Capital Wives

by Rochelle Alers

  Damon had lost track of the number of times he’d looked at his watch as he waited for his wife to walk through the doors to the Four Seasons. His expression brightened when he saw her. She was stunning in a gown that was an exact match for her magnificent eyes. A front slit showed off her long legs with each step. Closing the distance between them, he pressed a kiss on her moonlit hair pinned off her face. There was something about her pale, delicate beauty that called to mind a young Grace Kelly. The magnificent tanzanite-and-diamond drop earrings were a gift he’d given her following the birth of their son.

  “You look amazing,” he whispered in her ear.

  Lowering her eyes, Bethany affected a demure smile. “Thank you, sweetheart. You look handsome, as usual. I hope I don’t have to shank a few of these bitches tonight for coming on to my man,” she whispered.

  Pulling back, Damon stared at his wife as if she were a stranger. He’d never known her to exhibit a modicum of jealousy. “Why would you say that?”

  “I know I rarely go out with you, so I don’t know if you’re being hit on.”

  “I wouldn’t know it if I was being hit on.” He ran a finger along her jawline. “I promised you the day we married that I’d never cheat on you, and I haven’t.”

  Bethany met his eyes. “And I believe you, Damon.”

  Taking her hand, he tucked it into the bend of his elbow over the tuxedo jacket. “Let’s go in now.” It was the cocktail hour, a time when Damon was able to reconnect with those he knew and a few he’d planned to get to know.

  Bethany held back. “I need to check my wrap.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll get someone to take it for you.” He gestured to a familiar bellhop. “Please put this in coat check, and then bring me the ticket.” Damon handed the man Bethany’s black silk, hand-beaded shawl and surreptitiously slipped him a large bill.

  “No problem, Mr. Paxton.”

  Bethany pressed her bare shoulder against Damon’s silk-and-wool jacket. “That was easy.”

  “I’ve always told you it’s not what you know in this town, but who you know. I make it my business to know the right people regardless of what they do for a living. It’s not who owns the hotel, but those who run it that are important. What if a bellhop delivers your luggage with important documents to the wrong room, or the concierge neglects to inform you that something you’re expecting is at his station? One mistake could make or break a deal.”

  “Why is it always about the deal?” Bethany asked softly.

  “That’s the only four-letter word that’s music to my ears. When I’m able to get some elected official to agree to vote for something my client wants, and we shake hands and say ‘it’s a deal,’ I quickly forget about the asses I had to kiss to make it a reality.”

  “I don’t envy you, Damon.”

  Reaching for a flute off the tray of a passing waiter, Damon handed it to Bethany, then took one for himself. “I don’t envy me, either.” He touched his glass to his wife’s. “Here’s to many more nights out together.”

  Nodding, she took a sip of the bubbly wine. “I’ve neglected you for long enough. The people in this town should know that we’re still a couple.”

  Damon smiled. He hadn’t married Bethany because of her beauty and intelligence, but because he’d actually fallen in love with her. Although he was old enough to be her father, he’d never thought of her as a daughter. She’d been twenty-four when he saw her in person for the first time, and he’d found himself slightly off balance when she’d approached his table and handed him her business card with a request she would like to interview him for a news feature she was working on for her station. He waited a few days, then called her. They had dinner in an out-of-the way restaurant in northern Virginia, talking about everything but what she wanted in her interview. They met several more times, and the night Damon made a reservation to eat at an inn several miles from Leesburg it had changed them and their relationship. Bethany had offered him the best sex he’d ever had in his life. Once he slept with her he’d forgotten any other woman existed—and that included his estranged wife.

  Jean had cheated on him before they were married, but he had forgiven her when she claimed it was the first and only time. When she’d come to him months later with the news that she was pregnant, Damon did the right thing and married her. He was approaching forty and he was ready to settle down with a wife and children.

  The year Paige celebrated her third birthday Jean moved out of their bedroom. She claimed she didn’t like sex and sleeping with him made her physically sick. It wasn’t until a year later that he’d found telltale signs that she was sleeping with another man. The condoms her lover had discarded in the trash had come in neon colors, something he hadn’t and would never use. Damon hadn’t wanted to believe his wife had made love to another man in their home.

  He’d sought out other women to take care of his physical needs, and once he met Bethany he knew he had to end his sham of a marriage. On the advice of his lawyer he had the cameras installed, and when Jean and her attorney viewed the footage all agreed divorce was imminent. Damon knew he probably would’ve still been married to Jean and sleeping with other women if he hadn’t met Bethany Collins.

  Bethany was a good wife and mother, and he knew she was having a rough time with Paige, but he prayed the two would eventually declare a truce where they could tolerate being in the same room at the same time.

  Bethany tapped his shoulder. “There’s Deanna and Marisol, the two women who helped me get it together at the Red Cross dinner.”

  Damon pressed a kiss to her pale hair. “Go talk to them, baby. I’ll come and get you when it’s time to go into the ballroom to eat.”

  He watched the gentle sway of her hips in the body-hugging gown. If he’d felt an iota of guilt sleeping with other women while married, it had vanished like a wisp of smoke once he met Bethany. Damon paid a private investigator to delve into the former beauty queen’s background. She had no criminal record—not even a traffic ticket. During the eighteen months she’d worked as a recurring character on a top-rated daytime soap Bethany had dated a few Hollywood actors. The tabloids never reported her involvement with alcohol or drugs, so she was touted as the good girl who loved bad boys.

  She finally got her big break when she landed a job with an Indianapolis news station. A year later she transferred to Washington, D.C., as a political correspondent. Ratings soared whenever she was on camera with her beautifully modulated voice and hypnotic eyes. When Damon saw her in the restaurant he’d known immediately who she was.

  He went still when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, Damon stared into the light brown eyes belonging to Spencer Tyson. The attorney’s face was thinner than it had been during their last encounter.

  Damon offered his hand. “How’s it going, Tyson?”

  Spencer shook Damon’s hand. “It’s all good.”

  Resting a hand on Spencer’s back, Damon steered him over to a corner in the crowded room. “Did you take care of that business we discussed? That situation at the Victoria,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Spencer stared at the amber liquid in his highball glass. “Not yet. Don’t forget you gave me sixty days.”

  “And you intend to take every one of them, don’t you?”

  “Look, Paxton—”

  “No, you look!” Damon hissed between clenched teeth. “You’re not equipped to play in the big leagues, because it’s apparent some hungry, power-seeking cunt means more to you than a judgeship. She can’t be that good, or is it you can’t see the bench because her double Ds are blocking your view?” Damon leaned closer. “You don’t have to stop fucking her because I’ve just withdrawn my offer. You’re on your own…son.”

  Turning on his heels, he walked away, leaving Spencer staring at his departing back. He didn’t want to believe a man as ambitious as Spencer Tyson would forfeit a chance to sit on the bench for a piece of ass.

  Bethany exchanged air kisses w
ith Marisol, then Deanna. “Y’all look so nice tonight.”

  “Careful, Miss Sweet Tater Queen, but your country is showing,” Deanna teased.

  Bethany glanced around to see if anyone had overheard her. “Girls, y’all don’t know hard it is for me not to sound like a ’Bama. I paid a speech coach a ton of money to help me lose my accent, but every once in a while it comes back.”

  Marisol, resplendent in red, rolled her eyes upward. “Don’t worry about it. Está entre amigas, so you can be yourself, chica. I said you were among friends,” she explained when Bethany gave her a blank stare.

  Bethany flashed a two-hundred-watt smile. It was the first time since she’d become Mrs. Damon Paxton that a woman had called her friend. “I’m honored to be your friend, chica.”

  Marisol shook her head. “Mari or Marisol will do, thank you.”

  “I have a part-time job,” Bethany said quickly.

  Deanna and Marisol shared a knowing look. “Good for you. What are you doing?”

  “I’m writing copy for the television station where I used to work. It’s not very challenging, but at least I’m out of the house a couple of days a week.” Bethany didn’t tell Marisol and Deanna that she had also agreed to work for Nathan Nelson. That she had come with Damon with the anticipation of overhearing something she could use to debut her column and blog with the impact of a shot heard around the world.

  “How are you getting along with your stepdaughter?” Deanna asked, continuing with her questioning.

  Bethany drained her flute, then placed it on the tray of a passing waiter. “We keep our distance. She comes in from school and hides out in her room until it’s time for dinner. Damon, unless it’s absolutely impossible, always makes it home in time for dinner. Of course she’s on her best behavior because she doesn’t want to hear her father complaining about coming home to a household in turmoil.”

  “Good for him,” Marisol said. “At least he’s a hands-on father.”

  “It’s because his parents divorced when he was young, and he got to see his father during holidays and every other summer. Since his dad has been diagnosed with the early stages of Alzheimer’s, they’ve grown very close.”

  “Now that you’re working I suppose you won’t have time to meet for lunch,” Marisol said to Bethany.

  “I make my own hours,” Bethany said, “and I’ve only committed to two days a week.”

  “Business is slow for me right now,” Marisol admitted, “so I’d like to invite you and Deanna over for lunch one day next week.”

  Deanna accepted a napkin and speared a tiny Moroccan-style meatball with a toothpick. “Count me in if you’re cooking. If not, then I’m not coming.”

  Bethany’s gaze shifted from Deanna to Marisol. “What’s on the menu?”

  “Tostones, camarones ajillo, polla asado.”

  “This country girl needs you to translate for her.”

  Marisol laughed. “Fried green bananas, shrimp in a garlic sauce and roast chicken. And, if either of you aren’t dieting, then I’ll make either white or yellow rice.”

  Deanna gave Marisol a direct stare. “When have you ever known me to diet?”

  “Yo no sé.”

  “Neither do I,” Deanna countered.

  Bethany waved her hands. “Hold up, girlfriends. Y’all are going to have to slow down with the Spanish. I took French in college.”

  “Does this mean I can talk about you in Spanish and you won’t understand a word?” Marisol teased.

  “Not if I don’t cuss you out in French first,” Bethany countered, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Her smile faded and her eyes grew cold when she spied a tall redhead with bottle-green eyes. Years ago the spiteful woman had embarked on a campaign to slander her at every opportunity.

  Tiffany Jones’s eyes were as large as saucers when she recognized her. “Bethany Collins.”

  “Shame on you, Tiff,” she chided. “I know it’s been a while, but have you forgotten that I’m now Bethany Paxton?” Bethany gave her a saccharine smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Tiffany, do you know Deanna Tyson and Marisol McDonald?”

  Pulling back her shoulders, Tiffany nodded. “Of course. I spoke to them earlier.”

  “That’s good. I truly detest making introductions,” Bethany drawled facetiously. “By the way, how is your grandson?”

  Natural color drained from the redhead’s face, leaving it a sallow yellow shade. “He’s well. Thank you for asking.”

  Bethany tapped her forehead with a forefinger. “If I remember correctly, he should be about Connor’s age. I always take my children and a few of their friends to see the cherry blossoms, then to the botanic gardens, so if you’re not doing anything tomorrow I’d like to invite you and your grandson along. Afterward we’ll go to a restaurant for lunch, then come back to my house where Damon makes ice cream concoctions like parfaits, hot fudge and brownie sundaes and vanilla egg creams.”

  Marisol cleared her throat. “If Damon can make a real good black-and-white sundae, then I’m willing to tag along as a chaperone.”

  Bethany winked at the interior designer. “I’d love to have you, Mari.”

  Deanna held up a hand. “Count me out. I have an engagement party tomorrow.”

  Bethany raised her pale eyebrows, staring directly at Tiffany. “What about you, Tiff? Can I count you in? After all, you’ve never been to our home in Falls Church.”

  “I’ll have to ask my daughter whether I can bring Bobby.”

  Bethany attempted to frown, but the muscles between her eyes were frozen because of her recent Botox treatment. “I was under the impression you had sole custody of your grandson because of your daughter’s substance abuse.”

  “I do, but I still ask her.”

  “Stop playing, Tiffy!” Marisol snapped. “If you don’t want to come, then just come out and say it.”

  “I…I didn’t say I didn’t want to come.”

  At that moment Bethany could have hugged and kissed Marisol. She was more than aware of the campaign of salacious gossip Tiffany Jones had spread on behalf of her former BFF Jean Paxton. “Is that a yes?”

  Tiffany’s mouth tightened noticeably. “Yes.”

  Bethany’s eyes sparkled like precious jewels. “I always contract for a driver to take us around. We’ll pick you and Bobby up around nine-thirty. The driver will wait five minutes, then we’re onto the next pickup.”

  Tiffany offered a relaxed smile for the first time. “We’ll be ready at nine-thirty.”

  Bethany opened and closed her hand. “See you tomorrow,” she said in singsong.

  Deanna shook her head, smiling when Tiffany left. “You are no good, Beth-Ann.”

  Marisol rested a hand on her hip. “And why did you put that puta on the spot?”

  Bethany rolled her eyes. “Because that bitch made my life a living hell, that’s why. I could never do to her what she’d done to me. She called me everything but a child of God, and if Damon wasn’t who he is we would’ve been run out of Washington on the proverbial rail.”

  “What did Damon say or do?” Deanna asked.

  Bethany shook her head. “Nothing. He said what goes around comes around. Those things have a way of working themselves out where only those involved get to see it.”

  “I don’t like confrontation,” Deanna admitted, “but I don’t think I’d be able to stand by and let some heifer slander me like Tiffany did you.”

  “I hear you, amiga.” Marisol pushed out her lips. “I’d ring her doorbell, and when she answered I’d give her an old-fashioned East Harlem beatdown with a ball bat.”

  Bethany laughed. “Back in Parkers Corners we used a riding crop. It takes a long time, if ever, for the welts to go away. But I’m not going to beat up on Tiffy Jones. She got her payback when her sweet little Juliette, which sugar wouldn’t melt in her mouth, fell in love with a MS-13 gang member, got pregnant and hooked on drugs.”

  Deanna adjusted the neckline of her Grecian-inspired black silk chiff
on gown. “Mrs. Jones is in some serious denial, because she tells everyone that Juliette is clean and attending college on the West Coast when the poor child has been shuttled from one rehab treatment center to another because she can’t stay clean. The other patients call her Lindsay Lohan because of her red hair.”

  “How do you know this?” Bethany asked Deanna.

  “You forget I plan a lot of events in D.C., and my clients love to gossip about one another. Even the so-called best friends.”

  Marisol nodded. “I hear you, chica. If I don’t tell you my personal business, then no one in this town knows it.”

  “You know my personal business,” Bethany chimed in.

  Marisol wrapped an arm around Bethany’s waist. “What you say to Deanna and me will never be repeated.”

  For the first time since reuniting with Nathan Nelson, Bethany felt conflicted, seriously so because she’d promised him a gossip column. And that wasn’t possible unless she divulged some of what she heard and/or had been told. What she had to figure out was a way to write the column without revealing her source. She knew Nathan would never reveal the name of his reporter, but that still didn’t mean she shouldn’t take the necessary steps to protect her identity.

  “It’s the same with me,” Bethany lied smoothly.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Marisol opened the door, frowning at the two women standing on the other side. “I told you not to bring anything.”

  Deanna lifted a gaily colored shopping bag. “I brought my celebrated margarita.”

  “And I brought a pint of Damon’s homemade bing cherry ice cream and blackberry sorbet for dessert,” Bethany said, the slow Alabama drawl creeping back in her voice.