His First Lady (Capitol Hill Series Book 1)

by Beth Fred

I laugh. “Come on, sleepyhead. Wake up.”

  “Why is it you’re never in bed with me in the morning?”

  “Because I’m up two hours before you.”

  “Come here.”

  Heat floods under my cheeks. As I cross to the bed, I wonder if it will always be this way. His eyes scan me, take in my blue and cream dress. “You’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  He sits up and wraps his arms around me. “I love you, Mandy.” His lips trace my neck, my jaw, and then land on my lips. I open my mouth to deepen the kiss. Eric pulls me closer, his legs tightening around me. He dips me back.

  I pull away from him. “I have a”—I brush my lips against his again—“plane to catch.” I kiss his ear. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Texas. I’ll be back tonight in time for your last speech. I promise.”

  “This is going to be a long day.”

  I smile. “I’ll be here.” I lean in for another kiss. “I should go. Get dressed and get downstairs. Play your day right so I can be the first lady in January.”

  He grins. “Yes, ma’am. Have my driver take you to the airport. I don’t want you in a cab by yourself.”

  Chapter 38

  Mandy

  After Eric fell asleep last night, I used LinkedIn to find out where Clarissa Lawrence works. Fortunately, her law firm is in Dallas. Eric will assume I’ve gone home to take a test. He understands how important school is. Tuition is the whole point of our arrangement, after all.

  I call a town car to pick me up from the airport and deliver me to a high-rise building not far from SMU. I smooth my hair and check my makeup before getting out of the car. I have no idea how she will react to this, and I can’t look a mess.

  I walk in and check a directory for the suite of the firm. 410. Two steps down the marble-floored hallway, a dark female security guard in a blue jacket stops me. “Ma’am, can I help you?”

  “I need to speak with Clarissa Lawrence.”

  “You can take a seat. I’ll call her.”

  So that’s how we’re going to play this. I smile. “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  The security guard picks up the phone. “I’ve got someone here to see Clarissa Lawrence.” She meets my gaze. “What’s your name?”

  “Mandy.”

  “Mandy,” she repeats into the phone. She is quiet for a moment then says, “Okay.”

  She covers the receiver with her hand. “Her secretary says she’s not seeing anyone today.”

  I purse my lips. “Tell her my name is Amanda Buchanan-Martinez. I’m not leaving until I speak with her, and if she needs to have me escorted out, I’m sure the media and at least one attorney will show up.”

  The security guard’s eyes grow wide. “She says she’s Amanda Buchanan-Martinez and she’s threatening to bring media.” She puts the handset back in its cradle. “You can go on up.”

  The elevator opens on the fourth floor. I go through a double glass door, and a thin lady behind a black and steel desk says, “She’ll be right with you, Mrs. Martinez.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Her office is straight down that hall. Second door on the right.” She points ahead of me. “You can go ahead and go in.”

  I’m in her office alone, and Texas is a one-party consent state. I hit the recorder on my phone. If I can’t convince this chick to do the right thing, I’ll leak it to Evan and let him do my dirty work.

  The words, “How can I help you, Mrs. Martinez?” come tumbling into the room as the door opens.

  Clarissa Lawrence stands in front of me. My heart stops. I might as well be staring into a “tall and skinny” mirror at a carnival fun house. She wears a blonde bob. I stare into another set of pale blue eyes. I swallow and stand to make sure. She’s an inch or so taller than I am. She probably weighs twenty or more pounds less. The dark blue of her pin-striped suit contrasts perfectly with the lighter blue of her eyes. She has one dimple in her left cheek.

  I peer up at a taller, thinner me. And, of course, she isn’t a basket-weaver. My head spins. A room full of beautiful women. He went for the plain girl, and now I know why.

  It’s prom night all over again. And Eric said he wanted to punch Adam the night I told him about my one boyfriend. I actually laugh at the irony. Seems I’ve found myself another Adam.

  “Mrs. Martinez?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.”

  She eyes me carefully. “Are you okay?”

  “Do you think I could have some water, please?”

  “Of course.” She steps behind her desk, opens a mini-fridge, and tosses me a bottle of water.

  I keep my eyes closed, determined not to cry.

  “Are you okay?” she asks again.

  I open the water and take two long sips. “I’m fine.” I stand and head for the door.

  On my way out, she asks, “Is Eric okay?”

  Why would she ask that? Why does she care? Does she still love him too? Probably. He’s hard not to love. Awesome.

  I take a pad of his office stationary out of my purse and toss it at her. “Call him. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  I text Kristin.

  Me: Can I come home?

  She replies immediately.

  Kristin: Of course. Are you in Texas? I thought you were supposed to be in the Midwest all week.

  Me: I need to come home. Can we talk when I get there?

  Kristin: I have a rehearsal. Should I skip?

  Me: No. It will be okay.

  Kristin: Cancelling. The jerk did something. I know.

  Chapter 39

  Mandy

  “What’s the plan?” Kristen combs her fingers through her dark curls.

  “The plan is you’re going to rehearsal, and I’m going to his condo to pack. I’ll have my stuff back here by the time you get home. Then we can sit on the couch and watch old romantic comedies all night.”

  “Flashback to high school. Do you really want to go over there and pack by yourself?”

  Not really. But I won’t ask Kristin to miss a rehearsal. It was too hard for her to get cast. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

  “You could wait to pack your stuff until I get home, so I can help you.”

  “I can’t.”

  She laughs. “Is he like evicting you?”

  Now I laugh too. “No. It’s just—I have to find something to do. I need to stay busy. I’m not going to let that jerk get to me.”

  “I haven’t gotten any updates from Moore on Politics lately. You could use this time to write a nice little post that says a certain senator bribed someone to marry him to trick voters into thinking he was responsible enough to vote for. Snap a selfie of your hand and post it as proof. He’ll regret fucking with you then,” Kristin says.

  “You know what? There is something I do need to blog.”

  Kristin claps her hands. “Yay! I bet this makes you famous.”

  I smile. “Maybe.” I guess if I’m going to be twenty-eight and divorced only months after my wedding, at least I’ll be famous. And this story has been burning a hole in my laptop for a long time. It’s too interesting not to write. “Break a leg,” I say to Kristin and walk to my room. She hasn’t changed anything. It’s exactly the way I left it. That’s sweet.

  I sit down at my tiny old desk, drag out my laptop, and get to work. I open my Google Drive to the files I created the weekend we got married. I go over the information a couple of times to make sure I’m not missing anything. Then I get to work.

  Khalif Al-Gazali donated an insane amount of money to Martinez’s campaign and made smaller contributions quarterly. The check was made out to Eric but cashed by his campaign. And Al-Gazali seems to be acting of his own accord, not on behalf of a company or organization. So the strong, conservative senator, who believes in U.S. military supremacy and stricter anti-terrorism laws, accepts money from a man much of the public assumes to be a traitor. I have no evidence
Al-Gazali is a terrorist, but I’m sure some people will hate it.

  I know Eric has to have a good reason for taking Al-Gazali’s money, but even knowing him the way I do, it’s hard to believe he would take money from someone who uses such harsh Anti-Christian rhetoric.

  And Sarah Moore blows the whole thing open down to the dollar amount of every transaction. “And you think I’m lying, right? That I’m a flaming liberal with an axe to grind against Martinez? Consider this: my name is Amanda Martinez, and I’m an independent. I just think to vote, people need reliable information. And Eric Martinez has taken more than fifteen million dollars from Al-Gazali.”

  I’m about to hit publish, but my phone rings. I fish it out of my purse. A picture of Eric and me together in a photo booth sprawls across my faceplate. My heart sinks into my stomach. I can’t talk to him. Seeing his face has done something to me. The little arrow hovers over the “publish” button as Eric’s face fades away.

  You need to think about this. I jump up and run out the door, pausing only to lock it. I run down the stairs and keep running.

  Kristin’s right. Publishing this will make me famous. It could make my career. But it will destroy Eric’s.

  My phone buzzes. One new text. I glance at it.

  Chapter 40

  Eric

  I check my phone again. Nothing. And the press conference is in two minutes. She said she would be here, and Mandy is reliable. “Call American Airlines. Confirm the flight landed safely and on schedule, and make sure she was on it.”

  “Martinez, she’ll be fine. You need to worry about nailing this conference. You can’t afford more screw-ups. If they ask where she is, say she’s visiting a nursing home in Texas. Tomorrow, a nurse will confirm the story.”

  “Damn it, Evan. You’re talking about my wife. I don’t care what the press thinks. I want to know she’s alive.”

  He shrugs. “Planes get delayed all the time.”

  “So why isn’t she responding to messages or calls?”

  “Maybe she forgot to take her phone out of airplane mode.”

  My phone rings. I put it to my ear. “Thank God. Are you okay?”

  “What? Are you telling me you sent that bitch here to get me to call you? What the hell is this? You think you’re running for president now, so I’m just going to kiss your ass?”

  “Clarissa?”

  “Oh, don’t act like you didn’t know I would call.”

  “What bitch did I send there?”

  “Your darling, young wife who gives old women at nursing homes makeovers while smiling pretty for the camera, of course.”

  “You’ve seen Mandy? Is she okay?”

  It’s quiet on the other end of the phone.

  “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know. She got really flustered. She asked me for water and just left. Then on the way out, she gave me a piece of stationery with your number on it and said you’d like to hear from me. Since it came from your wife, I assumed it was innocent. Are you saying you didn’t send her here?”

  “Get off the phone. You’re on.”

  “Press conference,” I say into the phone then toss it to Evan.

  Chapter 41

  Mandy

  Eric: Hey, babe, hope you’re all right. Haven’t heard from you the whole day & I’m getting worried. Clarissa called. She says you came to see her, and you left upset. Call me when you get this, okay? If you don’t want to campaign for me, I understand, but I need to know you’re okay.

  I let out a breath of air, glad I never hit publish. I don't think it would change anything between Eric and me, but there is no point in hurting him too. He’s already been hurt enough. Of course, all I am to him is a second-rate copy of his ex. But I don’t have to ruin him for that.

  My phone dings with a notification. I flip it to silent and keep running. Right now it’s either run or cry, and I’m not going to cry. The phone buzzes a couple of times. Probably Kristin. I’ll text her back when I get home. I make about two strides in silence, then the buzz becomes non-stop. “What is going on?” I slow down, scoot to the edge of the sidewalk, and pull out my phone. Sixty-two notifications for Google Plus, all either comments or shares on my most recent post Christian Values Meets Muslim Money: You’re One Stop Shop. Oh my God. How is that possible? I never hit “publish.” I pull down the little bird at the top of my screen. Seventeen tweets that read something like “Sarah Moore (who claims to be Amanda Martinez) blew the top off that one,” followed by a link.

  I turn and run toward the apartment as fast as I can. I have to unpublish that post before anyone else sees it. How is it even published?

  I burst through the door and charge for my laptop. I’ve got to take this post down. Kristin’s sitting on a bar stool in front of my computer. She jumps up and hugs me. “O-M-G! You are famous! You’ve already got 112 comments, and I only published it fifteen minutes ago.”

  “You published it?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry. I proofread it for you first.”

  “Are you crazy? Why would you do that?”

  “Uh, because it’s the best post you’ve ever written, and it was just there with a ‘publish’ button in front of it. And I got scared you might put some guy’s career over your own. And why? You agreed to marry him for money. It’s been two months and you’re already pissed. I bet by tomorrow you can leave his ass.”

  “Leave his ass,” I whisper. Is that what I really want? What difference does it make? When he’s with me, he sees a different blonde. And she’s not a basket-weaver. “Blog posts rarely make money,” I say.

  “I know. But I bet this one gets you a talk-show spot or sponsors or like a book deal or something. Now, what did that jackass do to you?”

  “He didn’t do anything.”

  “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here. Sit.” She points to one of the stools in front of our peninsula bar. I sit.

  She goes to the refrigerator and takes out a can of frozen juice.

  “Kristin, no!”

  She reaches into the cabinet beside the fridge and says, “Kristin’s Magic Juice changes everything. You know that.”

  “I’m sure it does, but I’d like to be able to see. Besides, you know I don’t drink.”

  She dumps the juice concentrate and a fair amount of vodka into the blender.

  “I don’t drink,” I remind her.

  “You do today. Now, tell me what the jackass did, or I will force feed you Kristin’s Magic Juice.”

  I laugh. “Are you threatening me with alcohol poisoning?”

  “Is it working?” Her voice mixes with the pulsing sound of the blender and vibrates.

  “He didn’t do anything.” I’m so exhausted from campaign life added with flying back and forth to school for non-negotiable dates at this point I’m holding my head up with my arm. “I-I had to come see his ex-girlfriend. I thought she could help him with something on his campaign.”

  “Okay, first of all, I’m surprised you still want to help. He’s a misogynistic pig. Every time he opens his mouth, something else comes out.”

  “He’s not. I promise. He just comes off wrong. You don’t know him like I do.”

  “Yeah. There is no acting class in the world that is worth having to deal with that man on a daily basis.”

  I smile. “He’s not so bad.”

  “The jackass made you see his ex. You’re his wife. Even if it is a sham, that’s disrespectful.”

  “He didn’t make me. He didn’t know about it. He wouldn’t ask her to go public with something she really should, so I went to ask her.”

  Kristin stops the blender and turns to face me. “Is she going to help?”

  I lay my head on the peninsula bar. “I don’t know. I couldn’t ask her.”

  “You chickened out? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “She’s almost identical to me.” I burst into tears. “Except she’s thinner, taller, and an attorney.”

  Kristin moves beside me and pats me o
n the back. “Why are you crying?”

  “You don’t get it,” I sob. “She’s another doppelganger. She’s me but better.”

  “Shh, shh,” Kristin says as she pats my back. “I get it, but why do you care? You married him for tuition and inside information, right?”

  “Yeah but…”

  “But what?”

  “He’s nice, and he’s sweet. He’s so strong, and I went to see her because he kept saying her name in his sleep after we made love.” I wipe my nose in my hand.

  Kristin moves to the center of the counter, grabs the paper towels, and hands me one. “Oh. So this is a real marriage then.”

  I drop my head to the bar and cry. Kristin hugs me without saying anything for a while. Then she says, “My Big Fat Greek Wedding time.” She pours the blender into two glasses, and we both move to the couch.

  Kristin hands me a cup. “You’ll feel better, and if you pass out instead, well, no one knows they’re in pain when they’re asleep.”

  “Can I have a straw?”

  She gets me a straw and is back in seconds.

  Chapter 42

  Mandy

  Someone grabs my arm. “Are you awake?”

  I yank back, let out a shrill scream, and hyperventilate.

  “Mandy, it’s just me. Calm down,” Eric says.

  I gasp for air, take a few deep breaths, and slowly release them. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  “After Clarissa called, I knew you were in Dallas. But you told me you’d be back for the conference and never answered my calls. Your dad hasn’t heard from you. I had campaigners calling hospitals, but I knew it was far-fetched. If the potential first lady were in a hospital, people would know. I would know. No ransom note came. When I ran out of ideas, I flew home. You were last seen around here. And when your things were missing from the townhouse, I knew you would be here. Why did you do it?”