Capital Wives (8 page)

S
pencer hadn't moved from where he'd sat waiting for Damon Paxton, talking and sharing cocktails and hors d'oeuvres with the man. He knew Jenah was upstairs waiting for him, but for a reason he couldn't fathom he found it impossible to go to her.

He replayed everything that had gone down with him and Damon, his denial and the lobbyist's accusations. They weren't accusations but the truth. But who was Damon Paxton to lecture him about morality when he'd had a reputation for screwing any woman who smiled at him? However, he had to agree with Damon when he said he'd aimed too low.

Spencer had achieved his boyhood dream of becoming a lawyer, but he'd never aspired to the bench because he eschewed politics. He hadn't wanted to be beholden to anyone but himself for his successes. If he worked hard, then he would attain his goals, not because he owed some power broker.

It was apparent someone recognized something in him that
he'd refused to acknowledge: the ability to sit on the bench and mete out justice.
Judge Tyson. Your Honor.
He smiled. Spencer had to admit he'd like people to stand up out of respect when he entered a courtroom. It was an action he'd performed countless times when he defended his client. The bench was imposing, the black robe impressive, and being addressed as Your Honor was heady indeed.

Yes. He would do as Damon recommended and stop seeing Jenah. Thankfully, he didn't have to drop her right away. He had sixty days to continue to enjoy the woman who'd offered him the best sex he'd ever had in his life.

He stood up, dropped several large bills on the table, waved to the bartender and walked down the corridor to the elevator. He entered an empty car and punched the button for the third floor. It rose quickly, quietly stopping at the designated floor. The door opened and Spencer came face-to-face with Jenah.

“Where are you going?”

“Where the hell have you been?”

Spencer clamped a hand around his paramour's upper arm, forcibly dragging her down to the suite where he'd told her to wait for him. He unlocked the door and pulled her inside. “It's apparent you didn't hear me when I told you to wait in the room for me.”

Jenah Morris tossed back the thick, highlighted, chemically straightened hair that had fallen over one eye. The peekaboo cut had become her signature hairstyle much like 1940s pinup girl Veronica Lake. The style added mystique, but it also concealed the fact that she had different-colored eyes. It wasn't easy for a black girl growing up in Pittsburgh with one brown and one blue eye not to become the object of rude stares and ridicule.

Pushing out her lower lip, she pouted. “I got tired of waiting.”

Taking off his suit jacket, Spencer draped it over the back of a chair in the dining area. “Don't I make it worth your while to wait for me?”

A sly smile parted Jenah's full lips as she watched Spencer Tyson undress. She still couldn't believe she'd gotten him to fall in love with her. She was more than aware that he was married when they'd met on election night in the bar of a downtown D.C. hotel. They'd managed to find a spot where they could talk without shouting, and hours later they went upstairs to a suite where they had shared the most mind-blowing sex she'd ever had.

She'd moved to D.C. to join the staff of a Pittsburgh congresswoman, and had contemplated moving back to the Steel City before Spencer changed her mind. They couldn't be seen together publicly, and she understood that, but now she wanted more. Jenah wanted to become Mrs. Spencer Tyson.

Shrugging out of her coat, she let it slide to the floor. Pulling the hem of her blouse from her skirt's waistband, Jenah began what she called her dance of seduction. She swayed back and forth to a nameless tune in her head, removing each article of clothing like a professional burlesque dancer. Whenever she knew she was going to see Spencer she exchanged her panty hose for a bustier and thigh-high hose. The bustier clinched her waist and pushed up her breasts, bringing Spencer's hungry gaze to linger there.

“Do you like what you see?” she crooned, stepping out of her heels.

Spencer smiled, his gaze shifting from her breasts to his groin. “Do you like what
you
see?” His enormous erection strained against boxer briefs.

“Let it out, baby,” Jenah whispered.

Reaching under the waistband, Spencer exposed his swollen penis, holding it and watching Jenah's expression change from curiosity to awe as it continued to grow longer and larger.

“Come and lick it, Jenah.”

She approached her lover, sank to her knees and flicked her tongue around his sex. It began with a tentative flick, then her mouth opened and she took as much of him as she could without gagging.

Jenah was so aroused that the moisture bathing her core trickled down her inner thigh. She'd gone down on Spencer, but he never went down on her. She realized their lovemaking was lopsided, but she didn't want to say anything that would make him stop seeing her. However, all that would change once they were married.

Spencer bared his throat, growling as Jenah's mouth worked its magic. He wanted to come in her mouth, but only after he went inside her. Reaching down, he eased her large golden breasts from the bustier, smiling when he saw the large bloodred nipples. Jenah Morris was lush, curvy from her lips to her long, sexy legs. She'd become his private dancer, performing on cue. She was only twenty-six, yet she had a sexual repertoire rivaling an experienced courtesan.

Easing his penis out of her mouth, he placed it between her breasts, smiling while she masturbated him, alternating licking each of her breasts. The uninhibited coupling moved to the bedroom, articles of discarded clothing trailing behind them.

Jenah lay on the bed, legs bent at the knees and arms raised above her head. She didn't have to wait long before Spencer loomed over her, his dick grazing her thighs. He placed his hands on her knees, spreading her legs until she felt the muscles pulling in her groin.

“You're hurting me,” she gasped when he applied more pressure than necessary.

Lowering his body, Spencer buried his face in the large breasts. “I'm sorry, baby. You know I'd never hurt you.”

“Love me, Spence.”

Grasping his erection, he eased the rigid member into her vagina. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you when we're together. I love you when we're not together.”

He told her what she needed to hear, only because he wasn't ready to give her up. Damon Paxton has issued an ultimatum and he would follow through. He would continue to sleep with Jenah, getting his fill before he settled down to become a father, judge and a faithful husband.

Jenah was the only woman he'd slept with and not used protection. He'd accompanied her to an ob-gyn in Philadelphia to have her tested for STDs and to be fitted with an intrauterine device. And she was the first single woman who'd become his mistress. Spencer preferred sleeping with married women, because all they wanted was sex without declarations of love or happily ever after.

“Fuck me, daddy,” Jenah chanted when she felt every inch of his prodigious penis moving in and out of her. Internally she was a big woman, and Spencer was the first man who'd been large enough to bring her to climax.

If possible, he became longer and harder, and she bucked wildly while trying to get closer when he thrust into her with the power and speed of a piston. Grabbing her breasts, she squeezed them as orgasms tore her asunder. She screamed over and over as they kept coming. Spencer's triumphant growl overlapped hers; he ejaculated, a hot rush of semen filling her core.

They lay joined, waiting for their respiration to return to a normal rhythm. It was another half a hour before they stirred to begin the dance of desire again.

“M
ari.”

“Sí, m'ijo,”
Marisol answered without glancing up. She'd spent most of the morning sorting receipts and writing checks.

Bryce walked into the office, sinking down to the chair beside her desk. Although they worked out of home offices they rarely got to see each other until the evening. Most times Marisol was out of the house before ten to meet with clients and vendors, while he got up later, lingering to make breakfast. He wasn't much of a cook, but he could prepare a more than passable breakfast. If there weren't leftovers from the night before, Bryce usually skipped lunch and waited for his wife to return. Most times Marisol opted to cook rather than eat in one of the many wonderful Georgetown restaurants.

Their marriage had been one of adjustment: culture and lifestyles. He'd been born into money, while Marisol had grown up below or at the poverty line. He knew which college he would attend and he'd learned everything about
politics while sitting on his grandfather's knee, and when his grandfather retired and his father went into semiretirement Bryce took the reins, shepherding the company in another direction because the complexion of politics and the country had changed yet again.

He stared at the profusion of ebony curls falling around Marisol's face in sensual disarray. “I have a new client for you.”

Marisol's head popped up and she smiled at Bryce. “Who is she?”

His sandy-brown eyebrows shot up. “It's not a she.”

Resting her elbow on the desk, she cradled her chin on the heel of her hand. Without makeup Marisol looked twenty-two rather than thirty-two.

“Then who is he?”

“Congressman Wesley Sheridan.”

“Where is he from?”

“St. Louis.”

She blew out a breath. “Missouri or Kansas?”

“Missouri. He just bought a house and would like you to decorate it.”

“Thanks for the referral,
m'ijo.
”

“That's all you're going to say?”

“I said thank-you. What else do you want me to say?”

“Don't you want to know about Wes?”

Marisol gestured to the computer monitor. “I'll look him up online.” It was something she did before agreeing to take on a client. She wanted to know what to expect before meeting them.

“That may be too late.”

She angled her head. “What aren't you telling me, Bryce?”

“We're meeting today for lunch.”

She looked at her shorts and tank top. “I hadn't planned to go out this morning.”

Reaching over, Bryce ran his fingers through her mussed hair. “What if I order in?”

Smiling, Marisol rose slightly and kissed him. “Thanks,
m'ijo.
”

He returned her smile. “Anything for you, baby. I'll call and tell him we're going to meet here.”

Marisol wanted Bryce to leave so she could massage her temples. She hadn't wanted to tell him that she had a headache—again. It was the third one this week, and this time it'd lasted for two consecutive days. She went to bed with a headache and woke with one. The headaches had begun when she'd first enrolled in college and after a battery of tests specialists determined they were result of tension. Even after she took a tranquilizer the headaches continued, so she'd stopped taking them.

“What time is your meeting?”

Bryce glanced at his watch. “Twelve-thirty.”

She nodded. It was ten-fifty. “As soon as I finish up here I'll set the dining-room table.”

“Don't forget to change into something less revealing. I don't need Wes leering at you with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.”

Marisol clenched her teeth, intensifying the pain in her head. “I believe I'm mature enough to know what is and what isn't appropriate for a business meeting.”

“It's just a reminder, Mari.”

She waved him away before she said something she wouldn't be able to retract. “Go, Bryce, so I can finish writing checks.”

“Why do you have an attitude?”

“I don't have an attitude.”

“Well, you sound like you do.”

Covering her face with her hands, Marisol took deep breaths in an attempt to relax. “I don't have an attitude, but if you're looking for one then you're out of luck, because I have a monstrous headache.”

“Why didn't you tell me about the headache?”

“There's no reason to tell you.”

“Yes, there is, Marisol. Have you forgotten that I'm your husband?”

She rolled her eyes. “As if you'd let me forget.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You always make it sound as if I'm your possession. Like this house and everything in it. I'm not some inanimate object on display. Do you realize whenever we go out together you always monitor what I'm wearing?”

“I just want to make certain you look nice.”

Standing, Marisol came around the desk. A sweep of lashes touched her cheekbones when she stared at the design on the area rug. “In case you've forgotten, I do have degrees in fashion
and
design. I think that qualifies me to know what I
should
wear or what looks best on me.”

Bryce cradled her chin, raising her face. “I…I haven't forgotten, baby. It's just that the first time my mother met you she said you looked like a homeless ragamuffin. She—”

“Your mother!” Marisol gasped, cutting him off. “You scrutinize what I wear because of something your mother said how many years ago!” The outfit she'd worn was gypsy-inspired, and she'd had no idea beforehand that Bryce was taking her to meet his parents.

Bryce tightened his hold on her face. “Baby, baby. You don't understand. I didn't mean for it to come out like that.”

“¡Yo no puedo creer esto! El todavía escucha a mami.”

“Speak English!”

“Learn Spanish,” she spat out.

“You said something about my mother, didn't you?”

Marisol jerked his hands away from her face. “You bet your ass I did. I said I can't believe you're still listening to your mother. You're a thirty-six-year-old man, not an insecure six-year-old looking for mommy's approval.”

“I don't want you talking about my mother.”

“But it's okay for her to talk about me.”

Bryce closed his eyes. “Can we discuss this some other time?”

“No,” Marisol said. “I don't want to talk about it at all. I want you to leave me alone so I can finish with my banking.”

“I don't know why you refuse to use my accountant. He handles all my expenses.”

She held her hair off her face with both hands. Marisol loved Bryce, but he had the annoying habit of trying to convince her that what worked for him should work for her. “Why do we argue about the same thing over and over?”

“We don't argue, Mari. We have discussions.”

“Okay, we have discussions. I've told you before I want to keep my design company completely separate from your consulting business. I don't care how much money you make or lose, and you don't need to know about mine. That's why we have different accountants and file separate corporate tax returns.”

Bryce threw up his hands. “That's asinine. We're married. We're supposed to be a couple, but it's as if we live together but are living separate lives. Now you know why I don't want to bring a child into
this shit!
”

Hot tears pricked the back of Marisol's eyelids. “You're right.” Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that she and Bryce weren't parents. Walking over to the door, she grasped the knob. “Please get out of my office.” She waited for Bryce to
leave, slamming the door so violently behind him the prints on the wall shook.

Pressing her back to the door, Marisol exhaled. How had she been so clueless? She'd talked about Bethany Paxton being a trophy wife when she'd also become an ornament. Over the years Bryce had bought her enough jewelry that she could open her own store. Then there was the walk-in closet with mink, sable, fox and chinchilla coats, jackets, vests, scarves and earmuffs. You would have thought she lived in Alaska where the winters were long and bitterly cold instead of the D.C. region.

Realization washed over Marisol like an icy wave. She had no one to blame but herself. Bryce was the ringmaster and she had become the main attraction. He would introduce her as “my wife” before mentioning her name.

Deanna was right. She was Bryce's
muñeca.
A doll he'd put on display to impress his mother and those in his family who still thought she never should've become a part of their family.

Marisol returned to her desk, picked up the telephone receiver and dialed a familiar number. Her call was answered after the third ring. “Hey, Dee.”

“Hey, yourself. What's up?”

“What does your calendar look like for tomorrow?”

“I just have to proof some invitations. Other than that I'm free. Why?”

“I'd like to borrow your shoulder.”

“I'm available now if you want to come over.”

Marisol grimaced. “I have to interview a new client in a couple of hours.”

“Come over after you're finished.”

“What about Spencer?”

“He won't be home until late.”

Marisol nodded even though Deanna couldn't see her. She
didn't want an audience when she unburdened herself. “Then I'll see you later.”

She knew some people viewed her as hard, brusque, but Marisol saw herself as brutally honest. With her there was no pretense, and although she called a spade a spade she was usually open to accept corrective criticism. For the first time since she'd gone into business for herself the excitement of meeting a new client had lost its appeal.