“Oh, it smells sooooo good. And that fire is great. Can I sleep in front of it? Let’s have a sleepover the way we used to do in college.” Slick gave Sam a quick hug, then wiped the tears from her eyes. “They fired me, Sam. Sheer Delight fired me! They replaced me with a nineteen-year-old girl whose legs go all the way up to her neck. She’s Scandinavian and weighs ninety-three pounds. Just like that they fired me! Do you believe that? I was so upset I packed up when the shoot was over and for two months I ate my way across Europe. I put on eighteen pounds. What do you think of that!” She burst into tears, not caring if her eyes got puffy or red. “My whole life is over!”

Sam waited until Slick paid the driver, then led her over to the deep comfortable sofa in front of the fire. “What I think is you look wonderful! You don’t look like a plank of wood. Your bones aren’t showing. You look healthy, Slick. Your life is not over, it’s just beginning. I’ll get us some coffee. Then we’ll talk.”

“Four sugars and cream,” Slick said.

“What happened to black coffee?”

“I left black coffee with the Scandinavian. By the way, her name is Grette.” Slick started to cry again.

It was midnight when Slick finally asked the question Sam dreaded. “What are you going to do now, Sam?”

“I’m going to work for the FBI after all. I was going to sign on, but then I met Douglas, and everything changed. They gave me ninety days to make up my mind. They’ve been actively recruiting for the past few months. Want to join up?”

“Hell, yes. It’s got to be better than strutting down a runway throwing my hips and pelvis out of joint.”

“Then we’ll sign you up tomorrow,” Sam said.

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.