Capital Wives (12 page)

D
eanna smiled at the valet as he opened the driver's-side door. “Thank you. I shouldn't be longer than an hour.”

She'd gotten a telephone call earlier that morning to meet a prospective client. The man said he'd been referred to her by a couple who'd used her services for their daughter's wedding—one of less than a half dozen she'd coordinated since establishing Tyson Planners and Events, Inc. The fall and winter months were the busiest for private parties and the spring for fundraisers. Even if she'd had a staff of assistants, Deanna still wouldn't have been able to coordinate every event because of conflicts in scheduling. There were very few days and nights in D.C. when there wasn't something going on in a pub, hotel, ballroom or private home. It was a very socially oriented city.

She walked through the automatic revolving door and into the lobby of the hotel where she'd interned during summers while pursuing a degree in hotel and hospitality management.

Making her way over to the hospitality desk, she gave the
young woman on duty her name and asked her to ring Mr. Richard Douglas's room. The woman pointed to a well-dressed, middle-aged man sitting in the lobby designed to resemble an oasis with a flowing fountain surrounded by exotic plants, ferns, palms and flowers.

“Mr. Douglas is sitting over there.”

“Thank you.”

Deanna closed the distance between her and the man with salt-and-pepper hair. He rose at her approach. “Mr. Douglas?” Raven-black eyes in a deeply tanned face stared at her. There was something in his bearing that communicated he wasn't an American. He was a man of color, and she wondered from where.

Firm lips parted as he flashed a toothpaste-ad smile. He inclined his head. “Mrs. Tyson.”

“Yes.” She offered her hand and he took it, holding her fingers a bit longer than necessary.

Richard Douglas cupped her elbow. “Would you mind if we conduct our business in my suite?”

Deanna's professional facade did not falter. The man had a slight accent, but she wasn't able to identify it. “Yes, I would mind. We can either talk here in the lobby or in the bar.”

Richard took a step, bringing him mere inches from the event planner. “You didn't mind coming to my suite seven years ago.”

This time Deanna's expression changed, becoming one of shock and horror. He was the
one.
Richard Douglas was the man she'd slept with what now seemed a lifetime ago. She stood straighter. What were the odds of her reuniting with him after she'd revealed their liaison only two days before to Marisol and Bethany? It was as if talking about it had conjured him up.

“What took you so long to contact me?” Her voice was
shaded in neutral tones. “It's been a long time since that horrific night.”

His black eyes flickered. “Horrific for who? It certainly wasn't for me. You were the best piece of ass I've ever had.” Deanna turned to walk away, but his hand caught her upper arm, tightening when she tried pulling away. “Please, Mrs. Tyson. Don't make a scene. Let's go over to the tables near the windows so we can talk like civil adults.”

Deanna knew when she'd been trapped, but she didn't intend to stay that way. If the man intended to blackmail her, then he was in for a very rude awakening. If necessary, she would tell Spencer about the night she'd stayed over in the hotel rather than live with the fear of being publicly outed.

Richard waved to a waitress carrying a tray with drinks from the bar. “I'll have bourbon neat and please bring the young lady a Long Island iced tea. See, I remember your drink of choice,” he said mockingly when Deanna glared at him.

Crossing one leg over the other, Deanna leaned back against the softness of the armchair. She'd debated whether to wear a skirt, but had changed into a pantsuit, saving herself the humiliation of having the lecher staring at her legs. “Big whoop,” she sneered. “You'll have to drink it because I'm driving.”

Unbuttoning his suit jacket, Richard looped one trouser-covered leg over the opposite knee, staring at the faint pin-stripe in the dark blue wool fabric. “If you're unable to drive, then I'll drive you back home and have my driver follow us.”

“You're mad if you think I'm going to let you anywhere near my home.”

He ran a hand over his straight cropped hair. “Are you concerned that your neighbors will see a strange man driving your car?”

It was becoming more and more difficult for Deanna not to lose her temper. She never would've met with Richard Douglas if he hadn't been referred to her by a very reliable client who'd used her services for what had become that rare wedding where several former cabinet members, a former vice president and heads of state were attendees. What she couldn't fathom was Richard Douglas's connection to them.

“I'm not as concerned about my neighbors as about the man who believes he can blackmail me into sleeping with him.”

“Sleeping with me
again.
I watched your face when the desk clerk pointed to me, and there was no indication that you'd recognized me. Why's that?”

“Because I didn't recognize you.”

“Is there anything about that night you remember?”

“Yes. I had a fight with my husband and I came here and drank myself into oblivion. I don't remember you, so the fact that you tell me we slept together means nothing.”

He leaned closer. “Do you deny having sex that night?”

Deanna knew she could lie and say yes, but knew the lie would come back to haunt her. She'd learned if you told one lie, then you'd have to tell another and another until you wouldn't be able to tell the lie from the truth.

“All I remember about that night is talking to a man, going back to his suite, getting into bed with him, but nothing beyond that until I woke up in my room. You tell me you were that man, but how do I know you're telling the truth? Someone could have told you about the incident and you decided to contact me while impersonating him to run a scam on me.”

“Is that what you want to believe, Mrs. Tyson?”

“What else is there?”

“Let me refresh your memory. You told me your room
number, but not your name. You said you'd had a fight with your husband, so you were spending the night at the hotel. We talked about a lot things, but even though you were slightly inebriated you were also very guarded. That told me a lot about you. You are a very strong-willed woman.” He stared at her mouth. “After we made love, I cleaned you up and took you back to your room. If I hadn't had an appointment with a business associate we would've spent the entire night together.”

“I'm glad
you
enjoyed yourself,” Deanna spat out.

He continued to stare at her. “I can't believe you're more stunning now than you were then.”

“What exactly is it you want from me, Mr. Douglas?”

“I want a repeat of that night.”

Deanna leaned forward, her heart beating painfully against her ribs. “Why now, Mr. Douglas? Why have you waited seven years to contact me about something that reminds me of junior high school bullshit? It's like a boy threatening a girl that if she doesn't sleep with him, he'll tell everyone that he saw her have oral sex with his best friend.”

Richard smiled. “I just discovered who you are. There was a photo of you and your husband in the
Washington Post
's weekend section when the two of you attended a fundraiser last month. I must say you're quite the handsome couple.”

“Thanks for the compliment, but I'm not sleeping with you.”

“Even if I get word to your husband that his wife hasn't been the paragon of virtue?”

“I don't care what you tell him.”

“You will care, Mrs. Tyson, if you find yourself unable to book a kiddie party in this town.”

Deanna wanted to slap—no, punch—the arrogant man in the face, but knew it would cause a scene. And there was
always the possibility he would have her arrested for assault. She stood up. “Do what you feel you have to do. Have a nice day, Mr. Douglas.”

Richard rose to his feet, watching the sensual sway of Deanna Tyson's hips in the tailored gray pantsuit. He'd thought her lovely when she'd sat down next to him in the bar what now seemed aeons ago. He'd sensed her pain and vulnerability immediately, and set out to take advantage of her. He'd plied her with drinks, she crying on his shoulder about the fight she'd had with her husband. Aware that she was intoxicated, he'd coaxed her back to his suite where he'd undressed her, then made love to her. Even in her drunken haze she'd responded to him, pleading with him to love her as much as she'd loved him.

He never would've met Deanna Tyson that night if he hadn't come to the hotel, checking in as a guest in order to ascertain whether it would be a suitable investment for a group of men who had more money than they'd known what to do with. The fact that it was drug money made little difference to Richard Douglas. The fees he'd earned negotiating money-laundering deals had made him a very wealthy man. It had only taken one day for him to inspect the premises and one night to make love to a woman whose memory he hadn't been able to rid himself of.

He hadn't been in D.C. in seven years, and seeing Deanna's photograph in the newspaper had been so unexpected that he'd thought he had imagined it. Richard had discovered she now owned and operated her own business, but knew he couldn't approach her outright. So, he did the next best thing. He'd asked someone to refer him. Even though he'd gotten Deanna to meet him, what he hadn't anticipated was her refusing his offer even with the threat of blackmail.

Unfortunately, he had misjudged her. Now he was forced to use another approach.

Deanna drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other clamped over her mouth to keep from screaming. She was less than a mile from her home when she pulled over to the curb and shifted into Park. Reaching for her cell with shaking hands, she managed to punch in Marisol's number on the first attempt.

It wasn't until she heard her friend's voice that the tears she'd kept in check overflowed. “Where are you, Marisol?”

“¿Qué pasa?”

“Please speak English! I don't have time to translate whatever it is you're saying.” Deanna sniffled loudly before reaching for several tissues in her handbag on the passenger-side seat.

“What's the matter? Talk to me, Deanna!”

“I…I have to see you. I need to talk to you.” The words were falling over one another.

“I'm on my way home. I'll be there in five minutes. If you get there before me, then wait.”

B
y the time Marisol had pulled Deanna into her office and closed and locked the door, Deanna was able to recall everything that had happened in the hotel lobby with vivid clarity. Marisol handed her a glass and a bottle of chilled water. “If you want something stronger I'll get it for you.”

She shook her head. “Drinking is what got me into trouble.”

Flopping down beside Deanna, Marisol held her free hand. “Tell me everything, chica.”

Deanna did, leaving nothing out. She closed her eyes when she heard the slow exhalation of her friend's breath. “I know, you know and Bethany knows the truth. He'd admitted he didn't even know my name until he saw the picture caption. If he'd had a tape of our tryst, then it wouldn't have taken him seven years to find me.”

“Are you saying that he's bluffing, Dee?”

Deanna opened her eyes, meeting Marisol's stare. “The only thing I'm admitting is that he freaked me out, because
even if I'd been hypnotized I don't believe I would've been able to recall his name or face.”

“Aren't you afraid he's going to tell Spencer?”

“I have two options, Mari. Either I tell Spencer the truth or I lie. But I doubt if he will believe the lie because that night is stamped on his brain like a permanent tattoo.”

“Does he ever bring it up?” Marisol asked.

“It's been years since he's mentioned it.”

“What do you think will happen if you tell Spencer the truth about that night?”

Deanna lifted her shoulders. “Either he'll forgive me, or we'll split up.”

“I don't like this, Dee. The sick bastard has your cell phone number, probably your home address, and there's no doubt he knows where Spencer works. What if he decides to contact you again?”

“I'm not going to meet him again.”

“The man sounds deranged, Deanna. He's probably obsessed with you, and that means he's going to be trouble. I…” Her words stopped when she stood up. “Let me talk to someone first.”

“No, Marisol. I don't want anyone else to know about this.”

Marisol rested her hands at her waist over a pair of slim cut jeans. “This person I trust with my life. What I tell him will stay between the three of us.” She gave Deanna a long stare. “Do you trust me?”

A silence ensued while Deanna met her best friend's eyes. “Yes.”

“Good. Then, let me help you.”

A beat passed, and then she said, “Make the call.”

Deanna couldn't understand any of Marisol's conversation because she'd spoken rapid Spanish to the person on the other
end of the line. She took a deep swallow of the cool water, puzzled at the turn her life had taken. Her marriage was on solid footing, her business was growing and solvent and the following year she and Spencer would try for a baby. By the time they celebrated their tenth anniversary she hoped to be a mother.

But a mysterious man, someone who'd come to her in a surreal nightmare, had reemerged to threaten all she held dear; she loved her husband and the marriage they'd worked so hard to preserve. What Richard Douglas didn't know was that she had no intention of giving in to his demands or fleeing as if she were a frightened rabbit. Although her father had retired from the U.S. Secret Service he still knew enough insiders on the White House detail who would be willing to protect her from her would-be blackmailer.

Deanna forced herself not to dwell on what had happened earlier but on Marisol's promise to help her. If it had been left to her she would've called Spencer at his office, demanding he come home because of an emergency. As well as she'd believed she knew her husband, Deanna could not predict his reaction to being told that she had cheated on him.

Either he would kiss her while professing to love her despite her breaking their wedding vows, or he would lose all semblance of control and show her the dark side of his personality. She prayed it would be the former.

“He wants to talk to you.”

Marisol's voice broke into her thoughts. She handed her the cordless receiver. Deanna took the phone. “Hello.”

“Deanna.”

“Yes.”

“May I call you Deanna?” asked a deep male voice speaking flawless English.

“Please.”

“Deanna, I want you to listen very closely to what I'm going to tell you. Marisol told me about this pestilence that's attempting to blackmail you. I want you to tell me everything you know about this man.”

“There's not much to tell.”

“How did he introduce himself? How tall is he? What does he look like? How old do you think he is?”

Deanna hesitated, trying to remember if he'd towered over her once he stood up. “He told me his name is Richard Douglas and he's at least six-one or two. He has cropped salt-and-pepper hair, but his face is unlined. I estimate he's between forty and fifty.”

“What type of hair texture does he have?”

“Even though it's straight, it's also coarse.”

“What about his features?”

Deanna chewed her lip. “They weren't European. He's a man of color, but I couldn't determine from where because of his accent.”

“Can you identify the accent?”

She shook her head, then realized the man on the other end of the line couldn't see her. “No. One thing I know is it isn't Spanish.”

“Did it sound Caribbean?”

“It wasn't any Caribbean accent I've ever heard.” She paused. “Now that I think back I believe it could've been German or Russian.” A soft chuckle came through the earpiece.

“He doesn't look European, but his accent may be European.”

“Look…”

“You can call me John.”

“Okay, John. When Richard Douglas asked to meet with me I was under the impression he wanted to contract my
services to host an event. At least that's what he told me. I had no idea I would be blindsided by a cretin who wanted me to sleep with him or he would tell my husband about an incident that happened years ago. If he hadn't taken me off guard I would've told him that my husband knew all about my indiscretion. That would've shut him down completely and I wouldn't be here talking to you.”

“It didn't happen, Deanna, so we're going to have to deal with the fallout. What color are his eyes?”

“They are dark, probably black. He was well-dressed. In other words, his suit did not come off a department store rack.”

“What about jewelry, Deanna? Was he wearing a ring or rings, watch or earring?”

A beat passed. “He wasn't wearing an earring, and I don't remember any rings. He may have been wearing a watch, but I couldn't see it because his shirt had French cuffs. Wait a minute.”

“What is it?” John asked.

“He wore cuff links. They weren't yellow gold, so they had to be either silver, white gold or platinum.” Deanna smiled despite her dilemma. “And before you ask, they weren't monogrammed. They were oval with a diamond chip in the center.”

“That information is very helpful. Is there anything else you remember about him?”

“I don't think so.”

“Was his shirt cuff monogrammed?”

Deanna exhaled a breath. “If it was, then I don't remember. I don't know if this will help, but he wore wingtips and I recognized the designer because my husband has several pair in his closet.” She gave John the name of the shoe designer.

“You just narrowed my search from searching from
millions to probably less than ten thousand. There aren't too many men willing to pay more than two thousand dollars for a pair of handmade shoes. I'm certain I will find this Richard Douglas—if that is his actual name.”

“He'd checked in to the Brandon-Phillips under that name.”

“He may not have checked in.”

“What do you mean?” Deanna asked.

“Marisol told me that you asked the desk clerk to ring his room, but he was already sitting in the lobby.”

“What aren't you telling me, John?”

“He didn't have to check in to the Brandon-Phillips, but uses the lobby and/or bar to conduct business. A lot of businessmen do it, and that includes the late Howard Hughes. But there's something about Mr. Douglas that puzzles me.”

“What is it?”

“It was obvious he'd gotten a room at the hotel years ago, because he'd taken you there to rape you. Yes, Deanna, the man raped you. If you were under the influence, then he took advantage of you. The fact that you didn't remember his face or the act bears this out. So if he comes after you again, then we can arrange for the police to arrest him for rape.”

“Do you think he's going to contact me again?” Deanna asked. “When I answered his call, his number but not his name showed up on the display.” Reaching for her cell, she repeated the numbers to John.

“Odds are that he will call you again. And when he does I'm going to take him down. Marisol will program my number into your cell. You won't see numbers but stars. When he contacts you again, tell him to call you back in half an hour, because you're busy with a client. When he calls back, tell him you are willing to meet to discuss his indecent proposal. I want you to suggest a meeting at DuPont Circle, but I doubt
if he'd want to be that exposed. He'll probably want to go back to the Brandon-Phillips.”

“I'm not going to sleep with him.”

“You don't have to. Think of him as a blind date. Try and sit in the lobby rather than in the bar and I'll take it from there.”

Deanna felt her stomach muscles contract. “What are you going to do?”

“Deanna, I wouldn't presume to tell you how to plan a banquet, so please don't ask me how I catch bad guys. Don't say anything to your husband. Go about your business as if this never happened. The less suspicion you raise, the better. Meanwhile, I'm going to talk to the guy who referred him to you to see what I come up with.”

“If word gets out that my clients are being interrogated then I might as well close down Tyson Planners and Events, Inc. completely.”

John laughed again. “Don't worry, Deanna. I have my methods that will never compromise your company. Now, could you please give Marisol the phone?”

Deanna slumped back in the aubergine-and-lime-green silk striped settee; for the second time within an hour a man she hadn't known had impacted her life. The man who'd identified himself as John seemed confident that he could get Richard Douglas to withdraw his threat.

 

Marisol took the phone, again speaking in Spanish. She ended the call, replacing the receiver in its cradle. Sitting on the corner of her desk, she met Deanna's unflinching stare. “It's going to be all right.”

“Are you that certain, Marisol?”

A small smile tilted the corners of her mouth. “I'm very certain. Juan—John to you—will take care of everything.”

Deanna chewed the inside of her cheek, a habit she'd worked for years to rid herself of. “What does he do?”

“I don't know, Dee. I asked him once and the look he gave me was enough to say,
If I tell you, then I'll have to kill you,
so I never asked again. I know Juan from the old neighborhood, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for him and he for me. Bryce gets a little jealous whenever he comes around, but I'm not going to stop being friends with him because my husband catches an attitude because I have male friends.”

Deanna pushed a profusion of twists behind her left ear. “I keep telling myself that if I hadn't said anything to you and Bethany about that night we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

“I know you're not talking about letting sleeping dogs lie?” Marisol asked.

“That's exactly what I'm saying. We've shared secrets before and never have the chickens come home to roost.”

Marisol crossed one high-heeled booted foot over the other at the ankle. “What are you trying to say, Dee? That you don't trust Bethany?”

“I'm not saying that. It's just that I feel we shouldn't say too much around her.”

“You know I wasn't feeling her when we first met, but after hanging out with her this past weekend I've changed my opinion of her. She's really a good mother. When we went back to her house and I got to see her and Damon together there's no question that they're really in love with each other.”

“Maybe I'm being overly superstitious, but I'm going to monitor what I say around her.” Deanna pushed to her feet. “After you give me John's phone number I'm going home to take a couple of aspirins and then I'm going to bed. Tomorrow I have to drive to Reston to check out a converted barn for Senator Walters's daughter's sweet-sixteen party. She wants
a Western theme along with the ubiquitious saloon, dance hall girls, bales of hay and a mechanical bull.”

Marisol laughed softly. “Hee-haw!”

Deanna smiled for the first time since she'd gotten up earlier that morning to see Spencer off. “A Western theme is child's play compared to a beach party or a cruise ship. I'd planned one where the parents invited their daughter's classmates and close friends for a spring break sweet sixteen. They sailed down to Hilton Head, checked in to a hotel and partied for the week. They were exhausted, sunburned and so quiet during the return trip that you could hear a rat piss on cotton.”

“That must have set them back a pretty penny.”

“Try two twenty-five.”

“Are you telling me they paid two hundred twenty-five thousand for a party for a sixteen-year-old?”

“I am,” Deanna confirmed.

“
¡Coño!
That's tuition for four years of college plus a car.”

“It was what I call wretched excess. The kids ate lobster and caviar every night, while their parents drank champagne like water.” She sobered. “I can't thank you enough for lending your shoulder, chica.”

Marisol waved her hand. “How many times have I cried on your shoulder? Too many to count,” she said, answering her own question. “Give me your cell and I'll program Juan's number. After he takes care of your parasite, he'll ask for your phone and will delete the number.”