Capital Wives (15 page)

She'd promised herself to try and get along with the recalcitrant girl by extending the olive branch, but she still wasn't getting through to her. Perhaps, she mused, it was time she stopped trying.

M
arisol cradled a tall glass filled with freshly squeezed lemonade. She'd held on to the glass to give herself something to do with her hands.

Was she bored?

Yes.

Did she want to go home?

Yes!

She wanted to be anywhere except in Bryce's sister's Annapolis family room eating tasteless food. How, she mused, could Georgina contract with a caterer whose dishes were so bland they could've passed for her own?

“What are you thinking about,
m'ija?
” Bryce whispered in her ear as he flopped down beside her.

“How I wished I would've remembered to put a bottle of
sofrito
in my purse to sprinkle on my food,” Marisol whispered back.

“Stop it, sweetheart. The food's not that bad.”

Shifting slightly, she stared at Bryce, drowning in his baby-blue eyes. “How can you say that after eating my food?”

Leaning closer, he kissed her cheek. “No one can match you in the kitchen or in the bedroom.”

Marisol wanted to tell him that for all that went on in the bedroom she still wasn't pregnant. Deanna and Bethany had cautioned her to relax, and she wanted to tell them that if she was any more relaxed she would be comatose.

She took a sip of lemonade, then let out an audible sigh. Marisol knew if she didn't stop obsessing about becoming pregnant she was going to go crazy. After all, she wouldn't be the first woman who wouldn't be able conceive. It also wouldn't be the end of the world—at least not her world.

“Please take this,” she said to Bryce, handing him her glass when his two-year-old niece extended her arms for Marisol to pick her up. “Come, baby girl, and give Titi some love.” The little girl with a mop of dirty-blond hair and large soft brown eyes planted a wet, noisy kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, Jessica.” Turning her head slightly, she kissed the toddler. Jessica put two fingers in her mouth, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Marisol lost track of time as she, too, closed her eyes, shutting out the activity going on around her as she held the sleeping child. She felt Bryce when he got up, heard the shrieks of children as they chased one another in and out of the room. If it hadn't been raining they would've played outdoors on the expansive property with outdoor basketball and tennis courts and inground pool.

She'd managed to spend the day with Bryce's family without fanfare. His sisters had greeted her with polite smiles and impersonal embraces. Their children were more effusive, calling her Titi or Aunt Mari, while her mother-in-law was speechless for a long moment when she'd given her a pair of
sapphire-and-diamond earrings and sapphire-and-gold cuff links for her father-in-law. The card had read from her and Bryce, but his parents knew she'd been the one to select the jewelry.

“Are you practicing?”

Marisol smiled, but didn't open her eyes when Cynthia McDonald sat beside her. “You could say that,” she told Bryce's mother.

“Bryce told me the two of you are planning to start a family.”

Marisol's eyelids fluttered wildly before she was able to look at Cynthia. The elegant woman had celebrated her seventieth birthday days before Christmas, but her plastic surgeon had managed to turn back time, because a recent face-lift and dermabrasion had erased minute lines and wrinkles that left her face smooth, flawless. She'd suspected her mother-in-law had also had her nose done, because it appeared smaller, more delicate.

Why, she wondered, did Bryce tell his mother that when they'd been trying for years to have a baby? Marisol nodded. “Yes, it's true.”

Cynthia McDonald's blue-green gaze did not waver. “I know you and I haven't always gotten along, only because I didn't think you would make a good wife for my son.”

A sardonic smile twisted Marisol's mouth. “You've changed your mind?”

“Yes.”

“What made you change your mind, Cynthia?”

The older woman patted her short coiffed silver hair. “I've noticed a change in Bryce. He is a lot more focused since he's married you. He used to have a nervous energy that I'd found off-putting. It was as if he had to prove to his father that he
had I think he called it the ‘chops' to continue the family business.”

“Bryce is a brilliant political strategist,” Marisol said in defense of her husband.

“I know that and you know that. But it has taken Bryce a long time to come to that realization, and I have you to thank for that. Being married to you has given him stability.”

“So, now you approve of me?”

Cynthia blushed as she lowered her gaze. “It's not that I disapproved of you, Marisol. It's just that I thought he could've done better, not realizing you were that better. Some of the women Bryce used to take up with came from good families, but they had the morals of alley cats. Even after they were married they'd continued to sleep around. Have you seen the film
White Mischief?
”

Marisol searched her memory. “No, I don't believe I have. Why?”

“It's about a group of bored, elite British colonial expatriates living a hedonistic existence in a region of Kenyon known as Happy Valley. They were notorious for drug use, drinking and adultery and were very promiscuous. Bryce and his friends had created their own Happy Valley in Annapolis, Maryland, whenever they got together.”

“Are you saying he was into drugs and orgies?” The query was a whisper.

“Don't look so shocked, Marisol. I'm certain you've smoked dope.”

“That's where you're wrong. I've never taken drugs.”

Another flush suffused Cynthia's face and neck. “I'm sorry for being presumptuous. Will you please forgive me?” Marisol nodded. “Well, I can't say the same for my son. I don't know why I'm telling you this, but you should know there had been a nonstop trail of women coming and going until Roger told
him he had to get his own apartment. He moved out, but continued to hang out with his friends. Then it stopped. I have to assume that's when he met you.”

Marisol wanted to tell Cynthia that she'd never witnessed Bryce taking drugs. And she wondered if he was having unprotected sex with other women because two years into their marriage he'd developed a latex sensitivity.

“I told Bryce I would divorce him in a heartbeat if he ever cheated on me.”

Cynthia patted Marisol's thigh. “I hope that never happens. And I can't wait until you and Bryce give me a grandchild.”

“Don't you have enough grandchildren?”

“When you get to my age you'll realize you can never have enough grandchildren. There's just more to love and spoil.”

Marisol gave Cynthia a sincere smile, knowing it was going to happen. Whether naturally, through artificial insemination or adoption, she knew she was going to become a mother.

 

“I'm going to check my voice mail before I come up,” Marisol said to Bryce as he headed for the staircase.

Lowering his head, Bryce kissed her cheek. “I'll check mine after I take a shower.”

Marisol entered her office and sat down behind her desk. She punched in the pass code to retrieve her messages. There was one from Wesley Sheridan, asking her to call him to set up a meeting to discuss their travel plans. She dialed his number, counting off the rings until there was a break in the connection. “Wes Sheridan.”

She smiled. “This is Marisol. I'm returning your call.”

“¿Cómo está usted?”

“Bueno.”

“Do you have anything planned for tomorrow?” Wesley asked in English.

“Tomorrow is Sunday.”

“I know that.”

Marisol stared at the Waterford paperweight on her desk. The red heart had been a Valentine's gift from Bryce. “I don't work Sundays.”

“It's not work. I want to invite you and Bryce over for an informal get-together. I'm using it to thank key people on my campaign committee.”

“Why didn't you call Bryce?”

“I did. But when he didn't pick up I decided to call you.”

“Let me check with Bryce to see if he's available.”

“Even if he isn't, I'd still like you to come.”

There weren't too many occasions when Marisol attended a social gathering without Bryce. She wanted to decline Wesley's invitation, because Sundays were for sleeping in late and lazing around the house. She didn't cook or go out to eat. If they didn't eat leftovers, then Bryce ordered in. Sundays had become her day of rest.

“After I talk to Bryce I'll call you back.” She hung up, walked out the office and climbed the staircase to the second floor. Marisol found Bryce standing under the oversize shower head in a free-standing shower, shampooing his hair. She stared at the spray of water sluicing over Bryce's slim, toned physique. He didn't work out, but playing tennis several times a week kept him in peak condition.

He smiled, beckoning her. “Come join me.”

“No thanks. I plan to take a bath later.” She was looking forward to a leisurely soak in the tub.

Sitting on a chair in the master bath, Marisol admired her decorating handiwork. She'd decorated the bath in the Regency period with Wedgwood green. Pull-up chairs, two
armchairs, a French fainting couch, neoclassical art, bookcase and fireplace were more reminiscent of a library than a bathroom.

“Wesley wants to know if you have anything planned for tomorrow.”

Bryce turned his face up to the flowing water. “I told Tate Drysdale that I would drive up to meet him in Richmond. Why?”

“He's inviting us to an informal gathering at his place.”

“Tate and I have postponed our meeting twice, and we really need to talk if he's thinking about running for reelection. I'll probably stay overnight, so I want you to go without me.”

Marisol knew it was impossible for Bryce to meet her later, because the congressman lived a hundred miles away from D.C. She knew if Wesley wasn't Bryce's client she would've declined, but he was also her client.

“What time are you leaving?”

Turning off the water, Bryce reached for a towel from a stack on a teakwood bench. “I'm going to try to be on the road before sunrise.”

“Do you want breakfast?”

Blotting the water from his hair, he tossed the towel into a basket, and then reached for a bath sheet to dry his body. “No. I'll stop and eat once I'm outside Richmond.”

Marisol stared at the marble floor. “I'll call Wesley and let him know that I'll be coming alone.”

Bryce wrapped the towel around his waist. “Why do you make it sound as if you're going to an execution?”

“You know I like to chill out on Sundays.”

Dropping an arm over Marisol's shoulders, he pulled her close to his damp body. “Sweetheart. It's only one Sunday.” He kissed her nose. “And remember that Wesley's
our
client.”

“And you'll remind me in case I forget, won't you?”

Bryce cupped her bottom. “You can bet your cute ass I will.”

Marisol reached out and grabbed his butt over the towel. “You keep feeling me up and I'm going to make you cry.” He dropped his hand. “Coward,” she taunted. The first time she'd performed fellatio Bryce had literally lost control, and he had made her promise to never do it again.

“Hell, yeah,” Bryce confirmed, walking into the bedroom, while Marisol retreated to her office to call and confirm her attendance at Wesley Sheridan's informal gathering.

T
he buzzer rang, disengaging the lock, and Marisol pushed open the outer door to the town house. She'd taken a cab from Georgetown because it was impossible to park in Adams Morgan on weekends. She could see why Wesley had elected to live in a neighborhood that locals called the city's Latin Quarter. It came alive at sundown, with residents in their twenties and thirties crowding sidewalks and filling the many restaurants, funky bars and nightclubs.

The neighborhood was one of her favorites, because not only was it ethnically diverse but it also had wonderful ethnic restaurants. The few times she'd come with Bryce they'd stayed up until the break of dawn relaxing in coffeehouses and listening to live music. Coming to Adams Morgan reminded Marisol of the Parisian Left Bank.

When she entered the spacious vestibule she heard voices raised in laughter coming from an apartment at the end of the hallway. The door was ajar; within seconds it opened wider and she came face-to-face with Wesley Sheridan. If it
hadn't been for his premature silver hair she wouldn't have recognized him. He was dressed entirely in black: pullover sweater, slacks, slip-ons and wire-rimmed blue-tinted glasses.

Marisol smiled at her host, handing him a decorative shopping bag.
“Hola otra vez.”

Wesley took the bag, then, angling his head, kissed her cheek. “Hello to you, too. Thank you for coming, but you didn't have to bring anything.”

“Bryce told me you have a fondness for Spanish wine.”

Wesley smiled, flashing gleaming white teeth in his deeply tanned face. “He's right. Although I'm sorry he couldn't make it, I'm glad you decided to come because I'd like you to tell me what you think of my apartment.”

He stood aside and Marisol walked into an entryway, her practiced gaze taking in everything in one sweeping glance. “I'm surprised you say apartment and not your home. Which one is it, Wes?” she asked, untying her cashmere shawl and draping it over her arm. Turning on her heels, she stared up at him. The tinted lenses wouldn't permit her to see his eyes clearly.

“I suppose it's my home.” He took her wrap, placing it on a chair beside a rustic wooden table. Resting his hand on the small of her back, Wesley steered her into the living room.

Marisol came to a complete stop when she saw Bethany and Damon Paxton. Her gaze swept over the small group in an attempt to see who else she recognized. The others were strangers. Smiling with Bethany's approach, she exchanged an air kiss with her. The blonde was the epitome of casual chic in a sleeveless red sheath dress that was a striking contrast to her pale skin and hair.

“Don't you look nice,” Bethany crooned. “Isn't she beautiful, Wesley?”

Marisol saw Wesley stare at her off-the-shoulder black
jersey wool dress hugging her body like a second skin. Ending at her knees, it appeared even shorter with her four-inch heels.

“I'm glad Bryce isn't here to hear me say that I think his wife is stunning.” Wesley rested his hand on Marisol's back.
“¿Le puedo conseguir que algo tomar?”

She stiffened with his touch, then relaxed once he removed his hand. “I'll have club soda with a twist of lime.”

Wesley angled his head. “Are you certain you don't want anything stronger?” he asked, switching fluidly back to English.

Marisol smiled. “Quite certain.”

“After I get your drink I'll introduce you to everyone.”

“Come and talk to me,” Bethany said when Wesley walked to the portable bar. “How do you know Wesley?”

“Nice outfit,” Marisol said complimenting her.

“Thanks. But you didn't answer my question. What's your connection to Wesley Sheridan?”

“He happens to be my client.”

“You decorated this place?”

“No. He wants me to decorate his vacation home.”

“By the way, where's Bryce?”

“He couldn't make it because he had a prior engagement,” Marisol explained. “Why are
you
here?”

“I came with Damon. Now that I'm working I find myself wanting to get out more.”

“Are you still working at the station?”

“Yes and no.”

“Which is it, Bethany?”

“I used to go into the station a couple of days a week, but now I just email everything in,” Bethany lied.

Marisol smiled. “Sweet. I'd love to be able to work in my jammies, but no such luck.”

“You're the one with the glam career.”

“It's not as glamorous as you think.”

“You make homes beautiful.”

“Only after I go through weeks and months of frustration and aggravation when people change their minds umpteen times because they don't know what they really want.”

Bethany moved closer to Marisol. “You know it's my turn to host a luncheon. And when you come I'll give you a complete tour of my house this time, and want you to be completely honest when you tell me its tacky.”

When Marisol had gone back to Bethany's house after their trip to the botanic gardens she'd come into the house by a side door that led directly into a designer kitchen. “If the rest of the house is anything like your kitchen, then you'll get a passing grade.”

“It's the bedrooms I'd like you to look at.”

“Who decorated them?”

“I did,” Bethany confirmed.

A hint of a smile parted Marisol's lips. “Then I'll be certain to be brutally honest.”

“What do you think of this room?”

Marisol stared at the soothing blue-gray color on the living room walls. “I like it.”

“Why?”

“It works because it has a traditional arrangement, but it's not too formal because Wesley incorporated informal fabrics and accent pieces. The white trim on the mantel and French doors emphasize the architectural detail of the coffered ceiling. I like the off-white chairs, love seat and sofa with accent pillows in blue, gray and white. The collection of vases and the mirror on the mantel appear to be antiques, and the silver candlesticks also look like antiques.”

“Hey-y-y, girlfriend,” Bethany crooned. “You do know your stuff, don't you?”

“Did you think I was a fraud?”

“No, no, no,” Bethany countered quickly. “I'd heard you were good…” Whatever she attempted to say was preempted when Wesley returned with Marisol's drink.

Winking, Wesley gave Bethany a slow smile. “I'm going to kidnap your friend so I can introduce her to the others.”

“Don't forget she's married.”

Wesley's expression changed, becoming a mask of stone as he gave Bethany a long, penetrating stare before his gaze shifted to Marisol. “That's something I can never forget.”

“What do you think you're doing?”

Bethany froze. She hadn't noticed Damon when he'd come up behind her. “What are you talking about?” The calmness in her voice masked the rush of anxiety, making it difficult for her to draw a normal breath.

Damon moved closer, his breath feathering over her ear. “I heard what you just said to Wesley. I happen to know the man well enough to say that he'd never hit on another man's wife. He's honorable and was
very
idealistic, darling.”

“Why do you say
was,
Damon?”

“I'm a lobbyist, and that means I sell influence. One of my clients wanted him to vote for something that would've been in their best interest. Initially when I approached Sheridan, he wouldn't give me the time of day. There's an Italian saying—‘one hand washes the other and both hands wash the face.' Sheridan wanted something for his congressional district and my people made it happen for him. And when he ran for his congressional seat, unlike some candidates who have to rely on volunteers, he was able to hire the best political strategist and team in the country. The folks you see here are the key people on that team.”

“In other words, he was bought out.”

“I'm not saying he was, darling. It's just that he's become the consummate politician. Now, tell me why did you warn him about Bryce McDonald's wife?”

“I see the way he looks at her, Damon.”

“She is a beautiful woman, Beth.”

It was obvious Damon couldn't see what she'd seen because she'd lost count of the number of times she'd been on the receiving end of a subtle yet lecherous stare. And Wesley had stared at Marisol as if she was something to devour. Marisol had admitted the silver-haired, handsome young congressman was her client, but an uneasy feeling told Bethany there was something more to their relationship. Call it instinct or intuition, it was something she'd learned not to ignore. Following up on a lead or an anonymous tip was what had put her on the fast track as a journalist.

“That she is, Damon. I can see why Bryce fell for her.”

Damon's arm went around Bethany's waist. “Your claws are showing, babe. I've never known you to be jealous of any woman.”

“I'm not jealous, Damon.”

“If not, then what are you?”

“I'm just curious.”

Damon kissed her ear. “You know what happened to the curious cat.”

It got killed, Bethany mused. She smiled when she recalled the retort about satisfaction bringing it back. “I'm not going to answer that. Can you be a dear and get me a wine spritzer?”

“Can I leave you alone without you getting into trouble?”

Shifting slightly, she pressed her breasts to Damon's chest. Flashing a sexy moue, Bethany stared up at him through lowered lids. “Why don't you leave me alone and find out?”

He rested a hand on the curve of her hip. “I'm going to call Mrs. Rodgers and let her know we'll be late. Very, very late.”

She closed her eyes. “Where are we going?”

“We're going to check into a hotel, order room service and make love until we pass out from exhaustion. Then we're going to take a nap, then get up and do it again and again and again.”

Bethany smiled. “That just may take all night, my love.”

“Then it will take all night and probably into tomorrow. It's been a while since I've taken a day off.”

Bethany opened her eyes while curbing the urge to squeal like an adolescent girl at a concert. It had been a long time since she and Damon had checked into a hotel together. “Where are we going?”

Damon tightened his hold on her hip. “I've discovered a place where certain gentlemen stash their mistresses.”

She recalled the times when she'd waited for Damon in hotels and inns when he was still married
and
living with Jean. Bethany would've invited him to her apartment if her ultra-conservative religious landlady hadn't kept watch on who was coming and going.

“Don't forget I, too, was a mistress.”

“True, babe. But the difference is I married you.”

Bethany nodded, her eyes following Wesley as he introduced Marisol to the members of his staff. His hand barely touching her waist may have appeared impersonal to others, but not Bethany. And when they headed in her direction she noticed a look in the young congressman's eyes that was more than familiar. It was the same look she'd affected when she saw Damon Paxton in that restaurant that now seemed a lifetime ago. Wesley wanted Marisol McDonald.

“I suppose introducing you guys would just be a formality,” Wesley said, smiling.

Damon, reaching for Marisol's hand, dropped a kiss on her knuckle. “Yes, it would. It's always nice seeing you, Marisol.”

Marisol patted Damon's hand. “This man makes the best vanilla egg cream south of Brooklyn.”

“It took me years before I realized there were no eggs in egg creams,” Wesley admitted.

Shifting slightly, Marisol gave Wesley a bored look. “What would someone from St. Louis know about eggs creams? It's a New York City thing.”

Smiling and winking at her, Wesley said, “And what would someone from the Big Apple know about pork steaks?”

“What the heck are pork steaks?” she asked.

“We'll save this discussion for another time, because it's time we go into the dining room to eat.”

The silent, efficient waitstaff escorted everyone into the dining room, seating them with their respective place cards. Pushing serving carts, they filled plates with a sautéed vegetable medley, date-stuffed chicken breast with Madeira sauce, prime rib and sole meunière. Wineglasses were emptied and refilled with red, white and rosé wines that were the perfect complement to the expertly prepared food.

Marisol had sat at the opposite end of the table from Wesley because she was the only one who'd come without an escort. She made a mental note to get the name and telephone number of the caterer to pass along to Georgina. Hopefully her sister-in-law would appreciate the offer rather than take it as a slight.

Peering over the rim of her water goblet, she noticed Wesley staring in her direction. She wanted to see his eyes behind the tinted lenses. Bethany's warning about her being married continued to nag at Marisol. What had she been trying
to insinuate? That Wesley was the type to go after married women?

Taking a sip of water, she touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth. First Cynthia McDonald had revealed Bryce's sordid life as a bachelor and now Bethany was hinting at Wesley possibly sleeping with married women. Marisol knew D.C. was a place of secrets, secrets deals and secret liaisons. It was glittering and glamorous, and a place where political machinations were more important than sex. What she didn't want was to be caught up in one or the other.

She had decorated the homes of judges, senators and representatives, and she had also had clients who'd asked her to assist architects when they'd decided to renovate their residences. Her services were in demand, but lately Marisol had become much more discriminating because she didn't want to overtax herself and exacerbate the recurring headaches. Luckily she hadn't had one in more than a week, and for that she was grateful and appreciative.