Capital Wives (14 page)

She'd begun talking about marriage days before Christmas, and he'd told her over and over there could never be a future for them, but it was as if Jenah was deaf. As much as he hadn't wanted to admit it, Damon Paxton was right. The woman was a liability. And because he hadn't given her up when Damon suggested, she had cost him a judgeship. Pulling out and rolling off Deanna, he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“You've been in Washington long enough to know it's never about the husband or the wife, but the couple.”
Of all the things the lobbyist had said that afternoon, he'd remembered that statement. It was apparent he hadn't been thinking clearly,
because all he'd thought about was ending the meeting with Paxton because Jenah was upstairs waiting for him. She was waiting to have sex with him when he should have been home making love to his wife.

“Are you all right, Spencer?”

Deanna's contralto had broken into his thoughts. “I don't know, baby.”

“Why not?”

“I'm scared to look and see if I still have a dick.”

Rising on an elbow, Deanna glanced at his groin. “It's still there.”

Spencer smiled. “What were you trying to do? Eviscerate me?”

Deanna pulled the flaccid sex away from his thigh and pressed a kiss along its length. “Never. I love making love with you too much to tamper with the family jewels.”

“Speaking of family. What do you say we try and increase ours? Don't look at me like that, Dee. I'm serious. Stop, baby,” he said when she fell on him, placing kisses over his face.

Tonight signaled a change, because Spencer had decided he was going to become a faithful husband and hopefully a better father than he'd been a husband.

D
eanna scooted forward when Spencer stepped into the Jacuzzi and sat down behind her. A smile tilted the corners of her mouth. She couldn't remember the last time they'd shared a bath, or even a shower.

The light from a full moon silvered the bathroom through the skylight, and with dozens of flickering candles and the haunting strains of one of her favorite sound tracks coming from the in-wall iPod ports wired to ceiling speakers in every room in the house, Deanna felt as if she and Spencer were on their honeymoon. They'd gone to the Italian Riviera for two weeks and had lived a hedonistic lifestyle. Most times they were out of their clothes more than in. They'd slept nude, swum nude and worn a minimum of clothing while dining.

“Are you comfortable, baby?”

She moaned and closed her eyes. “Very.” Deanna wanted to tell Spencer she wasn't as comfortable as she was happy—happy that she'd gotten her husband back. When she'd taken time to reexamine what had gone wrong with her marriage,
she hadn't been able to come up with one plausible reason why she and Spencer were growing further and further apart. If it wasn't for fundraisers or dinner parties that required an escort, they wouldn't be a couple.

“I've missed you so much.” Her thoughts had just slipped out.

Wrapping his arms around Deanna's waist, Spencer pushed his groin to her hips. “I've missed you, too. But that's going to change.”

“How?” she asked.

“We're going to spend a lot more time together. I want you to let me know when you have a free week so we can go away.”

A warning bell went off in Deanna's head, and she wanted to ask Spencer
what's up?
but didn't want to appear suspicious or ungrateful. She'd spent so much time complaining that she didn't get to see enough of him, and now when he was offering a romantic getaway she was going to question why.

“Where are we going?” she asked instead.

Spencer pressed his mouth to the nape of her damp neck. “Anyplace where it's warm. This winter is the first one since I left Chicago that really got to me.”

Deanna smiled. “Now you know D.C. winters can't compare to Chicago's. It's just that we've had more snow this winter than we've had in years.”

“That's why I want to get away. How does St. Croix sound to you?”

Her smile became a full grin. “It sounds wonderful.” She also wanted to tell Spencer that winter was over, but again she decided not to mention it.

“It's the perfect place for us to make a baby,” he whispered in her ear.

Deanna gasped when she felt the hardened flesh pushing
against her buttocks. Turning to face Spencer, she straddled him while at the same time grasping his erection and guiding it between her thighs. Throwing back her head, she moaned as he lifted his hips and pushed inside her.

In a moment of madness Deanna forgot about Richard Douglas and his threats. The only thing that mattered was the blood-engorged flesh sliding in and out of her vagina. There were three reasons why she'd married Spencer Tyson: intelligence, ambition and sex. And at times it was the sex that seemed to supersede his other assets. He was the first man to make her come by just staring at his hard-on. If there was a contest for men who were hung like a horse there was no doubt her husband would be a winner.

The warm bubbles swept around their writhing bodies as Deanna tried to get even closer. Spencer shifted and she looped her legs around his waist. Holding tightly to his strong neck, she leaned back, screaming when she felt him touch her womb. She screamed over and over as the orgasms continued to come until she gave one last shudder and collapsed against Spencer's chest.

Spencer reversed their positions, his hips moving faster and faster until he felt the familiar tingling at the base of his spine. Grasping Deanna's breasts, he squeezed them tightly while surrendering to an ecstasy that left him mewling like a wounded animal. It didn't matter how many women he'd slept with; none could come close to what his wife offered him. He hadn't been the first man in her bed, but since making her his wife he knew he was the only man who'd been in her bed.

 

Bethany tapped lightly on her daughter's bedroom door before pushing it open and walking in. Abigail sat at her desk, the wires from her iPod in her ears, while she sang loudly.
Leaning against the door frame, Bethany smiled and shook her head. It was obvious her daughter had multitasking down to a science. Abigail could listen to music, talk and do homework all at the same time.

Bethany had to admit that she and Damon had produced two very attractive children with above-average intelligence. They had also inherited their father's driving ambition. For them it couldn't be just good, but exceptional. When Abigail had an assignment to identify the differing parts of a flower, she'd embarked on a project to have Bethany purchase fresh flowers at a florist, then painstakingly separated the flower with tweezers and displayed them under glass.

Her teacher and principal had recommended she be skipped to the next grade, but Bethany wouldn't approve it. Although her daughter was academically ahead of her peers, it wasn't the same socially. There were times when the eight-year-old acted more like five or six when she couldn't get her way. Her temper tantrums had subsided to once or twice a month, but they were back with more regularity now that Paige had come to live with them.

Bethany approached Abigail, running a hand over her ash-blond hair. Large dark blue eyes looked at her before Abigail gave her a sweet smile and pulled the buds from her ears.

“How's the homework, Abby?” Bethany asked.

“It's good.”

She peered at the page where Abigail had completed several math computations. Bethany had decided to compromise with the direction of her daughter's education. The child would take advanced classes, but would remain with children her own age in her homeroom.

She kissed the sweet-smelling moonlit strands. “How are things in school?”

Abigail turned off her iPod. She pursed her lips. “It's okay.”

Bethany's pale eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Just okay, sweetheart?”

“I'm not fighting with Melissa anymore.”

Reaching for Abigail's hands, Bethany eased her from the chair and led her over to the daybed in an alcove. When she'd had her daughter's room decorated she'd purchased the daybed for Abigail because it was where she lounged in the space that had become her play corner. The space was a quintessential girl's room, with white furniture and pink accents. The duvet on the double bed matched the tiny rose-sprigged design on the daybed cushions and pillows and the wallpaper in the play area.

“I didn't know you were fighting with Melissa.” Bethany's voice was soft, calming.

Abigail pulled her legs up in a yoga position. Blond wavy hair concealed her face when she leaned forward. “We weren't really fighting, Mom. Melissa got mad when she thought I said that her mother was a slut. But I didn't say it, Mom. It was Hannah who'd heard her mother call Melissa's mother a slut because she found her in bed with Jason Babinski's father.”

Cradling Abigail's head to her chest, Bethany kissed her hair again. She knew the women because their children were in some of the same classes, but she hadn't accepted their invitations to join them for coffee. Maybe it was time she became more responsive to their offers.

“I'm glad you finally worked it out, baby. And, you know what I've told you about repeating gossip.”

Abigail nodded. “What goes around comes around.”

She had warned her children about repeating what they'd overheard others say, while Damon was adamant about them not using profanity. Bethany knew she was being hypocritical, because she was about to do exactly what she'd cautioned
her son and daughter not to do: repeat gossip. Waiting until Connor, Abigail and Paige had left for school and Damon for his office, she had gone to the home office, closed the door and retrieved the flash drive she'd concealed on a bookshelf behind a stack of romance novels.

Salacious gossip she'd overheard she'd typed for the column “Fact or Fiction, Real or Rumor?” She would blog the
Daily Dish
on a netbook that Nathan had given her. Bethany had repaid Tiffany Jones in spades when Damon had inadvertently mentioned that her daughter had left rehab to take up with an L.A.-based Mexican-American mechanic. Bethany's scathing, acerbic wit came through when she wrote:
It is apparent a D.C. doyenne's strung-out daughter checked out of her posh L.A. rehab spa because she prefers chorizo instead of breakfast links with her eggs.

Now she had Libby Archer and Jason Babinski Sr. to add to the list of cheaters. Bethany thought about what Deanna had told her about her about cheating on Spencer, but that was old news. What she wanted was something new, fresh. She had made certain to save everything on the flash drive instead of her home computer, because Bethany didn't want anything traced back to her. And she knew Nate would never reveal his source. He'd reassured her no names would ever appear in the column or blog—only innuendos, insinuations and ambiguities.

“I'm not going to stay long. I just came in to see how you were doing.”

“I'm almost finished with my homework,” Abigail said.

“Don't stay up too late.”

Abigail kissed her mother's cheek. “I won't.”

Bethany walked out of Abigail's bedroom and across the hall to Connor's. She peered in. The glow from several night-lights revealed he was in bed. She and Damon never had to
tell Connor to go to bed. Because he required more sleep than most kids his age in order to be alert, her son made certain to get at least ten hours of sleep on school nights.

She continued down the hallway, stopping at Paige's bedroom. Bethany was surprised to find the door open. Paige would come home from school and remain cloistered in her bedroom until it was time for dinner. She was usually talkative during the meal, but once the table was cleared she retreated to her room and closed the door until the following morning.

Bethany met Paige's startled gaze as she sat on her bed. “Hi.” Her greeting was shaded in neutral tones.

“What do you want?” Paige spat out.

“Please watch your tone,” Bethany warned.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. This is your house.”

“This is also your home, Paige, so that means everyone respects one another.”

Walking in, Bethany sat on a chair near the door. What had surprised her when Paige had come to live with them was that her bedroom was always incredibly neat. Mrs. Rodgers had remarked that all she had to do was change Paige's bed, clean her en suite bath, dust and vacuum. She never had to pick up clothes or shelve books, which made the housekeeper's job an easy one.

Paige rolled her eyes. “What-eva.”

Bethany decided to overlook her stepdaughter's surly attitude. “I want to know if you want a sweet-sixteen party.”

Paige's lip curled. “Yeah, right.”

“Is that a yes or no, Paige?”

“That's means you must be on the pipe. Who the hell would I invite to my party?”

Again, Bethany ignored the insolence. “How about the kids in your class?”

“I don't want anything to do with a bunch of losers.”

“Why are they losers?” Bethany asked.

Falling back on the pile of pillows behind her shoulders, Paige stared up at the ceiling. “All they do is get high and have sex.”

Years of performing in front of a camera came into play when Bethany's expression did not change with the teenager's admission. She didn't want to acknowledge that children who'd come from good homes were getting high on drugs. But she was relieved that despite Paige's anger and hostility she hadn't gone along with the others. The last thing she needed was to deal with a drug-addicted, promiscuous adolescent.

“Are there any kids in your school who you'd want to invite?”

Paige lifted her shoulders under an oversize black T. “There are a few, but they're not in my class.”

“How many would you like to invite?”

There came a beat of silence before Paige said, “I'll let you know.”

“When, Paige?”

“When I think about it.”

“Don't think too long, because I need to talk to an event planner about what you'd want.”

“Do you mean what
you
want?” Paige snapped nastily.

“This is not about me,” Bethany countered. “I'm not the one turning sixteen.”

“What if I don't want a sweet-sixteen party? All I want is a nose job, and Daddy said I could have one.”

Bethany pushed off the chair, coming to stand. “If you don't want a party, then you won't have one. Good night.”

Turning on her heel, she walked out of Paige's bedroom and closed the door behind her. Not having to become
involved in planning a party for Paige eliminated what Bethany knew would become a misgiving for making the suggestion. She'd wanted a party to celebrate her sixteenth birthday, but not when her parents couldn't put food on the table. Her mother had surprised her with her favorite dessert—lemon-filled coconut layer cake and a pearl necklace. It hadn't mattered that the pearls were imitation and the coating would soon peel off, but for Bethany that had become a birthday to remember.

Five years later she'd received another memorable gift for her twenty-first birthday—a strand of twelve millimeter golden South Sea pearls from Mikimoto. The actor she'd been dating at the time was a closet gay who'd been touted as one of Hollywood's sexiest men. She'd kept his secret, and when he'd asked what she wanted for her birthday, Bethany had told him a strand of pearls. They continued to date until her contract with the soap wasn't renewed.

After she'd left L.A., Bethany decided to reinvent herself when she concentrated on her new profession as a news journalist. It was a decision she never regretted. She'd married a D.C. power broker, had her dream house and two beautiful children. Her life was as perfect as it could get. The exception was Paige.