Capital Wives (18 page)

Spencer stared at Damon, baffled. He didn't know what game Paxton was playing, but whatever it was he wanted no part of it. People like the power broker never did anything for nothing. And he didn't believe he was willing to help him with this dilemma because Deanna had salvaged what was left of his wife's debauched reputation. All of D.C. had buzzed about the blonde television reporter who'd set her sights on a man twenty years her senior and seduced him away from his wife and young child. If Damon hadn't been who he was, his name would've been left off every party and fundraiser list in the nation's capital. But Damon's sphere of influence made
him an important ally. He was the go-to guy when individuals, companies and corporations wanted elected officials to tack on pork for their districts.

“What do you intend to do?” he asked.

“I can get rid of your problem.”

Throwing back his head, Spencer laughed loudly. “What are you going to do? Have her end up dead in the woods?”

A deep flush suffused Damon's face. “I don't kill people, Tyson. What I can do is get someone to take care of your problem.”

“What do you get out of it, Paxton? My firstborn?”

“I'll take godfather and friendship,” Damon said flippantly.

“You're kidding.”

“Do I look like I'm kidding, Tyson? I told you before that Bethany considers Deanna her friend, and I'd like to keep it that way. And there's no reason why we can't get together as couples every once in a while. By the way, do you golf?”

Spencer smiled for the first time since Damon walked into his home. “Not enough.”

Crossing one leg over the other, Damon also smiled. “I belong to a very nice private country club near Falls Church. It has a wonderful nine-hole course. I'd love to invite you as my guest. And if you like the place, then I'll sponsor you to become a member. But not until we take care of your problem.”

It took seconds for Spencer to realize Damon could take care of Jenah in a way that would never be traced back to him. What he did do was draw the line when it came to assault and murder.

“Do it, but I don't want her beat up.”

Lowering his leg, Damon leaned forward and shook Spencer's hand. “Consider it done, and you won't have to concern yourself with dealing with the lady. It may take a couple of
weeks, but my people will make certain once she leaves D.C. for Pittsburgh she won't come back.”

Spencer stood up. “I need a drink.”

The two men retreated to the ballroom where the noise level had escalated appreciably with the arrival of more invitees. Spencer stood with Deanna, playing the consummate host as he thanked them for coming. He made certain everyone had something to drink and eat as waiters walked around with trays of sushi, Thai chicken on skewers and dim sum.

The sound of soft jazz flowed through speakers as he circulated among the small crowd, his step lighter than it had been in days. Spencer knew he had no choice but to trust Damon Paxton to take care of Jenah. If she'd pretended to be pregnant, then there was no doubt Damon's people would report back to him. But if she was, then he didn't want to imagine how they would take care of it.

Spencer had told Damon that he didn't want Jenah to come to any physical harm, because he didn't want a police investigation traced back to him. After all, he had indirectly threatened her.

He smiled with Deanna's approach. Reaching for her hand, he placed a kiss on her palm. “It looks as if everyone's having a good time.”

“Good food, wonderful drinks and people looking to have fun is the perfect combination for a good time,” Deanna whispered in his ear. “I notice you and Damon have gotten rather buddy-buddy.”

“He invited me to go golfing with him.”

Deanna's arched eyebrows lifted slightly with his disclosure. “Where are you golfing?”

“He belongs to a private country club near Falls Church. He claims if I like it, then he'll sponsor me to become a member.”

“Are you sure you're going to have time to play golf?”

“I'll make time. It's been a while since that set of clubs you gave me for my thirty-fifth birthday have been out of the closet.”

Deanna rolled her eyes upward. “I'll believe it when I see it. I'm glad you're hitting it off with Damon, because now you'll make time for a little R & R.”

Looping an arm around her waist, Spencer pulled her closer. “I don't need Paxton for R & R. That's why I have you, Dee. The only time I'm completely relaxed is when I'm with you.”

She giggled softly “You keep coming home early and wearing me out I think I'm going to have make a reservation to go to St. Croix earlier than planned.”

Spencer pressed his mouth to her ear. “When are you expecting your period?”

“Not for another three weeks.”

“I hope it doesn't come. Now that I've wrapped my head around becoming a daddy I can't wait for you to tell me you're pregnant.”

Deanna brushed her mouth over his. “It's going to happen, baby. If not next month, then the month after.” She knew it would take a couple of cycles for her body to rid itself completely of the properties in the Pill that prevented conception. Deanna refused to become like Marisol, working herself into a state of anxiety if she didn't get pregnant right away. She'd waited eight years, and she would give herself until the end of the year before considering other options.

The elevator door opened and Dennis Wen exited, pushing a cart with a number of serving trays from which wafted the most delicious smells. “Please turn up the lighting, Spencer. It's time for dinner.”

Members of the waitstaff stood behind the serving station,
ready to serve those who'd lined up to select what they wanted from the buffet. Another waiter filled water and wine glasses, while another poured hot sake into tiny cups. A pair of chopsticks was positioned beside the knives and forks at each place setting.

Spencer indicated what he wanted on a plate for Deanna, then set it down in front of her when she sat at one end of the table. He fixed a plate for himself, then sat at the opposite facing her. He smiled at those sitting around the table.

“I know I speak for Deanna when I say that I want to thank you for coming out tonight. After we eat and drink I hope you'll stay long enough to relax before we top off the evening with some music and dancing. Those unable to make it home under their own stead are welcome to spend the night. The only other thing I'm going to say is—enjoy!”

Deanna winked across the length of the table at her husband, and she wasn't disappointed when he returned the wink. A month ago she'd felt as if she had been losing her husband, but something or someone had changed him. And for that she was eternally grateful.

M
arisol peered out the oval window of the Lear jet when it began to descend; she felt a lump in her throat when she saw the landscape of Puerto Rico come into view. She hadn't told her relatives she was coming because she'd wanted to surprise them, but that wouldn't happen until after she concluded her business with Wesley.

Glancing across the aisle, she stared at the man who disturbed her more than she wanted. There were times she'd caught him staring at her, and it made her feel uneasy. The startling blue eyes, shocking white cropped hair contrasting against his tanned tawny-brown face had women craning their necks to stare at him when they emerged from the limo at a section of the airport where private jets sat on the tarmac.

Marisol wasn't certain whether they'd recognized him as a congressman from Missouri or stared because he was drop-dead gorgeous. He was dressed for the tropical weather: white linen shirt, matching walking shorts and deck shoes.

Bryce had been unusually withdrawn when she'd gotten up
earlier that morning. He'd showered, shaved and was cloistered in his office when the doorbell rang and she'd opened the door to find a liveried driver on the other side. By the time the man had taken her bags and stored them in the trunk of the limo, she'd knocked on his door, pushed it open and found Bryce lying on the sofa with an arm thrown over his face.

When she'd asked him if he hadn't been feeling well, his response had been that he was going to miss her. She'd kissed him passionately, promising to call him every day, then turned and walked out of the house to the waiting car idling at the curb. Within minutes of the driver pulling up in front of Wesley's town house the front door opened and he emerged carrying a Pullman with a garment bag slung over his shoulder. He'd gotten into the car beside her, smiled and then held her hand during the ride to the airport.

Once they were on board the sleek aircraft, Wesley hadn't sat with her, but across the aisle. They were the only passengers, and the two flight attendants were at their beck and call. An onboard chef served an exquisite breakfast of eggs Benedict, scones with clotted cream, mimosas and Blue Mountain Jamaican coffee. After breakfast, she'd reclined her seat and gone to sleep, unaware that when Wesley reclined his seat it wasn't to go to sleep, but to stare at her.

There was a crackling noise before the pilot's voice came through the speakers. “It's ten-eighteen, and Ponce's temperature is now eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit. It is sunny with no report of rain. We should be on the ground in another twenty minutes. I hope you enjoyed your flight.”

Wesley came over to sit beside her. “How are you feeling?”

She smiled even though she felt as if he was close, much too close for her to draw a normal breath. “Good. I managed to catch a few winks.”

Wesley buckled his seat belt. “You fell asleep right after breakfast.”

“It was probably the mimosa. Champagne always makes me sleepy.” Her dark eyes met a pair of clear blue ones. “Flying down here on a private jet will definitely make it difficult for me whenever I have to take a commercial carrier.”

“How do you fly?”

“Usually I prefer business class when I'm not able to fly first class.”

“Do you pay your own travel expenses?”

Marisol nodded. “I do, but the costs are always factored into my fees.”

“How do you determine what furnishings go into a particular room?”

“Who decorated your condo?” she asked, answering his question with one of her own.

“It was the widow of the former owner. She decided to rent it after her husband passed away. She moved to Florida to be close to her daughter and grandchildren. Unfortunately she fell and fractured her hip, and eventually had to be confined to a skilled nursing facility. When her children put the property up for sale I was given the opportunity to purchase it as they say for a song. And that included the furnishings. Fortunately for me, none of her children wanted to relocate to D.C.”

“Do you have a house in St. Louis?”

“I live in a wing of my parents' house.”

“Are you telling me that you never left home?”

“Muy gracioso,”
Wesley drawled in Spanish.

“I'm not trying to be funny, Wes. I just thought you would've had your own place where you could entertain your
dates.
”

“What is it you really want to know about me?”

“Am I that obvious?” Marisol asked.

Wesley smiled. “Yes, you're very obvious. Ask away.”

“Were you ever married?”

He smiled. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you think?”

Shifting slightly, Marisol turned to look directly at Wesley. “Perhaps you're not into women.”

He gave her a long, penetrating stare. “I can assure you that I'm very much into women. It's just that I haven't met one who would make me consider marrying and having children.”

“Are you currently dating someone?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Curious.”

“Curious or jealous?”

Marisol made a sucking sound with her tongue and teeth. “You wish.”

“I do wish, Marisol. I wish every day that I could be Bryce McDonald and…”

“What?”

Wesley held up a hand. “Please let me finish, Marisol.” She nodded. “As I was saying, if I were your husband I would never introduce you as ‘my wife.' You would be you—Marisol Rivera, that is, if you'd elected to keep your maiden name. Or you would be Marisol Sheridan, not ‘my wife' as if you were an inanimate object put up on display.”

Marisol exhaled an inaudible sigh. “So you see me as a trophy wife?”

“You're as much a trophy wife as many other women in the D.C. political circle.”

“No, Wes. You've got it wrong. I'm not your typical capital wife.”

He smiled. “That's true. You're much more beautiful, and you deserve a man who not only appreciates your beauty but also your intelligence. You may have believed you married up, but it's the other way around. Bryce was the one who married up.”

“Now you're talking smack. Have you forgotten that I'm the one who grew up in public housing?”

“It has nothing to do with where one grows up, or how much money you have in the bank. It's about character and inner strength. People like Bryce grow up with a certain sense of entitlement. They believe they can have any-and everything they want because anything and everyone has a price. When I came to your house for lunch I watched the two of you. Bryce didn't look at you as if he loved you.”

“How did he look at me, Wes?”

“It was as if you were a rare artifact he'd bid on and won. Something he could put on and take off the shelf whenever he wanted. And because he owned it, he did what he wanted with it. Please don't get me wrong. I don't think I would've been elected if it hadn't been for Bryce, but I've learned to separate business from personal. When it comes to personal, Bryce McDonald is not at the top of my list of favorite people.”

“If that's the case, then why did you invite him to your Sunday brunch?”

“That was business. It was what I refer to as an appreciation gathering.”

Marisol nodded. When Bryce had opened the gift Wesley had given him she was pleasantly surprised to discover that Wesley had given him an engraved solid gold pen. She also recalled her heartfelt conversation with Deanna when she'd finally come to the realization that Bryce
was
controlling her life. If it hadn't been for her career she probably would've
become a clone of her mother-in-law. Cynthia had given up a career as an attorney to become her husband's social secretary.

She didn't know how Wesley had analyzed her marriage after seeing her and Bryce together for less than an hour, but Marisol knew he was spot-on with his assessment. To Bryce she was never Marisol, but “my wife.” She always had to pass inspection before she and Bryce went out together. The only thing he couldn't control was her outspokenness. Initially, when they had met each other he had been somehow taken aback by her frankness. She had always been one to call a spade a spade. There were times when she'd attempted to censor what had come out of her mouth, but had found it hampered her ability to express herself. She was who she was, and Marisol couldn't and didn't want to change even if it meant not having any friends. And the only one she actually considered a friend was Deanna Tyson. Deanna was always there for her, and there wasn't anything she wouldn't do for Deanna. Her association with Bethany Paxton was still too new to consider her a BFF.

However, she felt a kinship with Bethany because of their humble beginnings. Bethany had struggled and worked hard not to repeat her mother's life, and Marisol had worked doubly hard not to repeat Pilar's when she did not become an unwed teenage mother. What she'd inherited from her mother was her drive to better herself. Pilar wasn't content to become the stereotypical welfare mother, sitting around waiting for a handout, but worked hard to earn enough money to support herself and her daughter.

“I am Bryce's wife and partner, not his possession.”

“Believe whatever it is you want to believe,” Wesley drawled.

“Do you mind if we change the subject?” Marisol asked.

“I don't want to, but I will if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“It does.”

Marisol didn't want to admit to Wesley that it had taken only one encounter with her and Bryce for him to see what she'd denied for far too long. What she couldn't and didn't want to accept was that she'd allowed her love for a man to redefine what she'd look like in public. If Wesley was able to see through the smoke screen, then who else saw it, too?

A crackling noise came through speakers throughout the aircraft, then the pilot's voice. “Attendants, please prepare the cabin for our descent.”

Wesley and Marisol raised their seat backs as they stared out the window to watch the island come closer and closer as the jet banked sharply to the left, heading for the Ponce airport.

 

Marisol sat inches from Wesley in the rear of a late-model, air-conditioned sedan as it maneuvered in a southwest direction. The tropical heat had hit her like a blast furnace when they'd disembarked, and she was grateful she'd made the decision to change out of her jeans, T and running shoes and into a rose-pink sundress with spaghetti straps crisscrossing her bared back and matching sandals half an hour into the flight.

“Can we stop in Old San Juan before we return to the mainland? I'd like to do some shopping,” she asked Wesley.

Stretching out his legs as far as the seat in front of him would allow, Wesley stared at Marisol's delicate profile. He knew he'd struck a raw nerve when he'd brought up how he'd viewed her relationship with her husband. He also knew he had no right to ingratiate himself into her marriage, but the floodgates had opened and the words had come out unbidden.

Wesley had said what he said not to insult Marisol or pass judgment but to make her aware of what was so obvious to him. And he'd wondered how many others had noticed what
was apparent within seconds of Bryce introducing Marisol as “my wife.”

She'd asked him why he hadn't married and he'd told her the truth. He hadn't met the woman who would make him seriously consider changing his marital status—until now.
She
was that woman who would make him want her as his wife and the mother of his children. How ironic, he mused. The woman with whom he'd found himself so enthralled was married to a man who'd been instrumental in getting him elected to an office where he had been able to effect change for his constituents—some of whom lived in an outlying district with higher than average unemployment.

Placing his hand over hers, Wesley gently squeezed her fingers. “Of course.”

Marisol turned to look at Wesley for the first time since they'd deplaned, smiling. “Thank you.”

“If you want we can—” The chiming of Marisol's cell phone interrupted him.

Marisol pulled her hand from Wesley's, opened her tote and retrieved her phone. “Hello.”

“Marisol, this is Bethany.”

She smiled. “Hey, girlfriend. How are you?”

“I'm real good. I've been calling your office leaving messages on your voice mail. When you didn't call me back I got in touch with Bryce, who told me you were out of the country. I told him I'd misplaced the number to your cell, and he gave it to me. I'm saying all that to ask if you're going to be available next week for lunch at my place.”

“I'm not going to be available until the end of the month.”

“Where are you? Your voice is fading in and out.”

“I'm in Ponce.”

“As in Puerto Rico?”

She laughed. “The one and only.”

“Are you on vacation?”

“No. I'm here on business.”

“Don't forget to get in a little pleasure,” Bethany teased. “Damon and I went to San Juan six months after we were married, and I don't think I got more than three hours of sleep between hanging out in the clubs at night and shopping during the day.”

“I doubt whether we'll have time to visit a club, but I'll probably do a little shopping before I come back.”

“We?”

“Wesley and I.”

“Wesley Sheridan?”

“Yeah.”

“Call when you get back and I'll set a date when we can get together. I'm going to hang up because your voice is fading again.”

“
Adiós,
Bethany.” Marisol turned off her phone and dropped it into her tote. “I keep forgetting how beautiful this island is,” she said after a comfortable silence.

“I never forget,” Wesley said. “It's the perfect mix of old and new, primordial and emerging. Although the interior of the house is ultramodern, the overall architecture is reminiscent of Old San Juan. Once you see it you'll know why I decided to buy vacation property here instead of somewhere else in the Caribbean.”