. It’s obvious now that Douglas is not husband material. I blew my five grand in one day. I don’t even remember what I spent it on.” Zoe’s voice turned dreamy-sounding, her eyes glazing over. “I guess I more or less feel like you all do, but I have to tell you, I have one outstanding, mind-blowing memory I will never forget.”

The others looked at Zoe, their eyes angry at what they didn’t know. “Share,” they said in unison.

“Well, the second-to-the-last day of our honeymoon, we took a walk around the resort, which by the way was so private you could run around naked and no one would see you. It started to rain. It was a warm rain. Douglas kissed me and one thing led to another and then we were on the ground making love on a bed of gardenia petals. Buck naked, I might add. There were gardenia bushes all around us. The scent was so heady. I never wanted the moment to end, and Douglas didn’t either. He picked a gardenia and stuck it between my breasts. It was a perfect gardenia. He said I was just as perfect as the flower. I…ah…still have it. The gardenia, I mean. Douglas said he would love me forever and ever. I said the same thing. He smiled and kissed me. It was all just so perfect.

“Then the son of a bitch divorced me. End of my story. What about you, Samantha?” Zoe asked.

“My deal was pretty much the same. I got dumped after the honeymoon. I didn’t take the five thousand, though. He broke my heart.”

Olivia’s dark eyes glowed as she leaned across the table. “There’s four of us here. Between us, we should be able to come up with a plan to get our ten million bucks. I think we all earned it.”

Slick refilled their glasses.

“I’m sure we can find some sleazy lawyer who can file a class action suit. Too bad there’s only four of us.”

“Not true,” Sam said. She leaned across the table and explained what she’d found out by using the FBI database. “There are four more besides us. I didn’t have time to run checks on them, though.”

Slick gasped, her eyes wild at Sam’s declaration.

“Four more!” the women exclaimed in unison.

“Damn. I planned on putting that ten million dollars in my pension fund,” Zoe said. “He has to pay for breaking my heart.”

“Lawyers get most of it, you know. I know that because I’m a bean counter, and I crunch numbers. You know what, ladies, it’s doable.” Sam couldn’t believe she was saying what she was saying.

Slick whistled between her teeth to be heard over the decibel level in the bar. She waggled the empty pitcher. A fresh one was brought almost immediately. She poured generously, slopping over the tabletop. No one seemed to mind as they raised their glasses in yet another toast.

The conversation turned to lawyers and who knew whom. The man at the bar listened in awe as Douglas Rainford, III’s, future and financial demise were discussed. His gut told him they would prevail. His face turned hot as the conversation grew raunchier and more off-color. He started to pity Douglas Rainford, III.

It was ten o’clock when Poke heard Sam Rainford call a car service after she invited all the women back to her condo to spend the night so that they could further plot and scheme. He couldn’t help but wonder if any of them would remember anything in the morning. They’d consumed six pitchers of margaritas. The bartender looked at him pointedly, so he ordered another Heineken.

Surely they would make a stop at the ladies’ room on their way out. Or, they’d go one by one. He needed to contract his boss for further instruction. He yanked his Blackberry out of his jacket pocket. Another message. Check in. He did. His message was simple. They’re sloshed. Scratch original plan. Have better one.

He almost missed Sam when she tottered toward the bathroom. He slapped bills down on the bar and followed her. He stepped out of the way to allow Slick to enter the restroom behind Sam. He leaned against the wall and waited. He argued with himself about approaching them or waiting till morning. Before he could make up his mind, Sam and Slick exited the restroom, their spike-heeled shoes in hand. He was about to speak to them when the first, second, and third Rainford wives appeared out of nowhere.

His chance to speak to Sam and Slick evaporated. He walked to the door and left the bar. Morning would be time enough.

Outside, Poke stood to the side out of the rain that had started to fall. The night was warm, perfect July weather. He watched as the five women piled into the Lincoln Town Car. All of them were carrying their shoes and laughing as they tumbled over one another. Just to be sure the women made no other stops along the way, he followed them home at a discreet distance.

He hated sleeping in his car, but his boss would kill him if he allowed the two women to get away from him. They were wily enough to pull a fast one. For all he knew, they had been on to him the whole time. He’d learned a long time ago never, under any circumstances, to underestimate a woman and her capabilities.

He didn’t settle down for the long night until he was certain the women were inside and the lights went out. Only then did he sigh with relief. He pulled out his Blackberry and typed in a message. I’m on top of it. Stay tuned.

Poke was an expert at sleeping with one eye open. He was an expert at so many things that sometimes he surprised himself. A sound he hadn’t heard in years jerked him upright. He looked down at the glowing numerals on his watch. Five o’clock. The sound he heard was a milkman banging his metal crates. This was a new one on him. He thought everybody bought their milk in supermarkets or Quick Checks, which just proved that in his line of business you learned something new every day.

This was the part of his job he hated. Waking up, having to go to the bathroom, wrinkled clothes, a scummy mouth, and stubble on his face. He turned on the car engine and headed for the nearest Mobil station, a few blocks away. He felt certain nothing was going to happen while he was gone. It wasn’t even light out yet.

Poke Donovan looked like an overripe pumpkin, round body, skinny neck, and narrow head. He also had a photographic memory and a mind like a steel trap. He wore glasses he didn’t need. He thought the glasses made him look benevolent, but in reality they made him look even scarier than he did without them.

Poke longed for a shower. It was how he liked to start his day. Steaming hot, then freezing cold, followed by a cup of freshly ground coffee. Not one cup but three. It was his morning ritual. Except on occasions such as this one.

Ten minutes to revitalize himself, and he was back at Sam Rainford’s condo. It was just starting to get light out. The milkman was gone. At the end of the cul-de-sac, a man in a jogging suit ran with a golden retriever. The streetlights were still on, casting everything in gray-and-lavender shadows. Poke got out of the car, reached in for his briefcase, then locked the door. The man with the dog was watching him. Maybe they had a Neighborhood Watch or something. He waved airily as he made his way toward Sam’s condo. He had a lockpick in his hand, but with the neighbor watching him, he was wary of using it. He pretended to ring the bell as his chubby fingers worked the pick. Two seconds later the lock clicked, and he was inside.

Poke knew where everything was. He’d been there earlier to get the layout should he ever have to come inside without being invited. He took a minute to look around before he headed for the second floor and the bedroom that belonged to Sam Rainford. He made no sound as he climbed the stairs. He waited in the narrow hallway for a few seconds to see if anyone was moving. The only thing he could hear was the sound of the golden retriever barking in the cul-de-sac outside.

Back downstairs, Poke walked the kitchen, his gaze taking in everything. It took him five minutes to find the coffee and fill the pot with water and grounds. They would have to drink it black with sugar unless Sam had powdered milk. The refrigerator held nothing but bottled water, a bottle of wine, three bottles of beer, and two shriveled-up apples that were about to disintegrate.

Minutes later, he was back on the second floor checking the other rooms to see where the other women were sleeping. They were going to figure in his plans, too. Faint dawnlight was creeping through the shutters in Sam’s bedroom. He tiptoed over to Sam’s bed, aware that he was stepping on the scarlet spandex dress she had worn the evening before. It looked like she was wearing green plaid pajamas. He leaned over and cupped his hand against her mouth. She jerked and started to thrash about on the bed. “Shhh, I’m not here to hurt you. I just want you to come down to the kitchen to talk to me. I already made coffee. If you scream or make a sound, I will hurt you. Blink your eyes twice to show me you understand what I just said.” Sam blinked twice, her eyes full of terror. “Good. I’m here to offer you and Slick jobs. Like I said, I don’t want to hurt you. Relax, and I will show you something.” Poke stepped back and turned, just far enough so that Sam could see the gun in his shoulder holster. With his free hand he pulled out a small leather folder and whisked it open. A gold shield glowed. A second later it was back in his breast pocket.

It was getting lighter out, and the bedroom wasn’t so dim and dark. “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. If you make one sound, I will hurt you. Blink if you understand.” Sam blinked. “Good. Now, I want you to get up, go into Slick’s room, and bring her here. Be very careful what you say. The three of us will go downstairs, have some coffee, and I’ll tell you why I’m here. Now, move! I’ve never been known for my patience.”

Her heart thundering in her chest, her mind racing, Sam bolted to the room next door, where she shook Slick’s shoulder. She whispered in her ear before she backed out of the room. The pumpkin man backed up and headed down the steps, Sam right behind him. Outside, the golden retriever was howling.

In the cozy kitchen, Poke motioned for Sam to sit, then did the same thing when Slick walked in, her hair standing on end. She was dressed in a knee-length sleep shirt that said SWEET DREAMS on the front.

Poke poured coffee. The women eyed him warily, their hands cupped around their respective mugs.

“Believe it or not, ladies, I’m here to make your day!”