Polo Wives

The Story

Step aside Jackie Collins! Hollywood's torrid scene shifts to Santa Barbara and Polo Wives.

Chandler twisted her husband’s Rolex, which hung around her wrist like a heavy bracelet while he played polo, then let it drop back in place against her slim ladies’ Rolex. Her friend, Bunny, caught the motion and looked at the his-and-her Rolex watches on her own wrist. She held up her arm. “Look at us, we’re bound and chained.”

Polo Wives, a novel woven from the rich fabric of the oldest equestrian sport in the world, is the sizzling story of the scandalous lives of the rich, the powerful, the famous of the polo world. The story is revealed through the eyes of:

Chandler , a twenty-six-year old haute couture fashion and swimsuit model who is the sexually and physically abused wife of wealthy polo patron and player, Bo Cayman. Bo is determined to win the most prestigious polo trophy in America—the United States Open Championship. Within him is locked a terrible secret from his past that he can never reveal to his wife.

Bunny is the Junoesque redheaded wife of the great Argentine polo player, Cristian Machado.

Patsy Jo Strong drinks her gin and tonics in defiance of her womanizing polo-playing husband, Mike Strong.

In the excitement of the polo championship lurks the Assassin stalking the target . . .

Excerpts

Prolouge

The Assassin

The assassin giggled.

The rifle, an Italian 6.5mm Mannlicher Carcano, was the same model that Lee Harvey Oswald had used to fire a bullet into Kennedy's head, blasting bits of the president's skull over Jackie’s pretty pink dress.

Poor little Jackie.

The assassin ran a latex-gloved fingertip down the rifle barrel. It shone like new, smelled of the clean, tangy odor of gun oil. Unlike Oswald’s, this was a family gun, a forgotten weapon that had collected dust in a closet since World War II.

Untraceable.

The assassin suppressed another giggle. Then looked out, careful to stay hidden in the shadows behind the sliding glass doors. From this vantage point, just inside the third floor balcony of the condominium, the 10-acre polo field, billiard-table smooth from weeks of intensive care by the groundskeeper, spread like a great green carpet toward the ocean. A fog bank, fat and heavy, hung offshore, held in place by the warming effects of the morning sun. Several sea gulls flew over the field, then drifted like billowing white handkerchiefs to the grass, to strut around as if on parade.

On one edge of the field stood the polo clubhouse and grandstand, now empty, but soon to be crowded with the beaumonde of the polo world, the professional players, patrons, polo wives, girlfriends, international celebrities, such the maharani of Jaipur and her step-son, the maharaja of Jaipur, known to the polo world as Bubbles. Polo enthusiast Sylvester Stallone (whose movie contract stated he was not allowed to play polo for fear of broken bones) would be there, as well as Stefanie Powers and William Devane, both of whom played in charity events. Prince Philip, who would fly in by helicopter, was scheduled to throw in the first polo ball. Guests from the polo centers of Argentina, England, India and the United States—everyone of any note—would attend this final day of the Santa Barbara, California polo season. The day of the U. S. Open Polo Championship.

Perfect.

Below the balcony where the assassin prepared, there were two, tall, padded goal posts, each with a red pennant hanging lifelessly in the still air. The assassin raised the rifle, keeping the barrel from emerging into the early sun, and sighted through the 4X telescopic sight at one of the flags, which now filled the scope as if it were only a few yards away.

The assassin moved the rifle barrel slowly and trained the sight on one of the private box seats in the grandstand: first on the placard that read CAYMAN ESTATES, then on the empty chair behind it. Bo Cayman’s chair. The chair appeared to be only twenty-five yards away. The rifle’s trigger was slowly squeezed . . . The firing pin clicked on an empty chamber. The assassin jerked back the gun bolt lever and quickly pulled the trigger. Click. Then again: Click. The assassin checked the digital seconds on a stop watch and smiled

Eight point three seconds. Just like Oswald.

The assassin lovingly patted the three rounds of 6.5mm full-metal-jacketed bullets in the six-bullet clip that lay on the carpet, picked it up, snapped the clip into the rifle’s chamber and lowered the rifle to the carpet. After opening the door to the empty condominium, the assassin peeled off the surgical gloves and before exiting took one more look at the polo grandstand.

You’re dead, Bo Cayman.

Chapter 1

 

Chandler

"Toothpick," Chandler said to herself, turning sideways, observing the profile of her body in the full-length mirror. That's what she had been called when she was twelve, before the long legs with the bony knees filled out, before the lines of her body changed from flat planes to curves and orbs. I was as thin as a beanpole, tumbling over myself like a newborn colt, she thought. She cocked her head inquisitively at her reflection. My mouth is still too large, the nose too long—Bo had asked her to have it "trimmed off a bit"--the lips too broad. Yet, the sum of her features was somehow beautiful.

Not that Chandler considered herself beautiful, but she was aware of her allure. As were others.

On one wall of the condo was a huge blow-up of a cover of Cosmopolitan, and from its glossy surface, Chandler, long and lithe in a shimmering gold gown, smiled sensually at the camera. The photograph was only one of the dozen magazine covers she had appeared on, but it was one of Bo's favorites. The one that he loved to show to polo players was the Sports Illustrated swim suit issue in which Chandler was featured on the cover, posed in a glittering Lycra suit, one knee raised provocatively to her chin to show the curved expanse of her thigh and to reveal the thin swatch of gold material between her legs.

Chandler leaned forward and pursed her lips in front of the mirror, then stretched them to a thin line over her teeth. She noticed a speck of red lipstick on a tooth and quickly wiped it off with a tissue. Thank God she had noticed the stain before Bo saw it. She brushed the tips of her fingers over her cheek, then upward to one eye. Yes, the broken vein showed, but the eye shadow over the concealer masked what was left of the yellow bruise. There were other bruises on her stomach and upper thighs, but he had been careful about her face, until . . .

It wasn't Bo's fault, she rationalized. He had been, well, crazy after winning that last polo game, the one that catapulted his team into the finals of the U.S. Open. His grasp on her wrist had bruised the skin as he practically dragged her from the field back to their condo. There were no preliminaries, no soft words of endearment: he pushed her onto the carpet, ripped her panties aside as he unzipped his saddle-stained breeches, and thrust into her.

Chandler tried to squirm away as she felt the metal edges of his belt buckle gouging her stomach. "Bo! That hurts."

His cheek pressed hard against hers, sweat smearing her makeup. He smelled rancid, of salt, and sweat, and horseshit.

"Godammit, Bo! Get off—”

He slapped her across the face, not with the full force of his hand, but just enough to cause tears to well up behind her closed eyelids. Oh, no, he was careful not to mark her too deeply.

He didn't last long this time, not near as long as he was able, and afterward he tenderly kissed the small heart-shaped birthmark high on her inner thigh, the one in which he'd paid a tattoo artist to create a border around it in his team colors, gold and black. The next morning, he apologized for the welt under her eye. As he always did for the bruises he inflicted during intercourse.

Chandler forgave him, of course. As she always did. She would make him love her more, by giving herself completely to him, even if it meant talking a few hard knocks now and then. She would love him by his rules. With Bo, passion meant suffering, the greater the suffering, the greater the passion.Well, I'm sure as hell suffering, she thought as her fingers touched the slightly raised welt under her eye.

Through the reflection of the mirror, she could see the glassed-in trophy case, silver cups and Baccarat vases lined up, reflecting glints of light from the sun streaming though the sliding glass door. There were half a dozen framed color photographs of Bo with his polo team, trophies held above their heads, reveling in their victory. One of Bo's favorites was a head-on shot of him leaning out of the saddle like a Cossack, mallet raised to strike at the ball.

Chandler ruffled her long blond hair with a shake of her head and turned from the mirror. A gilt-framed photograph stood on a small table and next to it a delicately sculpted vase held a spray of long-stemmed white roses. Her mother's favorite flowers. She was so dark and I'm so fair, Chandler thought as her fingers brushed across the glass of her mother's picture as if adjusting an out-of-place tendril of brunette hair. It was the only family picture Bo allowed.

Chandler heard the faint strains of "The Star Spangled Banner" through the open terrace doors as the third and fourth place polo teams prepared to play the preliminary game. In the center of the field, Chandler observed the line of eight polo players facing the grandstand, sitting astride their polo ponies, helmets in their laps, waiting. A mounted honor guard hoisted the colors of California and the United States, the flags hanging limply in the quiet air. Spectators had risen solemnly for the anthem and the men held their hats over their hearts. Only the immaculately groomed polo ponies waiting by the side of the field were restless. Tied to the iron rails at the pony lines, the horses pawed at the ground, nudged one another, and flattened their ears in fierce anticipation, as if waiting to be chosen for the coming conflict.

Chandler loved to watch polo from the terrace of their condominium, hearing the frenzied shouts of the players as they battled for the ball. I have the best of all lives, she thought.

Quotes and Accolades

“Polo Wives is a page turner. I was compelled to read on.”

Lisa

“I was captivated. All in all, a GREAT piece of writing”

Katy

“I found that I was drawn into the lives of these individuals of means and wealth because of their frailties and vanities. The author moved the story at a rapid pace.”

Louis

“I really enjoyed the fast-paced storytelling and the comparison of the Oswald/Kennedy assassination. Splendid! Bravo!”

Brenda

“This is very intense. The writing draws us into its world skillfully. The use of language is done quite masterfully. All in all, this is a brilliant work.”

Jimmy