Capital Wives (20 page)

Sitting up and swinging her legs over the chaise, Marisol practically launched herself at Wesley, landing on his chest. Her eyes narrowed like a cat. “You opened the door, so you'd better let me in, Wesley, or I'm going to call one of my relatives to come and drive me to Ponce where I'll book a flight back to D.C. Then, I'm going to spill my guts to Bryce about everything you've told me about my husband. What's it going to be, Congressman Sheridan?” Pushing into a sitting position, she averted her face.

“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, thou shalt not covet they neighbor's wife…”

“Why are you quoting the tenth commandment to me?” Marisol whispered.

“Because I've committed a sin.”

“What sin, Wes?”

“I'm coveting another man's wife. After I'd asked Bryce to become my campaign strategist we spent a lot of time together. If he was going to take me on as a candidate, I had to tell him everything about myself so he wouldn't be surprised if my opponent uncovered some long-lost secret that might spark a scandal. I gave him the names of every woman I'd slept with, the few with whom I'd had long-term relationships and if I'd ever been involved with men, prostitutes or had engaged in a threesome.”

“Did you?”

Wesley also sat up, leaning close enough to Marisol to smell the subtle floral scent clinging to her hair and skin. “No. I've always been one-on-one with women. Very discerning women.”

“So discerning or discriminating that you want to sleep with me?”

“Would you prefer I lie,
querida?
”

“I'm not your love
or
your darling, so please stop calling me that. I'm a woman you hired to decorate your house. I can't be anything more to you than that.”

A deafening silence followed Marisol's statement. She found Wesley very attractive, but not so much so she'd break her vow to remain a faithful wife. She had no way of knowing if Bryce was a faithful husband, and she didn't want to know if he hadn't been. Her mother-in-law had revealed that Bryce had slept with a lot of women before he'd married her, so Marisol had hoped he'd had his fill of sleeping with other women.

What she had insisted on before sleeping with Bryce was that he get tested for STDs. He'd become angry, walking away, and Marisol didn't hear from him in more than two weeks. They'd reunited when he returned, agreeing to take
the test. She also agreed to be tested at the same time and when the results came back, both were negative.

Marisol had lost track of the number of women in her old neighborhood who had been affected with HIV because their sexual partners hadn't wanted to use protection. Some were still living with the disease while too many others had died. Just like she hadn't wanted to become a single mother, she also hadn't wanted to come down with a terminal disease.

The past two weeks had been one of discovery. Cynthia McDonald had disclosed the sordid events in Bryce's life before she'd married him, and Wesley had just revealed Bryce's resenting her insistence that she not sleep with him without a promise of commitment. He'd proposed, given her a ring and she'd given him her virginity. And from her vantage point Marisol realized Bryce had gotten the better deal.

“M
rs. Tyson.”

“Mr. Douglas. What took you so long to call me back?”

A deep chuckle came through the speaker feature. When Deanna saw the word
private
on her cell's display, she'd decided to use the feature and placed a small handheld tape recorder beside the phone to record the conversation. It if hadn't been Richard Douglas, then she wouldn't have recorded the call.

“Are you saying that you missed me?”

“Does anyone miss a pit viper?”

“Careful, Mrs. Tyson. I don't like insults.”

Deanna closed her eyes, counting slowly to ten. She'd tried remembering all she had to do if her blackmailer called her again, and right now her mind was a complete blank. And it wasn't as if she could tell the man to call her back while she talked to Marisol, because her friend was in Puerto Rico with Wesley Sheridan. Then she remembered what Marisol's friend John had told her.

“What do you want, Mr. Douglas?”

“You know what I want.”

“Say it. Tell me exactly what you want.”

“I want you to give a few hours of your time. It can be in the morning or afternoon. I know it wouldn't be easy explaining to your husband why you'd decided not to come home.”

“That's where you're wrong. I have events that take me away from home overnight.”

“Do you have me on speaker, Mrs. Tyson?”

Deanna was going to lie, but didn't want to spook the man. She had to get enough evidence on him if she hoped to prove him guilty of raping her. “Yes, I do. I need both hands because I'm putting labels on invitations. They have to go into today's mail. If it bothers you, then I'll turn it off.” What he didn't know was that she'd gotten up earlier than usual to address envelopes for a
quinceañera.

“It's okay. Leave it on. Now, back to business. Are you willing to meet with me?”

“Can we talk about this some other time?”

“When?”

“Call me back in half an hour. I really have to get these invitations ready for the mailman, who's going to come here before eleven.”

“I'll call you back at eleven.”

Deanna's hands were shaking when she ended the call and turned off the recorder. It had happened as John predicted. But the mysterious man had also promised he would catch Richard Douglas in his own trap.

She wished she'd had more invitations to address, or a client or vendor she could talk to in order to make the thirty minutes seem more like three minutes. So she did the next best thing: she paced the floor while watching the clock on
the fireplace mantel. At exactly eleven her cell rang again. This time she knew she didn't have the excuse of needing both hands, and that meant she couldn't activate the speaker.

Deanna answered the phone. “Hello.”

“Did you finish addressing your envelopes?”

“Yes.”

“Did the postman come by to get them?”

“Not yet.”

“Thank you for not lying, because I've been sitting in my car in front of your house and so far I haven't seen a mail truck.”

“He'll be around. Now I want you to stop using up my cell phone minutes. And I'm not going to talk about what you want on my phone.”

“Where do you want to talk?”

“What if you meet in DuPont Circle?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Tyson. I'd rather meet you at the hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

“Why, at our favorite little rendezvous.”

“And that is?” she asked, stalling for time.

“The Brandon-Phillips, of course. Let me know when you're free and I'll meet you there.”

Deanna simulated turning pages in her planner. “I have several meetings with prospective clients and three events this week. Give me your number and I'll call you back.”

“I can't do that, Mrs. Tyson. I'll have to call you. And try to make it before the end of the month, because I'm in the States on a sixty-day visa.”

Deanna smiled. The man had just given her information she could pass along to John. “Let me see if I can shuffle my schedule to accommodate you. Call me back Friday morning.”

“Before or after your husband leaves for work?”

“It doesn't matter. My husband never answers my cell or gets into my business.” She hung up without giving him a chance to say anything else, slipping the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. The familiar ring of the doorbell echoed throughout the house. Walking over to an intercom, she pressed a button. “Yes.”

“It's Richie. I'm here to pick up your mail.”

“I'll be right down.”

Deanna took the elevator to the first floor instead of the staircase. When she opened the door, her gaze went past her postman to a black two-door sedan with tinted windows parked in front of her neighbor's house. It took every ounce of self-control not to blurt out
gotcha!
Most of the houses on her street, including her own, were equipped with security cameras after a numbers of cars had been vandalized. First it was flattened tires, then shattered windshields. It was only after more than a dozen cars were spattered with paint that the residents decided it was time to install cameras. The police managed to catch two of the vandals when they were patrolling the area in unmarked cars.

Reaching for the shopping bags with the invitations, she handed them to Richie. “Thank you.”

“Have a good day, Mrs. Tyson.”

She smiled at the man who'd had the same route for years. He'd told her he'd bought a little bungalow in the Keys, but was waiting for his wife to retire from her nursing position at a local hospital before filing for retirement.

“You, too.”

Waiting for the postal worker to return to his truck, Deanna closed and locked the door. Taking the phone from her pocket, she sat on a chair in the entry and scrolled to her contacts. She tapped the number for John.

“Talk to me, Deanna.”

She told him everything, including the car parked several feet from her house and Richard Douglas's claim that he was in the country on a sixty-day visa. John asked her for the name of the security company monitoring the cameras and Deanna gave him the password that would permit him to view the footage from her account.

“I'll call you back tomorrow to let you know when you should have another liaison with your admirer.”

“Very funny,” she sneered.

“I'm sorry. Keep your phone charged. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, John.”

“There's no need to thank me. I've sworn an oath to protect the good citizens of the United States of America. Later, Deanna.”

“Later, John.”

Deanna clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. How had a single lapse in judgment ended up with her getting involved in a scenario that was better played out in a Lifetime movie?

Lowering her hand, she clenched her teeth and let out a muffled sound. This was one time when she needed to talk to Marisol, but she was thousands of miles from D.C. If it hadn't been so early or if she wasn't trying to get pregnant she definitely would've had a good strong drink.

She'd gripped her cell so tightly that it left an imprint on her palm. Easing her grip, she called Bethany. She wasn't Marisol, but she was someone who could help her take her mind off her dilemma.

 

Bethany locked the door to her office, turned on the netbook, went online and pulled up her blog. There were three comments since yesterday and one new comment today.

Katie—4/18: I'm really mad at you, Insider, for teasing me. Can't you give us a hint as to the initials of the member of Congress whose aide is working after hours with another woman's husband?

Bethany typed: The Insider can't do that. I promised hubby I wouldn't say anything, but blogging is typing, not talking.

Roger—4/18: I can't stand your fake-ass. You've got to be a queen looking for attention because you are always talking about hubby. Bee-yotch you wish you had a husband.

Insider: Roger please let me reassure you that I am a queen, but one with real T & As plus the plumbing. If you can't be nice, then this blog isn't for you.

Heather—4/18: I really like your blog. Can't you give us the initials of the aide?

Insider: Double D. Hint: It could be her name or her bra size):

Winnie—4/19: I love the “Cheaters” column in the
Dish.
Why don't they run a contest and see who can come up with the most names of cheaters in D.C.

Insider: I wouldn't want to touch that with a ten-foot pole. I eschew lawsuits involving libel and slander, but more than that I don't want to end up in the Potomac wearing cement boots when I much prefer Prada, Christian Louboutin and Chanel footwear.

Bethany turned off the netbook and hid it in a canvas tote in the back of the closet where she stored magazines and computer supplies. She unlocked the door, then booted up the family computer and went online to check her email.

She was surprised to find an email from one of her sisters. Mary-Beth's loving husband had run off with the town tramp, leaving her almost destitute. She hated to ask, but she wanted Bethany to send her money because she was two months behind in paying her mortgage.

“How dumb do you think I am, Mary-Beth?” she whispered aloud. Her sister's husband was too lazy to make love to his wife, so she doubted he would take up with another woman. Most times it was Mary who worked overtime because Hank was always losing his job because he couldn't get up in the morning.

Reaching for the telephone receiver, she blocked her number before dialing her sister's. Hank answered the call. “Hey, brother. How y'all doin'?”

“Is that you, Bethany?”

“Sho is,” she said, lapsing into dialect. “What you up to?”

“Nothin' much. I'm waiting for old man Winthrop to call me to help him haul some lumber for the new addition to the high school.”

“That's so nice,” she said facetiously. “Where's Mary-Beth?”

“She over at the drugstore putting in a few hours so we can make ends meet.”

“You could make ends meet if you got up off your lazy ass long enough to hold down a job.”

“Jest you hold on a minute, Beth. You got no call to talk to me like that.”

“I'll talk to you any way I want if it involves blood. And you ain't my blood. My sister emailed me asking for money because she says you're behind in your mortgage.”

“We is, but…”

“But nothing, Hank. My sister lied, saying you'd run off because she still can't admit that you're a piece of shit when it comes to taking care of your family. You tell Mary-Beth to call me, because I'm not going to answer another email from her. I really don't give a damn about you, but Mary-Beth is my sister and I'm aunt to your kids. Don't forget to tell her, Hank. Because if I have to come to Alabama it will be to move my sister and my nieces and nephews to Virginia.”

“Mary will never leave me.”

“Keep believing that, Hank.”

“I could never stand your uppity ass.”

“That's because you tried getting next to this uppity ass. Once I tell my sister what your crooked dick looks like she will get rid of your lazy ass.”

“Dream on, bitch! Mary won't believe you and she ain't never leaving me.”

“That may be true, but tell her I'm not sending her one penny as long as she's with you.”

Bethany's face was beet-red when she slammed down the receiver. She wasn't as angry with Hank as she was with Mary-Beth. Did her sister think she would just write a check and send it to her without checking to see if Hank had actually left Parker Corners?

Shaking her head as if to banish the conversation with Hank, Bethany leaned back in the office chair and read the other emails. Writing the column and the blog had kept her sane, and Nate's
Daily Dish
had become a much-gossiped-about tabloid. Circulation had increased by a few thousand in about a month. Advertisers were waiting online to buy space in the biweekly. In addition to the “Fact or Fiction, Real or Rumor” column, Nate had added another he called “Cheaters.”

“Cheaters” was scathing and inflammatory. Nate had sources in the Senate and in the House that gave him updates on who was doing who and what. And without actually naming names, Nate was able to skew the truth enough to avoid being sued.

Bethany had promised Damon and herself that she wouldn't out her friends, but Jenah Morris deserved to get what she got for her chicanery. It was one thing to sleep with a mar
ried man, but to deliberately get pregnant with the hope he would leave his wife was despicable.

Not only was Bethany taking oral contraceptives when she'd slept with Damon, but she'd also insisted he wear a condom. Damon had revealed he hadn't slept with Jean in years, but there was always the possibility that they would reconcile. Bethany may have been young, but she wasn't stupid. She hadn't believed Damon was in love with her until after they'd married.

She wanted to ask Damon about Spencer and Jenah but didn't want rouse his suspicion. How could a married man approaching middle age fall into the world's oldest trap by having unprotected sex? Bethany didn't feel as sorry for Spencer as she did for Deanna, praying her friend would never know of her husband's duplicity. Deanna had admitted to sleeping with another man, but it couldn't be construed as cheating.

Her cell rang, and peering over at the display she saw Tyson Planners on the display. “Hey, Deanna. What's up, girl?”

“Are you busy?”

“Not really. Why?”

“I want to get out the house for lunch, but I don't want to eat alone.”

“Why don't you come here? I'll fix something light and we can relax while we eat.”

“Are you certain you don't mind cooking?”

“Of course not. You have my address, so come on over.”

“Thanks, Beth-Ann.”