Capital Wives (9 page)

M
arisol didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't the tall, elegant man with silver hair, olive skin and piercing laser-blue eyes. She'd done a quick search of Wesley Sheridan online, reading that he'd been appointed by the governor to fill a congressional seat when a popular representative from a St. Louis suburb resigned after a bribery scandal. It was noted that he was one of eight representatives in the current session who were bachelors. Wesley, with Bryce McDonald as his political strategist, had run and won the seat when his predecessor's term ended.

Bryce, resting a hand on Wesley's shoulder, made the introductions. “Wes, I'd like you to meet my wife.”

The slight lifting of Wesley's black eyebrows was barely perceptible when he stared at the petite woman who'd come highly recommended for her designing skills. “Does
the wife
have a name?”

“Marisol,” she said, pronouncing it with the Spanish in
flection. Smiling, she extended her hand. Bryce had done it again. He'd referred to her as “my wife.”

Wesley took the proffered hand, his gaze sweeping over the delicate features of the wife of the man who'd spearheaded his election bid with a stunning runaway victory.

He returned her bright smile with an admiring one.
“¿Habla Marisol español?”

Marisol's smile grew wider.
“Sí.”

“Tomo eso como un signo que nos llevaremos bastante bien,”
Wesley said in fluent Spanish.

“So do I,” she replied in English, watching the frown forming between Bryce's eyes.

The fact that Wesley spoke Spanish was a good sign, because it wasn't often that she had the opportunity to practice the language. She didn't speak it as well as her grandmother, because like her mother, they tended to intersperse English when they couldn't come up with the Spanish equivalent quickly enough.

“Bryce will show you where you can wash up before we sit down to eat,” Marisol continued in a controlled voice although her heart was racing uncontrollably. There was something about Wesley that sparked a modicum of anticipation, because she felt an immediate connection with the gorgeous man.

She walked into the formal dining room and inspected the table with place settings for three. Decorating the town house was what Marisol called her work-in-progress stage. She'd designed the offices on the first floor to reflect her and Bryce's personality. His was furnished with heavy, masculine mahogany tables, desk and built-in bookcases, while hers was in shades of oyster-white and soft blues: white furniture with blue-and-white upholstered chairs, area rugs and framed prints of Audubon flowers and birds.

A gourmet kitchen, formal living and dining rooms, library and media room occupied the second floor. The master bedroom with en suite baths and dressing rooms, three guest bedroom suites and a solarium took up the third floor. If Marisol wasn't in the kitchen cooking or working out of her home office, she could always be found in the solarium reading or watching the flat screen she'd had installed several months ago.

Every time she entered the dining room, Marisol felt as if time had stood still. The Federal-era-decorated space was graced with a wonderful bay window and working fireplace. She'd included a variety of blues often found in a traditional Federal-era setting, ranging from ethereal sky-blue to a rich royal blue. The table with seating for eight and a buffet table were exquisite Federal-style reproductions.

Bryce had ordered dishes from a Georgetown restaurant specializing in authentic Northern Italian cuisine. Marisol had transferred the entrées from take-out containers to covered serving dishes. She had offset the pasta dishes with freshly made
insalata caprese
: alternate slices of tomato and mozzarella, drizzled with olive oil, then sprinkled with salt and fresh pepper and garnished with basil leaves.

Marisol loved cooking, preferring home-cooked meals to those prepared in restaurants because she suspected some of the ingredients they used were the source of her headaches. Her business meetings were usually conducted in a restaurant over breakfast, lunch or dinner. It was a very, very rare occasion—like today—that she would invite a client into her home. Technically, Wesley Sheridan wasn't her client, but Bryce's. He wouldn't become hers until after their initial consultation and when he agreed to and signed her contract.

She'd opened a bottle of red wine, allowing it to breathe, while a bottle of white sat in a crystal faceted bowl filled with
ice when Bryce and Wesley walked into the dining room. Both men were in shirtsleeves. Wesley had removed his suit jacket and tie.

Bryce pulled out a chair for Marisol, seating her, while he sat at the head of the table and left Wesley to sit opposite Marisol. “You told me you liked Italian, so that's what we're having for lunch.”

Wesley unfolded the cloth napkin, placing it over his lap. “Italian and Caribbean are my favorites.” He smiled, his gaze lingering on Marisol. “That's probably why I usually vacation either in Italy or the Caribbean.”

Bryce handed Wesley a napkin-covered basket filled with warm semolina bread. “You have to come back one night when my wife makes her roast pork and rice with pigeon peas.”

Wesley took a slice of bread. “If you were to ask me what does Christmas smell like in the Caribbean I would have to say
pernil y arroz con gandules
.”

Marisol speared several slices of tomato and mozzarella, placing them on a salad plate. “Where did you learn to speak Spanish?”

Wesley paused, staring at his plate before his eyes moved up and he gave Marisol a long, penetrating look. “My father was in the import/export business, and by my tenth birthday I'd lived in Peru, Mexico and in a few islands in the Caribbean. My mother hired a tutor who lived and traveled with the family.”

“It must have been exciting experiencing a new country and culture every few years,” she said.

“You would think so, but I always felt like either a gypsy or a military brat, picking up and moving from place to place, while none of them ever felt like home.”

Marisol listened, enjoying a Milan-inspired veal scaloppini
with a glass of white wine as the conversation segued to bipartisan politics. Although she kept abreast of political machinations that were the heart and soul of D.C., she had made it a practice not to discuss religion or politics. Lunch ended with coffee and almond cake that literally melted on the tongue. Bryce cleared the table while Marisol led Wesley down to her office.

They sat in cushioned club chairs pulled up to an antique mahogany card table showing Empire influence, circa 1820. Marisol had bought the table at an auction as a gift to herself for her big three-oh. She knew she'd paid more than she'd planned to spend, but rationalized it was an investment.

Wesley crossed his left leg over the right knee and angled his head. Although he'd spent lunch talking with Bryce, it was his wife who'd garnered his rapt attention. A black wool dress ending at her knees emphasized the slimness of her petite frame but did not disguise her obvious curves. Sheer black stockings and a pair of pumps in the same color called attention to her shapely legs and tiny feet. He'd asked several colleagues if they could recommend an interior decorator, and much to his surprise the name of the wife of his former campaign strategist kept popping up.

“Your home is beautiful.” Marisol smiled, lowering her eyes in a demure gesture Wesley found incredibly endearing.

“Thank you, Wesley.”

“Please call Wes. My father is also a Wesley.”

Marisol crossed her legs at the ankles. “Why do men name their sons after them?”

Laser-blue eyes met a pair in dark brown. “I don't know. Maybe it's ego boosting that their name live on after they're dead and gone, but personally I'd never name my son after me.”

“Do you have a son?”

As soon as the question was out Marisol realized she'd made a social faux pas. She made it a point never to cross the line between business and personal. People paid her big bucks to make their homes and offices look pretty; she didn't need to discuss anything beyond rugs, lighting, paint colors and furnishings. However, there was something about Wesley that was different. She'd just met him, yet felt as if she'd known him for a while.

“I'm not married.”

“Not being married isn't a requisite to fathering a child,” she said softly.

“For me it is.”

“Good for you.”

“¿Por qué diría usted eso, Marisol?”
Wesley asked.

“I said it because there are too many children growing up without fathers in their homes,” she said, replying in the same language.

“Did you grow up without your father?”

With downcast eyes, Marisol stared at her hands folded in her lap. “Yes.” She looked up, meeting his eyes. “I never met my father. The only thing I know is that he was a married man who seduced my seventeen-year-old mother, and when he discovered she was carrying his baby he packed up his family and moved away. I know I have at least one brother and sister, but nothing else beyond that.”

“Do you know their names?”

“No. And I don't want to. They don't need an illegitimate sister showing up on their doorstep disrupting their lives.”

“I'm willing to bet they aren't half as successful as you are.”

“I'd willingly trade in all of my so-called success to find the man who'd fathered me.”

“Have you asked your mother?”

Marisol gave him a look parents usually reserved for their children. “Whenever I asked she said he was dead.”

Wesley leaned forward. “Dead as in expired?”

“No. Dead in that he was dead to her. When I asked my grandmother about him, she said she didn't know my mother was seeing anyone. It had been one big secret until I came along. My grandparents sent my mom to Puerto Rico to have me, and when we returned we lived with my great-grandmother for a while until Mami moved into public housing.”

When Wesley smiled, attractive slashes appeared in his lean face. “So you're a Boricua?”

“Down to the marrow in my bones,” Marisol confirmed proudly. “Enough talk about me. Where is your house?”

“It's near Guánica.”

“Guánica as in Puerto Rico?” Wesley nodded. She successfully concealed her surprise at his disclosure. “So you're on the Caribbean Sea side of the island.”

“Are you familiar with the area?”

Marisol nodded. “I have relatives in Palomas and Guayanilla.”

Leaning back in the deep plush chair and crossing his arms over his chest, Wesley studied Bryce's wife. He'd thought of her as an exquisite exotic doll. Everything about her was perfect, and he wondered if Bryce knew what he'd married.

“Maybe you can get to see them when we go down together.”

“Hold up, Wes,” Marisol warned, switching back to English. “Aren't you being a little premature? I still haven't decided whether I'm going to take you on as a client.”

A muscle twitched in Wesley's cheek when he clenched his teeth. The shockingly light blue eyes with the dark centers
paled like chipped ice. “When I came here I was under the impression I
was
a client.”

“Who gave you that impression?” she asked, switching back to Spanish.

“Your husband.”

Marisol affected a wry smile. “Unfortunately, my husband doesn't know how I run my business. I usually have a consultation with the prospective client.”

“Which we're having,” Wesley interjected.

“Yes. And during that consultation I outline how I work and what I want from said client.”

“I'm willing to pay you whatever you want.”

“How big is your house?”

“It's a condo. And it's about thirty-three-hundred square feet.”

“How many floors?”

“It's a duplex. Six rooms over five.”

“Are any of the rooms furnished?”

Wesley smiled. “I have a bed in the master bedroom, a patio set in the kitchen and there are a couple of lounge chairs on the balcony. Other than that it's bare bones.”

Marisol sat up straight. “I'll have to see it.”

“Spring recess for the House is April 18 through the end of the month. So we'll have a two-week window in which to go down.”

She got up, Wesley rising with her, and walked to her desk to retrieve her iPhone. She scrolled through her calendar. She had two appointments, both scheduled for the first week in April. Then there was Deanna and Spencer's dinner party on the sixteenth. “I'm free during your recess.”

Reaching for the phone attached to his belt, Wesley entered a reminder to make travel arrangements for two to Puerto
Rico. “I'll call and let you know once I've firmed up our travel plans.”

Marisol picked up a business card, walking over and handing it to Wesley. “Call my office number first. If I don't pick up, then try my cell.”

He took the card and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Thank you, Marisol.”

She held out her hand. “You're welcome, Wes.”

Wesley Sheridan was there, then he was gone, walking out the office and closing the door behind his departing figure. Marisol sat in the chair she'd just vacated, thinking about what had just transpired. Bryce had upstaged her when he told Wesley that she would accept him as a client without her knowledge. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate the referral, but what she didn't need was a husband who did double duty as her agent.

Marisol decided not to say anything to Bryce because she didn't want another argument, or as he put it, a
discussion.

D
eanna waved to Marisol as she got out of her car and walked up the path to the front door. When she'd called and asked for a shoulder, Deanna could not fathom what Marisol wanted to talk about. She knew it couldn't be marital, because she and Bryce were so much in love. There were times when she envied her interior-designer friend because she didn't have a part-time husband.

Extending her arms, she hugged Marisol.
“Hola, chica.”

Marisol returned the embrace, going on tiptoe to press her cheek to Deanna's. “You sound good. I'm going to make a Boricua out of you before you know it.”

“It's all good,” Deanna said, laughing. “Come inside. I can't deal with this weather. One day warm, the next day cold.”

Marisol slipped out of her coat, hanging it on a wall hook in the Tudor's expansive entryway. “It's nice and toasty in here.”

“I keep the heat cranked up because I'm always cold.”

“Are you taking an iron supplement?” Marisol asked as she followed Deanna into the kitchen.

“Yeah, but I'm still borderline anemic. Do you want something to eat or drink? And what's up with the 911 call?”

Marisol sat on a high-back stool at the cooking island in the stainless-steel kitchen. “I'll take a cup of herbal tea.”

“I just bought decaffeinated peach-flavored green tea. Would you like to try it?”

“Sure.”

Resting her elbows on the granite countertop, Marisol watched her friend as she moved confidently around the remodeled, updated kitchen. She'd met Deanna when she and Bryce attended a two-thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraising event in a downtown D.C. hotel. Marisol had been so impressed with the food and decor that she'd asked the event planner for her business card. Their subsequent meeting was to plan a birthday party for Bryce.

They'd become friends—not BFFs who called or texted each other every day, but friends who met on average twice a month as businesswomen who discussed their clients and the challenges they'd faced to grow their businesses. As an only child, Marisol had always wanted a sister, and Deanna Tyson had become that sister.

“What do you think of me?” she asked as Deanna placed napkins and spoons on the countertop.

Deanna stared at Marisol. “What are you talking about?”

“How do you see me? Pretend we're meeting for the first time. What would be your first impression?”

Sitting across from her guest, Deanna gave her a long stare. “If I were really bitchy, then I would hate you.”

Marisol's jaw dropped. “You're kidding?”

“No, I'm not. You're every normal man's fantasy. You are petite, and no matter how much you eat you never gain a
pound. You have wonderful hair, perfect teeth and skin. I've known you for more than three years and I've never known you to have a zit. Now, tell me what's there not to hate.”

“I suffer from chronic headaches.”

“I've been saying for a while that you should see my acupuncturist. Those tiny needles work miracles whenever my back goes out from being on my feet for days at a time.”

Marisol nodded. “I'll try him only because I've been overdosing on drugstore headache medications.”

“We've temporarily solved your headache dilemma. What's really bothering you, chica? Wait,” Deanna said when the light went off on the electric kettle. “Don't say anything until I bring you your tea.”

Three minutes later Marisol told Deanna everything in between sips of fragrant green tea. She held up a hand. “I know, Dee. I'm my husband's
muñeca
. And I can't believe I've allowed him to inspect what I wear like I'm his kid. I was so busy jumping all over Bethany about being a hood ornament for Damon when I'm no different. The only difference between me and Bethany is that she has children and no career.”

Reaching across the space separating them, Deanna grasped Marisol's hand, staring at the diamonds in her wedding rings. “It's not going to be easy to undo what you've allowed to go on for six years.”

“Try seven. It began before I married Bryce. I was in my Bohemian phase and all of my outfits were a bit funky. I had wild hair and favored flowing fabrics with shocking colors. It was the last time I actually felt completely free, and the last time I didn't complain about having a headache.” Marisol reversed their hands, squeezing Deanna's fingers. “A neuro-surgeon told me my headaches were brought on by tension. He was wrong, Dee. It's more like frustration. I'm frustrated
that I can't get pregnant, and subliminally resent Bryce inspecting me before we go out together.”

Deanna's expression stilled, growing serious. “How long have you been trying to get pregnant?”

“Two years.”

“Have you had your estrogen checked?” Deanna asked.

“Yes. It's normal.”

“It doesn't have to be you, Marisol. Maybe it's Bryce.”

Slumping in the stool, Marisol narrowed her eyes. “What aren't you saying, Dee?”

“Have you considered that you may not have a problem? That it could be your husband with a low sperm count?”

A wry smile twisted Marisol's lips. “I don't think so. He told me he got a girl pregnant when they were in college, but she decided to have an abortion.”

Deanna sipped her tea, staring at Marisol over the rim. “Maybe you just need to relax. Elections are over, and Bryce probably has a lull before campaigning starts up again. Why don't the two of you go away for a week or two? Lie in the sun and make mad crazy love to each other. I'm willing to bet you'll come back with a bun in the oven.”

Marisol crossed her arms over her chest at the same time she affected a sad smile. “Life can be a bitch. I was a virgin until I was twenty-five only because I didn't want to end up like my mother—pregnant, poor and single. Bryce and I dated six months before I slept with him for the first time, but only after he'd put a ring on my finger. Once he realized I'd been a virgin he swore I would be his forever. Now that I think back, he made it sound as if my virginity was some kind of prize, a trophy he could put in a display case for his personal pleasure.”

“You're not going to leave him.” Deanna's query was a statement.

“No. I love him, Dee. And if Bryce isn't going to change, then it's up to me to change. But I don't intend for it to be so drastic that we'll end up in divorce court.”

Deanna shook her head. “I've seen you and Bryce together enough to know that he loves you, and if he's as possessive as you say, then you'll be together for a very long time.”

Marisol's expression did not reveal her inner feelings. She didn't want to correct Deanna about Bryce's possessiveness because he wasn't. He was controlling. “Enough bitchin' and moaning,” she said instead. “Have you ever met Wesley Sheridan?”

“Yeah. A couple of times. Why?” Deanna asked.

“He bought a house in Puerto Rico and he wants me to decorate it.”

“That's strange, because he just bought the co-op he was renting in Adams Morgan before he won his seat in a runoff election.” Deanna pushed out her lips. “I wonder if the silver fox is getting finally getting married.”

“Is he seeing anyone?” Marisol had found herself intrigued by the young politician who spoke Spanish as if it was his first language.

“I don't know. D.C. is a strange city. Either everyone knows everyone's business, or they can be as tight-lipped as a secret service agent guarding the president. I was born and raised here, my dad was a secret service agent, my mother a schoolteacher and one year I worked as a senate page. I've seen members of Congress come and go, and some who were there when I was a kid are still around, so there aren't too many politicians I'm not familiar with. Now, take Wes Sheridan. Aside from him being nice on the eyes, he's not what I consider the prototypical politician. He doesn't have the connections some of the others have, so he's his own man. He's never been seen with a woman, so there are rumors about his sexual
orientation. Maybe he's gay or maybe he isn't. And if he is, then that could be the reason why he'd want a clandestine hideaway.”

“A duplex hideaway that has eleven rooms?”

Deanna whistled softly. “That's a lot of space for one person.”

“It depends on how it's configured. I'll take pictures to show you the layout.”

“When are you going?”

“Wesley mentioned flying down during the recess.”

“Make certain you don't leave before…” Deanna's words trailed off when Spencer walked into the kitchen. She glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was four forty-five. “I thought you were working late.”

Spencer undid the top button on his shirt, then loosened his tie. “I must be coming down with something, so I decided to come home early.” He smiled at Marisol, but it was more of a grimace. “Hi, Marisol.”

“Hey, Spencer.”

Deanna closed the distance between her and her husband, placing her hand on his forehead. His face was flushed, eyes glassy. “You feel a little warm. Why don't you go upstairs and get into bed and I'll make you a hot toddy.”

“All I need is a few hours of sleep and I'll be all right.”

“That's what's wrong with you, Spencer. You don't get enough sleep,” Deanna said accusingly.

He frowned. “Please don't start in with the nagging, Dee.”

“Since when is concern nagging?” she countered.

“I'm going to bed.”

Deanna waited until she and Marisol were alone again. “Spencer is worse than a kid whenever he gets sick.”

Marisol slid off the stool. “That's because men are nothing more than big kids. Thanks for the tea and for letting me
dump on you. Call me later with the name and number of your acupuncturist.” She hugged Deanna. “Go take care of Spencer. I'll let myself out.”

It wasn't until the return drive to Georgetown that Marisol realized she was pain-free. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, she massaged her temple in a circular motion with the other. She smiled. The headache was gone. She'd decided to take Deanna's advice and see her acupuncturist only because she'd exhausted all other options.

Opening the front door, she found Bryce pacing the length of the hallway leading from the entry to the half bath and utility kitchen they used during work hours. She and Bryce had decided beforehand that the entire first floor would be solely business-related.

She waved to him as she started up the staircase, but he gestured for her to stop before he placed a hand over the mouthpiece of the cordless receiver. “Don't go up yet, Mari.”

Slipping off her coat, Marisol dropped it and her handbag on one of a trio of armchairs in what doubled as a sitting area. Bryce nodded several times to whomever was on the other end of the line, and then pressed a button, ending the call. He approached her, brushing a light kiss over her mouth.

“Do you have anything planned this coming weekend?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“My sisters are getting together and throwing a surprise forty-fifth anniversary party for my parents before Dad takes Mom on their around-the-world cruise.”

Marisol wished she'd had a prior engagement so she wouldn't have to accompany Bryce. “Where is it?” Her tone was flat, void of emotion.

“It's going to be at Georgina's.”

“Is she cooking?”

Bryce gave Marisol a pointed look. “That's not funny.”

“I'm sorry.” After more than ten years of marriage his spoiled and overindulged older sister couldn't boil an egg.

He smiled when seeing her lips twitch. “No, you're not. But to answer your question, she's having it catered.” Bryce reached for her hand, leading her into his office. He sat on a leather love seat, bringing her down to sit on his lap. “How did it go with Wes?”

Resting her head on Bryce's shoulder, Marisol closed her eyes. “Well. He spoke Spanish, which gave me a chance to practice mine.”

“His ability to speak fluent Spanish helped him get elected.”

“He's very bright.”

“Are you going to take him on as a client?”

She nodded. “Yes. It's been several years since I've been to Puerto Rico—”

“Puerto Rico?”

Marisol felt Bryce go still, as if he'd been paralyzed by a powerful tranquilizer. She sat up straight, meeting his stunned gaze. “Didn't he tell you that the house is in Puerto Rico?”

“No, he didn't. When he said he bought a house I'd assumed it was somewhere around here.”

“Sorry,
m'ijo
, but this time it's not within driving distance.”

“I don't like it.”

“What don't you like?”

“That you are going away with a man.”

Pushing against his shoulder, Marisol forced Bryce to release her. “What's wrong with you? The man is a client, not my lover.”

Bryce blushed. “I didn't say he was your lover, Mari.”

“Then what is it you're saying? I need to hear it.”

“I guess you can say I'm jealous.”

“Jealous of what,
m'ijo?
”

“Wes is an attractive man and—”

“And so are you, Bryce,” she said softly, cutting him off. “Wesley Sheridan isn't my first male client and hopefully he won't be my last. None of them have ever crossed the line between business and personal because that's something I won't tolerate. You're a D.C. insider, and I want to know if you've ever heard any gossip about me and another man.”

“No, babe.”

She kissed him. “Then I don't want to hear about me and Wesley Sheridan. I'll go with him to Puerto Rico to see his house, then I'll help him select what he needs to make it a home.”

Bryce's gaze softened as he stared at the tiny round face with the luminous dark eyes. He pantomimed zipping his lips. “The topic is moot.”