Dora Lee Morrison finally realized her marriage was over the day she experienced a true bonding moment with the dead tarpon mounted on her husband's wall. She and that fish had a lot in common. Both of them had been caught by J. Walter Morrison III, scion of the department store conglomerate created and expanded on by JWMs senior and junior. Both, for many years, had been proudly displayed — the trophy fish that hung as no-longer-living proof of his skill for reeling in the big ones. She, the trophy wife that confirmed his skill for reeling in the younger ones. Now after fourteen years, J. Walter was throwing her back.

The tarpon gaped as if astonished to be in this predicament. Right back at you, fella, Dora thought. She hadn't seen the divorce demand looming on the horizon. When J. Walter informed her that he wanted to "dissolve their union", she'd stared, every bit as pop-eyed and frozen while her heart shook and her brain struggled with the words. He'd droned on about their "satisfying partnership having run its course" and "the need to investigate new ventures". He graciously assured her that their pre-nuptial agreement would "tide her over" while she explored her options. Then he packed his overnight case and left their Treasure Coast mansion for a four-day fishing trip in the islands. Like the acquiescent wife he expected, she'd quietly followed him to the door and watched him drive away in his late-model black Porsche. Then, pure terror punched her in the chest and she'd sunk, gasping, to the floor.

A few months later she still wrestled with the new reality. She struggled to sit upright in a deep arm chair in his British Indies-colonial inspired-office. Leather-bound first edition Hemingway novels sat on the shelves of his credenza. More trophies displayed to impress, she realized, since J. Walter would never dream of taking a reading break in the middle of a work day. Where had he put the picture of the two of them, the one that used to sit on his desk positioned so that guests would naturally see it when they first sat down?

Quality leather and expensive cologne scented the air. Hopefully they covered the rank odor of fear surely seeping like garlic from her pores. Her lawyer argued that after more than a dozen years of devoted marriage, she was entitled to a larger amount than the money agreed upon before they'd wed. She forced herself to breathe evenly when J. Walter's lawyer firmly countered that the financial settlement was more than generous. After all, she'd moved into homes he already owned and, in terms of holdings or income, she'd brought nothing substantial to the marriage.

He couldn't have portrayed her as more of a gold digger if he'd handed her a miner's hard hat and pick axe.

"Nothing? I brought myself." Dora squashed a shriek. "I'm a good wife, Walter. A helpmate, you said. Who's at home every night to hear about your day?" She thought back on years of entertaining business associates and friends. "Think of the charity functions I worked on because you said it was important for your wife to be involved. How many events did we attend so that Morrison's Stores were properly represented?" How many cool looks, barely-polite smiles and snide whispers had she endured that never let her forget she'd begun her association with him as a lingerie model for his family's stores?

"Work days and business deals that you barely understood. How many of those charity meetings and events have you attended since we separated?" J. Walter cut her off with a condescending smile. "Calm yourself, Dora. There's no need to make this transaction ugly."

"Transaction? This is our marriage. We aren't talking about a business deal!"

"Aren't we?"

His coldness froze the air in her lungs. What happened to the witty, sexy charmer who'd so dazzled her when they first met at a Morrison's-hosted fashion show? The man who'd swept her off her ostrich-plume mules almost from the minute he'd invited her to join him for champagne after the fashion show, smiling into her eyes and ignoring the fact that she was wearing scraps of satin and lace under a transparent silk baby-doll nighty.

Now, the expression in his eyes scorned her as if she wore bargain-basement rags instead of a custom-tailored, cool linen suit.

"Dora, you had nothing when we met. You got what you wanted when we first married and are now leaving with far more than even you could have dreamed. Be a good girl. Don't be greedy."

Be a good girl. How many times had she heard that over the years? Dora, you won't have time to volunteer for the animal shelter. Be a good girl. You need to join the hospital ball fundraising committee. He made it sound so essential that, of course, she understood. You want your grandfather to stay with us over Christmas? Dora, the old man would be no more comfortable here than I'd be staying at his little marina. You know my family expects us in Aspen. Be a good girl and visit him another time. It was important to Walter that she got along with his family. She'd choked down the slight to her beloved Grampa Willie and had gone to see him in the Keys the week before the holiday instead.

Dora, I'm almost 50, he'd said a few years into their marriage. My sons are grown men. I don't want any more children. Be a good girl and don't make this an issue.

That edict hurt worst of all, but again she'd agreed. The day she became Mrs. J. Walter Morrison III, she'd left behind Dora Lee Hanson of the Florida Keys. In the process she'd worked her butt off to be the woman he wanted, the wife he expected, and she'd succeeded from the top of her trendy hairstyle to the tip of her uncomfortable but gorgeous Jimmy Choo slings. Memories bounced around in her brain so fast, she couldn't concentrate. Apparently taking her silence for agreement, Walter nodded his approval.

"Sign the papers, Dora. I'll write you the first check."

He made it sound like severance pay for an employee he'd fired. Or worse. If he thought their marriage all came down to money, then . . .

"I wasn't a gold digger. I was in love with you."

All four of the room's other occupants stared. Walter arched a single brow, his fallback expression when anyone dared to disagree with him. His attorney looked smug. Her lawyer's face twitched with the effort to stay neutral. Only the tarpon appeared sympathetic. At that moment, she understood fighting the divorce was useless. Although they'd lived separately for months, in her heart of hearts she'd still cared for him and nurtured the hope that they'd work things out. Now she knew the truth. Her marriage couldn't be saved.

She'd never known that it was possible for love to die in an instant, but Walter had killed it as surely as he'd bludgeoned the tarpon to death. Whatever emotion or affection might have lingered evaporated in the rising heat of anger. There in the tasteful, "old money" office, something snapped. He wanted out of this marriage? He'd get his wish, but she wouldn't completely surrender her pride.

She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk to keep her hands from trembling. "Fine. If this is a business deal, let's negotiate. You can have the divorce, but these are my terms. Increase the amount of the pre-nup by fifty percent."

He opened his mouth to protest and she ran right over him, adrenaline propelling her like a racer to the finish line. "You can afford that amount if you divorce twenty wives, Walter, and that's my fee for making this convenient."

"I'm prepared to be generous, but only to a point. We'll adjust it, say, ten percent."

"You pay more to your tailor. Forty percent."

Walter's lawyer broke in. "Mrs. Morrison, you signed the original agreement in good faith. He doesn't have to raise it at all."

Obviously feeling in control and willing to be magnanimous, Walter beamed. "I'll go as high as an additional fifteen percent."

Magnanimous her ass. She was fighting for her life. "You'll go to thirty percent. If you don't agree, I'll drag this out as long as possible and then..." She aimed and fired a shot in the dark. "...you'll have to wait that much longer to go public with your new girlfriend."

That at least wiped the smile from his face. He abruptly sat back and nodded at his attorney. Score! Dora snorted. "Does this one at least break thirty? Does she know you carry an AARP card?" She shook her head, disgusted at both of them, having long ago realized that her comparatively youthful twenty-five had been a big part of the attraction when he'd culled her out of the crowd.

"Next, I keep the jewelry you bought me." At the moment, she loathed the idea of wearing any of it, but gemstones could always be sold.

"And my Mercedes."

Judging by the furious look in his crows-feet framed, Lasik-corrected eyes, she'd reached his limit. "Agreed, but that's as far as I'll go, Dora. It's more than enough and much more than you deserve."

Bull. Her entire settlement didn't match what he paid in clubhouse fees every year. He was getting off light and both of them knew it. A dull buzz filled her head and drowned out the fear. She needed something else. A symbol. Not money. He could afford that without breaking a sweat. No, she needed something he prized. Something he would really hate to lose.

Got it! Coolly, she sat back in her chair and smugly smiled. "There's one more thing and this is absolutely non-negotiable." She pointed at the wall behind his head at her new-found comrade.

"I'm taking your fish."

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