Capital Wives (24 page)

Reaching for the newspapers, she spied a tabloid that had come out of nowhere to challenge the other super market favorites. What she liked about the
Dish
was that it was devoted exclusively to Beltway gossip. The editor was more than clever. He or she was brilliant. Longtime insiders knew exactly who they were talking about, but because no names were mentioned the tittle-tattle had become hearsay.

Then there was the blog moderated by someone called the Insider. When Jenah had gone online to read the entries she felt as if they knew about her and Spencer, even though the blogger hadn't mentioned the occupation of the married man the aide was seeing after hours. When the Insider refused to identify the member of Congress the aide worked for but hinted at her breast size, Jenah knew for certain they were talking about her because she wore a 40DD.

She'd lost her baby, so there wouldn't be a paternity suit. However, there were other ways to make Spencer Tyson pay for messing her over.

M
arisol sat in the middle of the bed with Wesley, her laptop turned at an angle where they both could view the monitor. She had completed floor plans for every room in the duplex; the last one was the living room.

She'd spent two weeks in Puerto Rico and Bryce hadn't returned any of her calls. Her initial concern for his well-being had become apathy. It'd taken her a while to conclude that if anything had happened to Bryce someone would've called her cell.

She pointed to a floor plan labeled Living Room. “From the entry hall, traffic should flow around the center love seat. These two chairs can be lightweight enough to move when entertaining,” she said, pointing to symbols representing chairs.

Wesley leaned to his left, his shoulder pressing against Marisol's. “Why did you put a table behind the center love seat?”

“A dining-size table serves as a library table for display and
may be used for impromptu meals when you want a view of the beach and ocean.” Clicking the mouse, she dropped in a matching love seat. “I've arranged this one at a right-angle configuration to two conversation areas during a larger party.” She clicked again, this time dragging a small table between two other chairs. “I added the small writing table that can be set up as a bar for parties. I know you said that your sisters plan to vacation here with their children, but there's always the possibility that the adults will want to do some entertaining.”

“When we're all together we do a lot of entertaining. What are those circles on the tables?”

Marisol gave him a sidelong glance. “Those are decorative lamps. The one to the left of the right-angle love seat is a floor lamp. I placed them there to form a triangle of soft light for the evening hours.”

He smiled. “Nice. What about a carpet?”

“I think you would do better with a room-size carpet because remember you're going to have to deal with sand being tracked inside the house. You can use a room-size carpet that should come to within eighteen to twenty-four inches of the walls. It's acceptable for furniture along the edges to sit partially off the carpet. You'll have to wait until we get back to D.C. to see the carpet samples.”

“You make it look so simple.”

Marisol saved the floor plan, then shut down the laptop. “It's simple because you can see it right in front of you. If I'd tried to explain it would be a muddled mess.”

Wesley reached for the computer, placing it on the floor beside the bed. Then he eased Marisol down to the mattress, he turning on his side to lie beside her. “You are truly a renaissance woman. You're an incredible decorator and you cook as well as any TV chef.”

Shifting, Marisol faced Wesley, their noses inches apart. “You probably thought I was going to give you ptomaine.”

“No way. Not when my mouth was watering when you were making the
sofrito.
”

“I have my
abuela
to thank for my cooking skills. She used to tease me that I would never get a husband if I didn't learn to cook. It was only when I was older that I realized I didn't need to learn to cook to get a husband when there were restaurants and caterers.”

“If you hadn't become a decorator, what would you've been?”

“I don't know. I'd thought about becoming a nurse but I'm squeamish when it comes to blood.”

“Where did you go to college?” Wesley asked.

“I completed my undergraduate work at the Pratt Institute School of Art and Design and I did my graduate work at Parsons New School for Design.”

“Did you need an MFA?”

“I do if I decide I want to teach.”

Wesley ran a forefinger down the length of her nose. “I admire you.”

“Why?”

“You know exactly what you want to do with your life.”

“And you don't?” she asked.

Long black lashes came down, concealing the intensity in Wesley's eyes. “No. I like being a politician but I don't like politics.”

“That sounds like a contradiction.”

He glanced up, impaling her with an intense stare. “It is.” Wesley's expression changed. “How would you like to go swimming with me to celebrate our last day here?”

Marisol let out a groan. She'd spent her time designing
floor plans while Wesley had passed the time swimming and sunbathing. “I didn't bring a suit.”

“Why don't you wear your bra and panties? I'm certain they cover more than some women who wear what could pass for a bikini.”

“You're probably right. Go put on your suit and I'll look for a something that won't look too risqué. I'll meet you on the beach.”

Waiting until Wesley walked out the bedroom, closing the door behind him Marisol left the bed and searched through her luggage for a bra and a pair of matching panties. Pulling on a black silk and lace ensemble, she skipped down the staircase, left through the rear door, smiling when she saw Wesley dive in under a wave. He'd spread out two large towels on the sand. Waving her hand, she caught his attention and raced into the clear green water to join him. Losing track of time, she and Wesley became children, swimming, floating and splashing each other in the warm water.

Unaccustomed to the strenuous activity, Marisol pleaded fatigue and collapsed facedown on the towel. She slipped the straps to her bra off her shoulders and unhooked the back to avoid tan lines.

“Why did you wimp out on me?” Wesley asked in her ear.

She peered at him through half-closed eyes. “It's been a while since I've swum in the ocean. It's going to take a while for me to build up stamina.”

“Don't move. I'm going into the house to get sunblock for you.”

Marisol wanted to tell Wesley she couldn't move if her life depended upon it. Resting her head on folded arms, she closed her eyes. The heat from the sun and the cooling breeze coming off the ocean lulled her into a state of total relaxation.
She hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep until she felt the cooling liquid on her back when Wesley slathered her with sunblock.

His impersonal touch changed when he rubbed the protective lotion along her inner thigh and down her legs. She was certain he could feel her trembling. “Wes.”

Leaning down, Wesley pressed his mouth to her ear. “Don't worry,
querida.
I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do.”

Marisol swallowed the lump in her throat as she struggled to control the swell of foreign emotion that frightened her. “I want…” Her words trailed off when she met Wesley's hungry stare.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to make love to me.”

“¿Es cierto?”

She smiled. “I'm very certain.”

Marisol closed her eyes when Wesley removed her bra and panties. She'd just asked him to do something that no doubt would change her and her life forever.

If she had been completely honest with herself, Marisol would've acknowledged her attraction to Wesley Sheridan the moment he had walked into her home. She hadn't known what it was, but it was as if he could see through the facade she'd erected to pretend she was happy—indescribably happy. It wasn't that she didn't love her husband, but their relationship had been based on conditions: she wouldn't sleep with him until he committed to marriage.

The need for her to keep her business totally separate from Bryce's. Her need to maintain her independence at all costs. Her need to prove to her in-laws that she was worthy to become a McDonald. And she was tired. Exhausted and tired of fighting with Bryce to determine whether he was able to father a child.

She'd asked a man who wasn't her husband, a man who wasn't a friend but a client, to make love to her. Wesley may have planned to seduce her when he'd asked her to come away with him, but that no longer mattered. Looping her arms around Wesley's neck, she buried her face between his neck and shoulder when he moved over her.

“I can assure you there will be no turning back.”

She smiled. “Did I ask you to turn back?”

Her bravado vanished when she found herself on her back, staring up at Wesley. The tropical sun had tanned his face until he was as dark as she was. Marisol's gaze did not waver when he pushed his trunks off his waist, down his hips and stepped out of them. Her eyes traveled from his face, down to his chest and still lower to his groin. He was fully aroused, his blood-engorged sex hanging heavily between muscled thighs.

Their gazes fused as she extended her arms.
“Venga, mi querido.”

Wesley couldn't believe he was going to make love to a woman who'd haunted him from the first time he saw her. Making love on the beach went beyond any-and everything he could've imagined. A mile of private beach guaranteed there wouldn't be any prying eyes.

Parting her legs with his knee, he guided his sex between her thighs, pushing gently until he was fully sheathed inside her moist warmth. Then he began to move. Thrusting, withdrawing over and over until the only thing in the world that mattered was the woman writhing under him. Without warning he reversed their position, cupping her hips as she sat astride him, her small, firm breasts bouncing as she came down on his erection. Watching his penis slide in and out of her body, the secretions from their lovemaking mingling with pubic hair.

Wesley reversed positions again, his hips slamming into hers until the dam broke and he completed himself inside her at the same time Marisol's screams echoed in his ear; the walls of her vagina held him in a vise before easing only to do it again over and over as she climaxed.

They lay together, joined and spent, while waiting for their breathing to return to a normal rhythm. The enormity of what they'd shared did not hit Wesley until he pulled out and lay on his back while staring up at the cloudless sky. It was the first time in his life he'd made love with a woman without using protection.

His anxiety subsided when he realized if Marisol had asked him to make love to her, then she had to be on birth control. She had waited for the last day of what had become a two-week fantasy vacation to let him make love to her. Even if it would become the only time at least he would be left with memories of their time together.

“Do you think we should go inside?” Her voice was low, sultry.

Wesley smiled. “No one's going to see us.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Everyone's stretch of beach is indicated by boundary markers. And no one trespasses or they're subject to a hefty fine.”

“How much is the fine?”

“Five thousand for the first offense, and seventy-five hundred for the second.”

“That's excessive, Wes.”

“So is trespassing.”

Marisol shifted until she lay on her side; she pressed her face to her lover's shoulder, resting one arm over his waist. “Flip me over once I'm done on this side.”

Wesley cursed his luck. Marisol had waited hours before
they were to leave to return to the mainland to allow him to make love to her. He wondered if it was a deliberate move on her part so there would be no bonding.

They would return to D.C. to pick up the pieces of their lives as if the two weeks had been a dream. He'd deliberately kept his distance because she'd proved to be too much a temptation. She'd come to Puerto Rico to work, not have an affair. And she hadn't realized the scope of the project she'd taken on because there hadn't been time for her to visit with relatives. She had eleven rooms to decorate and twelve days in which to complete the task. If they hadn't shared meals, Wesley wouldn't have spent any time with her.

Marisol hadn't mentioned Bryce returning her calls, and he hadn't asked. What he didn't tell her was if Bryce didn't want his wife, then Wesley Sheridan was more than ready and willing to step in and replace him.

“D
amn, girl, you are wearing the hell out of your vacation,” Deanna remarked when Bethany's housekeeper led her into the back porch where Marisol and Bethany waited for her.

Marisol fluttered her lashes. “It was a working vacation.”

Bethany patted the back of a chair. “Sit here, Deanna. I did ask our girlfriend how much work she got done, but she wouldn't tell me.”

Marisol moved over to sit on a cushioned chair pulled up to the table Bethany had set with china, silver and crystal. “I completed floor plans for eleven rooms in twelve days. The other two days were for travel.”

“Did you miss your honey bunny?” Bethany drawled.

Shaking out her napkin, Marisol placed it over her lap. “No.”

“No?” Deanna and Bethany chorused.

“Why on earth not?” Bethany asked.

Marisol told her friends about calling Bryce and he not calling her back. “After the third day I said the hell with him.
If he's going to act like a jackass, then I'll treat him like one and ignore him.”

Deanna stared at Marisol. She'd cut her hair in a becoming pixie style, while her face was tanned a deep tawny brown. “What did he say for himself when you got back?”

“He kissed me and asked if I'd had a good time.”

“That's it?” Deanna asked.

Marisol lifted her tanned shoulders. “That's it.”

Bethany picked up a bowl of salad, handing it to Marisol. “Did you have a fight before you left?”

“Nope. I know he didn't like me going away with a man.”

“Especially if that man is Wesley Sheridan,” Bethany crooned.

Deanna narrowed her eyes at their hostess. “What are you trying to say, Beth-Ann?”

“It's as plain as the nose on your face, Dee. Bryce is jealous of Wesley Sheridan.”

Deanna trained her gaze on Marisol. “Have you given Bryce cause to be jealous?”

Marisol met Deanna's eyes. “No.”

“Mrs. Paxton, there's someone at the door asking for you.” The three women turned to look at the housekeeper standing at the entrance to the porch.

Bethany placed her napkin beside her plate. “Please excuse me.”

Marisol waited until she and Deanna were alone to tell her that she'd slept with Wesley. “It was only once, and the day before we were leaving.”

“But why?”

“I don't know. I suppose subliminally I was angry with Bryce and wanted to get back at him. Please don't tell me I was stupid and immature, because I've called myself that and a whole lot worse.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

She nodded. “Yes, but not to sleep together.”

“Be careful,” Deanna whispered. “A love triangle usually ends badly.”

“It was only one time, and I'm certain Wesley wouldn't do anything to jeopardize his political career.”

“I hope you're right, Marisol. Sex can make people do crazy things.” Deanna gave her friend a quick overview of what had happened at the Brandon-Phillips. “It happened so quickly I didn't have time to react. He'd barely taken a sip of his drink when he started gasping for breath. Some woman told me to get up and walk out and I didn't think twice. I never got to see what John looked like when he asked for my cell. He erased the number and it was over. I scoured every newspaper and online news story to see if there was anything written about Richard Douglas, but I found nothing.”

“There has to be more to Richard Douglas than his wanting to blackmail you into sleeping with him for John to get that involved.”

“Do you think John will tell you?”

Marisol shook her head. “No, and I'm not going to ask him. The maggot is gone and you'll never have to worry about him contacting you again.”

“What did I miss?” Bethany asked as she entered the room.

Deanna smiled. “Marisol was telling me how much she enjoyed her stay in Puerto Rico,” she lied smoothly.

Marisol gave Bethany a level stare. “I thought you told me you can't grow flowers. The ones here are beautiful.”

“That's Mrs. Rodgers's handiwork. I spent all morning cooking, so y'all better eat up.” The three friends dined on Southern fried chicken, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, fluffy, buttery biscuits, tossed salad and sweet tea.

“I've got to give it to you, Bethany,” Marisol said,
swallowing a forkful of mac and cheese. “You can really cook.”

Bethany raised her glass of iced tea. “Thank you very much.” She set down her glass, leaned back in her chair and stared at Marisol, then Deanna. “I have something to tell you, Deanna.”

“Well, what is it, Bethany?” Deanna asked when Bethany focused on the food on her plate.

“A source just told me they have information that Spencer was sleeping with a woman, got her pregnant, then paid someone to attack her so she lost her baby.”

“Get the fuck outta here!” Marisol shouted.

Deanna couldn't say anything as she shook her head. “I don't believe it,” she gasped once she'd recovered her voice.

Marisol threw her napkin on the table. “You're lying, Bethany.”

The blonde closed her eyes. “Would you prefer to read about it in the
Dish
or hear it from me?”

Deanna slumped in her chair, unable to believe what she'd just heard. She and Spencer were making love around the clock to make a baby; meanwhile he'd had an extramarital affair where he'd gotten another woman pregnant.

“Who is your source?” she asked.

Bethany opened her eyes. “I can't tell you.”

“What do you mean you can't tell me? I'd like to talk to
your
source before I confront Spencer.”

“Try and understand that I'm a journalist, Dee. We don't have to reveal our sources even in a court of law.”

“Cut the phony crap,” Marisol snapped angrily. “Have you forgotten that we're your friends?”

Bethany chewed her lip. “I'll never forget that. Go home and tell Spencer what you know. Either he'll admit or deny
it. But I'm going to warn you that the shit is about to hit the fan.”

“Can you stop it?” Marisol asked. “Call in a favor, Bethany, and have them squash the story.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Deanna ran a hand over her face. “When does the rag hit the newsstands?”

“Not until next Thursday.”

“See if you can pull the story, Bethany. I'll talk to Spencer. Tell your source if the allegations are false, then be prepared for a helluva lawsuit. If this woman can't prove that Spencer paid someone to attack her, then she's going to jail for perjury.”

Bethany nodded. “Go talk to your husband and I'll get in touch with my source. I'm so sorry about this, Deanna.”

Rising, Deanna pushed back her chair and hugged Bethany. “Thank you for the heads-up.”

Marisol also stood up. “I'm going to drop Deanna off at home.” She hugged Bethany. “Thanks, friend.”

Bethany sat at the table, knowing Mrs. Rodgers would show her friends out. It wasn't often Nathan Nelson left his hovel, but what he had learned he didn't trust to be said on an unsecured telephone line. Jenah Morris had contacted the editor of the
Dish
to out Spencer Tyson. Cheating on his wife wasn't a crime. But Bethany did overhear Spencer threaten Jenah that if she didn't get rid of the baby he would make her regret she ever drew breath.

She knew Nate wouldn't pull the story because it was something that would be talked about for a long time. And the bigger the scandal the more papers he sold. But Spencer wouldn't be the only casualty. The fallout would also affect Deanna. Bethany stood up and picked up the cordless receiver off a table, then closed the French doors. She dialed
her husband's number, waiting until his personal assistant connected her.

“Damon, can you come home?” she asked as soon as she heard his voice.

“What's the matter, baby?”

“You need to come home—now!”

“I'll be there as soon as I can.”

 

Bethany sat next to Damon in the sitting area of their bedroom, holding tightly to his hand. “You have to do something. If the story gets out, then Deanna's going to wind up as collateral damage.”

Damon looked at the slender fingers entwined with his. He'd underestimated Jenah Morris. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. He exhaled an audible breath. “I'll call the editor and see what he wants if he's willing to kill the story. Ms. Morris is another matter.”

“If Nathan does kill the story, there's no guarantee Jenah won't go to another paper.”

“That's true, but perhaps I can make her an offer she can't refuse.”

“Is it true Spencer paid someone to attack her?”

“I doubt it, Beth. I don't believe Spencer would jeopardize his license to practice law by putting out a hit on someone—especially his paramour.” Damon kissed Bethany's hair. “I'm glad you called me. I'll try and get this straightened out before the end of the week.”

She kissed his ear. “I'll walk you out.”

Damon slipped into the back of the sedan, closing the partition between him and the driver. He punched speed dial. “I need you to go by Nathan Nelson's office and ask him how much he needs to retire in the Caribbean. I also want you to let the police know they're going to need a warrant
to search Jenah Morris's apartment for a shipment of cocaine and counterfeit handbags. D-Day is Monday night.”

He ended the call, not wanting to believe what he'd been drawn into. Deanna Tyson had protected his wife's reputation, and now it was his turn to protect her husband. Jenah had miscarried when she'd been injected with a drug used to precipitate labor, and she'd blamed her lover when he had nothing to do with it.

Damon knew it would be easier to cut a deal with the newspaper editor than it would be to deal with Tyson's spurned lover. He would set her up like she'd planned to set up her former lover. Ms. Morris had come to Washington as a wide-eyed aide to a popular Pennsylvania congresswoman who insiders had identified as one to watch closely, but unfortunately she hadn't followed the rules when sleeping with a married man: keep a low profile and never confront his wife.

Jenah would have a lot of time to reflect on her short-lived affair and her attempt to bring Spencer Tyson down after she was arrested and Mirandized.

 

Deanna averted her head when Spencer leaned over to kiss her, his mouth brushing her jaw. She hadn't been able to say a word during the drive from Falls Church, and when Marisol dropped her off she could only manage to mumble thank you.

“What's the matter, Dee?”

She patted the mattress. “Please sit down.” Spencer sat on the side of the bed. “Instead of asking what the matter is, you should be asking what's wrong.”

A frown creased his forehead. “Okay. What's wrong?”

“You are wrong, Spencer. You're wrong for lying to me, you're wrong for sleeping with other women, and you're doubly wrong for getting another woman pregnant while telling me—your wife—that you're still not ready to father a child.”
Reaching under the duvet, Deanna pulled out the small automatic handgun. “Now the only thing that remains is where I shoot you.”

Spencer stared at the registered handgun he'd kept in the house for protection. “Don't, Dee!”

“Don't what, Spencer? Don't shoot you? And why not?”

“Because we can talk about it.”

“Not we. You. You're going to tell me about all the women you've
fucked
during our marriage and when you're done then I'll decide what I'm going to do with you.”

Deanna couldn't believe she could sound so calm when all she wanted to do was cry. She'd come home and run up and down the staircase until she felt as if her heart was going to explode. Even when her lungs were burning, her leg muscles were hurting and her knees threatened not to support her body she'd continued to run up and then down. Then she stumbled into her bedroom, retrieved the handgun from a locked box in the walk-in closet and collapsed on the bed.

Numbed, it'd taken her hours to debate whether to shoot her unfaithful husband if he did lie to her. In the end she decided that he wasn't worth her losing her freedom, but hadn't bothered to put the gun back. One thing she did know was that she could never hurt Spencer Tyson the way his whore could. Outing him in the
Dish
would undo everything he'd struggled to achieve. And if the woman could prove her ex-lover was responsible for her losing her baby, then a judge and jury would decide Spencer's fate.

“I didn't mean to hurt you, baby.”

Deanna palmed the handgun. “I don't want an apology. I just want the truth.”

She'd asked for the truth, believing Spencer had slept with one, maybe two women, but when he told her about the other five, all of whom were married, Deanna felt like sliding off
the safety and shooting her husband at point-blank range. But she couldn't—not now. Not when she suspected she was pregnant with his baby.

“I know I was wrong, but I'm not going to ask you to forgive me.”

“What do you want?” she asked, staring at the man she thought she knew. He looked as if he'd been carved from stone.

“I want you to give me a chance to prove to you that I can be a faithful husband.”

“Can you, Spencer?”

“I have been.”

“I'm sure you have. But only when your ho told you she was
swole
the fuck up.”

“Please don't talk like that, Dee.”

“What! When did you become my daddy, Spencer, telling me what to say?”

“You know I can't stand it when you curse.”

“And I can't stand a cheatin' ass husband.”

“I told you I stopped.”

“You're going to do more than stop, counselor. Your ho is 'bout to out you in next week's
Dish
. She's claiming you paid someone to mug her and she wound up losing her baby. Remember, you're not the only one in this baby-mama drama.”