Fool Me Once (First Wives #1)

She flung her arm to her side. “Good.”

He shifted over her, the heat of him pressed closer.

Lifting her legs over his hips, she invited him in. “Don’t stop.”

Reed placed a hand on the side of her face as he sank deep. Conversation ended, replaced with an effort to breathe while racing toward a common, satisfying goal.

He said something she didn’t quite catch, not that it mattered, and her body shattered in delightful waves.





Chapter Thirteen




Lori was drunk on orgasms, Reed could see it in her face, could feel it in the lazy touch of her hands. If he were being honest with himself, he’d admit he was as loose as a doll made of string.

With her head tucked into the crook of his arm, Lori traced imaginary circles on his chest, which managed to arouse him more than once already, and it was only one in the morning.

“Have you always been in California?” Lori’s pillow talk was a bit of a minefield. Reed had learned early on to give as many facts as he could without telling everything about himself.

“Mostly. Spent a little time in my twenties traveling around. How about you?”

“Born and raised. Did my undergrad in Chicago, froze my butt off for four years, then law school at Columbia.”

Her leg was tucked up beside his, his hand rested on her naked thigh. He gave her butt a tiny slap. “Where you froze more of this off.”

She laughed and wiggled her rear end. “I couldn’t wait to get back to the sunshine.”

“And traffic.”

“Traffic is everywhere. Adding snow and ice makes it worse.”

He knew that.

He also knew that now was a great time to probe her about her relationship with Shannon.

“You could be an attorney anywhere.”

“Wealthy clients are in LA,” she offered.

“Like Shannon?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess that’s good for you.”

“Wealth doesn’t make divorce any easier, it just makes it more lucrative for me.”

“How so?”

“Best example is to compare a typical divorce from a middle income family in, say, Nebraska, to a high income family in Bel Air. The first couple have a home, two cars, a moderate savings. Nothing in ways of stocks, bonds, yada yada. Couple of kids, maybe a dog. For argument’s sake, let’s say the wife decided to be a stay-at-home mom. The marriage falls apart without too much fanfare. Maybe the house is sold, most likely the wife and kids will stay in the family home, ex-husband has to pay for home, for the kids . . . the wife needs to go back to work. There is no fighting over possessions, since what they had was minimal. He keeps his junk he kept gathered in the man cave garage and she keeps the Pier 1 Imports buys.”

“It sounds like the wife is making out.”

“Probably, but no more or less than what she had when she was married. But in a wealthy marriage, there are multiple houses, sometimes in different countries. Custody is an issue if the couples live in different places. Cars, assets, stocks, bonds; you name it. I had a couple fight over a collection of Montblanc pens.”

“Are those expensive?” He was a Bic kind of guy.

She looked up at him. “Yes, very. Anyway, the rich take a long time to sort out their crap.”

“And the longer they take, the more hours you can bill.”

She placed her chin on his chest. “Yes. Which sounds awful, but I always warn my clients when they come in what it’s going to cost if they can’t come to some kind of resolution before going to court.”

Questions about Shannon’s divorce were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back. “I didn’t have much when I divorced. I was barely twenty-three, and she had just reached the age to drink in a bar. It lasted less than a year, neither of us fought to keep the couch.”

“That’s smart.”

“What about you? Was your own divorce simple?”

“Yes and no.” Her smile fell.

“Oh?”

“We met in law school.”

“You were both lawyers?”

“No. He was a year younger than me. I graduated, took the bar . . . passed. He graduated by a hair and failed the bar three times. I found my first position with a firm, and he was working as a paralegal and hating it.”

“That sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

“Or divorce, as it turned out. He had enough legal knowledge to hold on long enough that I cut him a check for alimony and he ended up with the condo.”

Reed couldn’t imagine any able-bodied man taking his young wife for that kind of payout.

“So where is the yes part of ‘was your divorce simple?’ Sounds like you got screwed.”

“It was simple in that I didn’t drag it out. My attorney’s fees were nothing compared to what my clients pay me. I learned two very valuable lessons before I turned thirty.”

He could probably guess, but he didn’t try. “Which were?”

“Love is grand, but divorce is a hundred grand.”

He grinned. “And the second?”

“Prenuptial agreements should be mandated before anyone enters into marriage.”

Her eyes were fading, and she lay back down on his chest.

After a few seconds, he said, “Prenuptial sounds loveless.”

She hummed, and her breathing slowed. “I refer to my previous statement.”

Reed closed his eyes. “Love is grand . . .”

“Divorce is a hundred grand,” she finished for him.




She went to sleep in Italy and woke up in France. To seal the morning up, Reed faked a French accent and woke her with indecent kisses all over. By the time she took her walk of shame to her cabin, she was floating on a sexual cloud with appropriate body aches from the previous night’s exercise.

“Go spend the day in France with your friends,” he had encouraged her.

“No skydiving?”

He laughed. “You’re not ready.”

She wasn’t. “Dumping me already?”

“Not a chance. But I need to recharge, and I’m not sure how I can do that while staring at you all day. Besides, you’re here with your friends.”

His words reminded her of why she was on the cruise in the first place. Somehow, the trip for her clients had become her own personal Love Boat episode.

Lori left his stateroom after several steamy kisses, and slipped into hers. After enjoying a hot shower, she met the girls on the dock.

“Good-bye Italy,” Shannon announced as if she were the tour director. “The country of high emotions, no toilet paper in the public restrooms, and more carbs than your personal trainer can ever melt off your ass, and welcome to France, home of coiffed poodles and croissants.”

Trina took a long, deep breath through her nose. “Ahhh, yes. It smells like sex.”

All three women stared directly at Lori.

She settled her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose and offered a smug smile.

“That would be Avery,” she diverted.

“Ha!” Trina exclaimed.

“She has a point,” Avery said.

“No, this is a new pheromone, laced with American male and sprinkled with a certain lawyer’s perfume.”

Shannon had a way with words.

Lori regarded them from over the rim of her sunglasses. “Well, he is very American . . . everywhere.”