Capital Wives (7 page)

I
t was a very different Bethany Paxton who smiled at the two women who had literally saved her reputation two weeks before. Her gaze swept over Deanna, who looked incredibly chic in a black wool gabardine pantsuit, white silk blouse and Prada pumps. The single strand of pearls around her long, graceful neck matched the studs in her ears.

Marisol was equally conservatively dressed in a navy wool pencil skirt, white turtleneck and red bolero jacket. Sheer navy hose and matching suede pumps pulled her winning look together. She'd replaced the large diamond studs she usually wore with pearls.

Bethany had changed twice before deciding on a pair of charcoal-gray slacks, a cashmere twinset in a robin's-egg-blue and a pair of Gucci slip-ons. A plain gold wedding band and small gold hoops completed what she considered her on-air professional look—a look she'd perfected when she was a news reporter.

Bethany hugged and affected air kisses when Marisol and Deanna stood up. “Thanks again for meeting me.”

Deanna stared at the narrow blue velvet headband holding Bethany's flaxen hair off her face. “You're looking well.” The color of her twinset accentuated the color of her eyes, which at first appeared dark blue but were actually violet.

“You do look a lot better than you did the last time we saw you,” Marisol quipped flippantly.

Bethany's smile did not falter. “Thankfully I feel a lot better than I did the last time you saw me.”

“Ladies, your table is ready.”

Deanna turned and nodded to the hostess. “Thank you.”

She led the way into the dining room, the others following. The lunch crowd was thinning out and they were given a table in a corner that provided a modicum of privacy. They studied the menu, deciding what they wanted to eat. All had opted for sparkling water in lieu of a cocktail.

Bethany raised her goblet in a toast. “To the ladies who helped me to see what I can be.”

Deanna touched her glass to Bethany's, but Marisol was slower in acknowledging the toast. “Here, here,” they chorused in unison.

Marisol took a sip, set down her glass and then leaned forward. “If you don't mind my asking, what was up with the waterworks at the museum?”

Bethany touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth. “I don't mind you asking. You probably know that I'm not Damon's first wife.” Deanna and Marisol nodded. “He has a daughter from his first marriage, and she wakes up every morning to make my life a living hell. I won't go into detail about what she's done and said to me, but the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back was when I made a pot of chili for
my son and daughter, who'd been pestering me for a week to make it for them. That was the night of the fundraiser.

“When I served it to my children they claimed they couldn't eat it because it was too salty. When I tasted it I realized someone must have dumped at least a cup of salt into the pot.”

“Did you ask your stepdaughter?” Deanna asked.

Bethany rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. “You know I did, but she denied it, saying I must have done it to get her into trouble with her father. Damon usually defends her, but if she does anything to Connor or Abby, then he's on her like white on rice.”

Marisol shook her head. “Did you tell Damon?”

“No. I think that's what she wanted me to do. I had the housekeeper take the kids out to a restaurant, but the look of disappointment on their faces haunted me until I finally went into the bathroom and lost it.”

Deanna gave Bethany a long, penetrating stare. “Why isn't she living with her mother?”

“She doesn't want to live with her.”

“Why?” Marisol and Deanna asked in unison.

Bethany closed her eyes, and when she opened them they were shimmering with moisture. “Her mother has remarried and moved to Idaho. She didn't want to go with her.”

“Damn,” Marisol drawled. “That's a long way from here. She probably didn't want to leave her friends.”

“She doesn't have any friends,” Bethany said. “I know it sounds strange, but at fifteen she should have at least one friend.”

Leaning back in her chair, Deanna crossed her arms under breasts. “She doesn't want to live with her mother, she disrespects you and disrupts your entire household. It sounds as if the girl needs to be in therapy.”

Bethany nodded in agreement. “When I told Damon that, he said she's just going through a phase. And I told him I wasn't allowed to go through a phase. Either I did as my parents said or I knew which road to take to get out of town.”

“My mother used to say it was either her way or the highway,” Deanna intoned.

“I hear you,” Marisol crooned. “Mami would say, ‘I brought you into this world, please don't make me take you out.'” Conversation halted when the waiter set plates of salad at each place setting.

“What do you do during the day, Bethany?” Deanna asked after she'd swallowed a forkful of radicchio and red-leaf lettuce delicately seasoned with vinaigrette.

“I'm a stay-at-home mom.”

Marisol gave her an incredulous look. “Why do you say that as if you just won the lottery?”

Bethany frowned. “I don't understand.”

“What's not to understand?” Marisol had answered her with a question. “You're a young woman who went to college in order to have a career. You marry a man, push out a couple of kids and then sit down and watch soaps and game shows.”

Bethany sat up straight. “Don't knock the soaps, Marisol. I had a recurring role in one for a couple of years that paid the bills and served as a stepping-stone to a career as a television journalist.”

Marisol glared at the superficial woman whose life was a disaster because she didn't know how to get out of her own way. “Why aren't you working as a journalist?”

“I can't.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because I have children.”

“Didn't you say you have a housekeeper?” Bethany nodded. “Is she part-time?”

Marisol held up a hand. “I think I can answer that for Ms. Paxton. Her housekeeper is not only full-time, but probably live-in. Right or wrong, Beth?”

Bethany flushed a becoming pink shade. “You're right.”

Marisol flipped back a curl that had fallen over her forehead with a toss of her head. “Herein lies your problem. You're a thirtysomething woman trying to be something you're not. And that is the socialite wife of a wealthy man. You're a wife, but that's all. You talk about your husband, children and stepdaughter, but not about Bethany. Why aren't you on the board of some nonprofit organization? Why aren't you on the PTA or volunteering as class mom at your children's school? Do you even get up in time to see your kids off to school?”

“You don't like me, do you, Marisol?”

It was Marisol's turn for her face to darken as she compressed her lips tightly. “I don't know you enough
not
to like you. What I don't like is you making excuses as to why your life is so screwed up.”

“I didn't say my life was screwed up,” Bethany retorted.

“You think not?” Marisol questioned. “You're bored, Beth. Bored and frustrated because you thought marrying Damon was the answer to all your dreams. But you didn't count on becoming a stepmother. I saw those women sitting at your table when I came to tell Damon what had happened to you. If they live to a hundred and you to a hundred and one they will
never
accept you.”

“Is that what happened when you married Bryce McDonald?” Bethany spat out.

Marisol wagged at finger at Bethany. “No,
puta.
Don't even go there. I'm not going to lie and say that some of Bryce's family didn't like the fact that he'd fallen in love and married
a Latina, but the difference is I didn't give a shit. And because I didn't, they tried everything to win me over. Some I forgave. Others I'll never forgive. I know who I am. More importantly, I like who I am. Bryce may have been born into money, but I don't need his money because I make enough to buy what I need
and
also what I want. That's the difference between
you
and
me.
” She punctuated the pronouns, pointing a finger at Bethany, then tapping her own chest.

Deanna patted Bethany's arm. “Marisol's right. You need to get involved in something that doesn't include Damon, your kids or your stepdaughter. I've never watched soap operas, so I can't judge your acting ability. But I do remember seeing you reporting the news. You were professional
and
memorable. Why don't you volunteer to supervise interns at one of the local networks? I'm certain they would love to have you.”

Bethany's expression brightened. “That's a good idea.”

Marisol gave Bethany a facetious grin. “It's a wonderful idea, but only if you follow through.”

Reaching into her handbag, Bethany took out her cell phone. “I still have a contact at the station. To show you I'm serious I'll call him now.” She asked for the man who'd been her mentor at the station, but he no longer worked there. “Do you know how I can get in touch with him?” she asked the woman in human resources. “This is Bethany…Collins. I used to work there.” She reached into her bag for a pen. It took less than three minutes to get the information she needed to contact her former mentor.

She flashed a Cheshire cat grin. “I did it. I have the contact information I need. The next time we get together I will definitely have a job.”

Deanna and Marisol shared a wink. “Speaking of getting together, I need your address. I'm having a dinner party at
my home next month on the sixteenth. If you and Damon are free, Spencer and I would love for you to join us.”

Picking up a paper napkin, Bethany jotted down her address and phone number, handing it to Deanna. “Whatever Damon has planned can be postponed. We'll be there.”

Two servers approached the table carrying their entrées, followed by the sommelier carrying champagne. “It's a gift from the gentleman over there.” He pointed to a table where a well-dressed man affected a snappy salute.

“Who's that?” Marisol whispered.

Deanna returned the salute, smiling. “He's a friend of the French ambassador. We met when I coordinated an engagement party for his daughter.”

Peering over her shoulder, Bethany smiled at the elegant man. “You must meet a lot of important people in your line of work.”

Deanna nodded. “More than I care to know.”

“I'd like to contract your services.”

“For what?”

“Damon will celebrate his fifty-fifth birthday in August, and because it's a milestone birthday I'd like to throw a little something for him.”

“We'll talk about it later,” Deanna said, not wanting to talk business.

Flutes were filled with the premium wine and raised for a second toast. This time it was for old and new friendships.

D
amon walked into the lobby of the Victoria, a charming residential boutique hotel nestled in a block of Victorian row houses. Smiling, he nodded to the doorman. “Good afternoon. I'm here to meet Mr. Spencer Tyson.”

The man in the dark gray livery returned the smile. “Your name, sir.”

“Damon Paxton.”

“Mr. Tyson is expecting you. He's in the bar area.” He pointed to his left. “Go down that hallway and turn left.”

“Thank you.” Spencer had called him a week after their confrontation at the museum to set up an appointment to have drinks. Damon had been available, but had decided to make him wait because of his unprovoked threat. It was another week before he'd called the lawyer back to arrange a meeting.

He saw Spencer sitting at a round table for two in the rosewood-paneled bar reading a newspaper. There were half a dozen couples sitting at tables, talking quietly to one another.
Recessed light bathed Deanna Tyson's husband in a halo of gold, highlighting the red in his cropped hair.

“Tyson.”

Spencer's head popped up and he came to his feet, extending his hand. “Paxton. Thanks for coming. Please sit down.” Damon shook his hand, then sat opposite him. “What's your poison?”

“Extra dry gin martini with a splash of Dubonnet and a twist.”

Raising his hand, Spencer caught the attention of the waitress, giving her Damon's drink order. “I took the initiative to order a few appetizers. I'm scheduled to work late tonight, so I need to have a clear head.”

Unbuttoning his suit jacket, Damon crossed one leg over the opposite knee. “I never knew this hotel existed. It's nice and off the beaten track.”

Spencer ran a hand over his dark gray tie. “I found it completely by accident.”

“How convenient. It's the perfect place for a liaison.”

“I wouldn't know about that. I come here for the bar.”

“Are you saying the drinks are
that
good?”

“Good drinks and service.”

Tiny lines fanned out around Damon's eyes when he smiled. “It's the same at the Four Seasons, Ritz-Carlton Georgetown and the Hays-Adams Hotel.”

“You're right,” Spencer agreed. “Maybe I should've added discretion to the list.”

Damon grinned broadly. “Now you're talking.”

He stared at the wide gold band on the large left hand wrapped around a double old-fashioned glass half-filled with ice and an amber liquid, wondering if the brilliant litigator thought he was that naive. Those familiar with the Victoria knew it was where men hid their mistresses, because Damon
had been one of those men when he was married to Jean. One of his friends had referred to the hotel as a “safe house.” Everyone associated with the establishment, from its owner, doorman, chef and housekeeping personified discretion.

“Are you saying you cheat on your wife?”

Damon's smile faded. “That's not what I'm saying, Tyson. What I meant is
if
I did think of cheating this would be the perfect spot. Now, tell me why you wanted to have drinks.” He had decided to cut directly to the chase. Over the years he'd played enough mind games with elected officials to last several lifetimes. The people who paid him the big bucks to influence their interests didn't care how he conducted business. And they continued to throw money his way until he gave them what they wanted.

Spencer rolled his head from side to side, then took a deep swallow of Scotch on the rocks. “I wanted to apologize to you.”

“You already did that.” Damon paused when the waitress placed a glass coaster on the table before setting down his glass. Rising slightly, he reached into the pocket of his trousers to give her a tip, but Spencer reached over and caught his wrist.

“I'll take care of her.”

He nodded, acquiescing. “Thanks.” Picking up the glass, he took a swallow, savoring the taste of the expertly prepared martini. “That's real nice.”

Spencer was grinning as if he'd personally mixed the cocktail. “I told you the drinks are excellent.”

Damon took another sip, enjoying the iciness in the back of his throat, then the burst of warmth settling in his chest and belly. He was anxious to get back to why he was sitting in a hotel with a man who was as brilliant as he was a liar. “I'd like you to answer one question for me, Spencer.”

“What's that?”

“What led you to believe that I was coming on to your wife?”

Lifting broad shoulders under his tailored suit jacket, Spencer feigned an expression of innocence. “I really don't know. I suppose I'd had too much to drink that night and when I saw you holding Dee's hand I kind of lost it.”

“You did more than lose it. You threatened to kick an old man's ass.”

“Well, you did call me
son,
” Spencer shot back. It was an expression he hated almost as much as
boy.

“And you took
that
the wrong way, too.”

“I told you I was a little drunk.”

Damon leaned over the small space separating them. “You weren't as drunk as you were scared. It's not easy to remain in control when your whore shows up unexpectedly.” It was hard for him to keep a straight face when Spencer looked as if he was going to fall off his chair. “You're smart, Tyson, but I just happen to be a little smarter than you,
son.
I would've let you off the hook that night and chalked your reaction to me holding Deanna's hand as a jealous husband protecting his woman. But you made a serious, a very serious faux pas when you threatened me.

“The reason I didn't have drinks with you last week was because the man I had checking into your background still hadn't given me his final report. I know all about you, Spencer James Tyson. I know the day, hour and minute you were born, the address of the house where you spent the first ten years of your life on Chicago's South Side and the names of the women you've screwed after you married your beautiful wife.” He held up a hand to stop Spencer when he opened his mouth. “I know what you're going to say. How can I accuse you of being unfaithful when I cheated on my first wife? I'll
admit I did, but I had what I consider a very good reason. If you don't get it at home, then you have to get it elsewhere.”

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about,” Spencer said when Damon paused to sip his drink.

A sardonic smile parted Damon's firm mouth. “You're so wrong. You know exactly what I'm talking about, but you're going to play the innocent. Man the
fuck
up, Tyson!” he snarled between clenched teeth. “Just come out and say, yeah, I fuck around on my wife.”

The tight rein on Spencer's temper loosened. “And so what if I do?” he said recklessly. “I do it, you did it and so do a million men every day and every hour.” Rage roiled through him with the force of a twister. “What are you going to do now? Go back and tell Deanna that I'm cheating on her?”

Damon swirled the clear, icy liquid around in the glass, his gaze fixed on the lemon peel. “No.” His gaze shifted to the man who looked as if he was going to burst into tears at any second. “No,” he repeated. “I'm not into breaking up marriages. What I want to do is help you save yours.”

Spencer's prominent Adam's apple moved up and down like a bobblehead doll. “My marriage isn't in trouble.”

Damon's eyebrows inched up a fraction. “You think not? What do you think will happen if your wife finds out that you're sleeping with another woman? I can assure you she won't be that forgiving.” He paused. “What do you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you want for your future?”

The sweep hand on Spencer's watch made a full revolution as he appeared deep in thought. It was the same question one of the senior partners at the firm had asked him during a breakfast interview. He'd been so nervous that he'd forgotten to eat—something he rarely did. Now the emotion was back, holding him an unwilling captive.

“I want to become senior partner.”

Damon smiled at the waitress when she returned to the table with a tray of hot and cold appetizers, china and silver and a stack of linen napkins with the hotel's logo. Quickly and expertly, she set the table and left as quietly as she'd come.

“You're too ambitious to aim so low,” Damon said as if there hadn't been a lull in the conversation. “That's where
you
are wrong, Paxton.” Spencer's bravado had returned. “Becoming senior partner at one of the top law firms in D.C. is definitely not aiming low.”

“What about a judgeship?”

Spencer's expression did not change. “What about it?”

“How does Judge Tyson sound to you?”

The younger man smiled. “It sounds real good.”

“I can make it happen for you, Spencer, but first you have to do something for me. I'm going to make you an offer I'd like you to consider. You don't have to give me an answer now. In fact, sleep on it for a couple of weeks, then get back to me.”

“What?”

“Jenah Morris is a liability. I want you to get rid of her.”

“That's not going to be easy.”

“I'm going to give you thirty…no make that sixty days to make her disappear. After her, there can't be any more outside women. I know people who can clean up your past as easily as erasing a chalkboard. But that's not going to happen if you continue to cheat on your wife.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, Spencer glared at Damon. “Is this about me or
my
wife?”

“You've been in Washington long enough to know it's never about the husband or the wife, but the couple.”

“Why me? Why us?” Spencer asked, totally confused.

“When Nancy Pelosi became the first female Speaker of
the House it shattered the glass ceiling. It told everyone that politics was no longer the private club of old white men. Obama becoming president signaled another change, because now there was a man of color in the Oval Office. Even the Supreme Court had to come into the new millennium with three women justices on the bench. If you're going to make a name for yourself it won't be as a senior partner. Your wife is an influential event planner with a client list of who's who, while you're slaving your ass off sixty to eighty hours a week to make partner. It's not adding up, Spencer.”

“What's in this for you?”

“Nothing. I work for a group of people just like you do. They pay me to give them what they want, and right now they want you. Enough talk. Let's eat.”

Damon picked up a plate, filling it with dim sum, sushi, steak tartar and caviar on tiny crackers, handing it to Spencer. “Eat up.”

Forty-five minutes later Damon walked out of the Victoria and slipped into the rear of the car parked at the curb. He'd promised Spencer Tyson a judgeship, knowing it would never happen. There was no way the man could pass a background investigation.

He'd duped the arrogant attorney to stop him from cheating on Deanna. Bethany had come clean, telling him about her meltdown in the bathroom and how Deanna Tyson and Marisol McDonald had helped her. She also told him of her luncheon date with the two women.

Deanna had saved his wife's reputation and that meant he owed her; he'd done what he did to ensure she would never know about her husband's after-work escapades. He just prayed Spencer would take his advice and get rid of his
mistress. If not, then Spencer Tyson would have to learn the hard way that his climb to the top of the legal ladder would end in complete ruin.