Lowering his head, Wesley buried his face in the raven curls, wishing he could either turn back the clock where he could’ve met Marisol before she’d married Bryce or fast-forwarded the clock to where he’d entered politics in his twenties instead of his thirties.
He wanted to ask Marisol if her relatives would disapprove of her living with a man who wasn’t her husband while on the island. Although they would sleep under the same roof, they wouldn’t sleep in the same bed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Despiértese, querida. Estamos aquí. Wake up, Marisol,” Wesley repeated, this time in English.
“I’m not sleeping,” she said, not opening her eyes.
He sat up straight. “You’ve been feigning sleep for the past two hours?”
“I was resting my eyes while enjoying having you as a body pillow.”
“Perhaps one day you’ll return the favor.”
Marisol opened her eyes, easing out of Wesley comforting embrace. She hadn’t lied. She’d enjoyed his warmth, the lean hardness of his body and the intoxicating scent of his masculine cologne. The driver stopped at a manned booth in front of a set of towering wrought-iron gates.
“I doubt if I’ll be able to support your weight, but I promise to give you the best massage you’ve ever had.”
Attractive lines fanned out around Wesley’s eyes when he smiled, his gaze caressing the mouth he wanted to kiss. “I’m going to hold you to that promise.”
He pressed a button on a remote device and the wrought-iron gates opened. The driver maneuvered slowly over a metal plate and into the cobblestone courtyard, the gates automatically closing behind them. Wesley’s condo was one of four, each built on a one-acre lot. His was farthest from the entrance.
When Marisol stepped out of the car she stared up the two-story sand-colored stucco house with a red-tiled roof, second-story wrought-iron balconies and casement windows. “Es magnífico.”
Wesley rested his hand on the nape of her neck. “It will be even more magnificent after you decorate it.” He punched another button on the remote device and a green light on the door handle buzzed softly. He walked into the entryway, then stood off to the side to watch Marisol’s reaction. A hint of a smile parted his lips when her jaw dropped and mouth gaped.
Marisol tilted her chin, staring up at the high-ceiling entry rising upward to the second floor. High, wood-beamed ceilings would allow for hot air to rise above the terra-cotta floor. She walked in, her practiced eye surveying the vastness of the living room. Light from a clerestory window illuminated the open expanse of the dining room.
“May I do a walk-through?”
“Of course. Remember, this is going to be your home for the next two weeks,” Wesley reminded her.
“It’s going to take a while for me to map out each room as a whole, but I just want to get an idea of the dimensions I’ll be working with.”
“After you complete your walk-through, I’ll show you the exterior,” Wesley promised.
Marisol climbed the circular staircase to the second floor as cool air flowed from ceiling vents. The condo had been constructed with a central heating and cooling system, although she doubted whether Wesley would ever have to use the heat.
Three large bedrooms with French doors opening out onto balconies had en suite baths that boasted spectacular ocean views. There was a California-king bed in the master bedroom. There was enough space in the room for a triple dresser, armoire and a dressing area with an armchair. Another open space that could be used for a living/dining area or double as a media center overlooked the courtyard. She noticed the fountain in the middle of the courtyard for the first time. A stainless-steel eat-in kitchen and half-bath rounded out the second floor. Walk-in closets and decorative ceiling fans had been installed in all the bedrooms.
Retracing her steps, Marisol returned to the first floor and discovered two large bedrooms—one that could be used for a home office or library. There were ceiling fans and spacious walk-in closets and en suite baths in these rooms, too. She smiled when she walked into the gourmet kitchen to find a glass-covered rattan patio table with four chairs in the breakfast nook.
Wesley was on his cell, talking to someone in Spanish. Not only was he fluent, but his accent was flawless; it was as if Spanish instead of English was his first language. She nodded when he smiled and winked at her. Deanna had referred to him as a “silver fox,” while Marisol thought of him as rico suave. All of his mannerisms were practiced, precise. It was as if he’d spent hours in the mirror learning how to sit elegantly, and how to angle his head to make it appear as if he was listening intently to every word that came out of the other person’s mouth. Then there were his stares—longing, soulful and lusting. And for all her bravado and outspokenness, Marisol was beginning to feel uncomfortable around Wesley.
For a girl who’d grown up in a tough neighborhood where she had to prove she wasn’t going to be bullied or taken advantage of by other girls and boys, Marisol Pilar Rivera-McDonald was not afraid of Wesley Sheridan but of her own response to him.
Seeing Wesley on the phone was a reminder that she hadn’t called Bryce to let him know she’d arrived safely. She retrieved her tote and hit speed dial for her husband’s office phone. It rang twice before he picked up.
“What’s up, Mari?”
“What’s up?” she repeated.
“I have someone on the other line.”
“I just called to let you know I got here.”
“Have fun. I’ll call you later.”
She held the phone to ear before realizing Bryce had abruptly hung up on her. Pressing a button, Marisol replaced the phone in the oversize leather tote. An expression of confusion stole across her features as she attempted to process what had just happened. It was the first time since she and Bryce were engaged that he hadn’t ended a call with an endearment.
Shaking her head as if to rid her mind of uneasiness and suspicion, Marisol walked back into the kitchen, nearly colliding with Wesley. His hands went to her upper arms, holding her until she’d regained her balance.
“Sorry, Wes.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
Wesley dropped his hands. “You look as if you’re ready to rip someone’s head off.”
Marisol forced a smile she didn’t feel. She knew she couldn’t afford to agonize over Bryce because it would increase her stress level and she would end up with a headache. Thankfully, she hadn’t had one in nearly three weeks.
She patted Wesley’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I plan to leave your head intact.”
Wesley did smile. “That’s good to know,” he said, then sobered. “I just called a tienda de ultramarinos and ordered enough groceries to last us for at least a week. The days I don’t cook we’ll eat out.”
“Aren’t you fancy,” Marisol teased. “You say tienda de ultramarinos and I say bodega.”
“But isn’t a bodega more like a storeroom?”
“No, no, Papi,” she teased. “To me a bodega is like a super Walmart. It has everything from pots to magazines and, of course, food.” She’d affected an accent while wagging her finger, and Wesley laughed so hard he nearly lost his breath.
“What am I going to do with you, Mami?” he asked, once he’d recovered from his laughing jag.
“I don’t know, Papi. I will think of something. I’m ready to see outside.”
They left the house through a door off the kitchen, stepping out onto a loggia with an outdoor kitchen. Two cushioned chaises made it the perfect spot to begin or end the day.
Wesley took a step, bringing him inches from Marisol. “I’m going to alternate sleeping here and on an inflatable mattress.”
Marisol stared him over her shoulder. “No, Wes. You’re not going to sleep on those things,” she said, pointing at the chaises.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I
’ve slept on them. One night when I’d had one too many mojitos I not only slept out here, but I liked it so much I did it the next night.”
“I can’t put you out of your bedroom. I’ll sleep on the inflatable mattress,” Marisol volunteered.
“That won’t do. You’re a guest in my house so you must sleep in the bedroom.”
“No, no, no!”
“¡Sí, sí, sí!” Wesley countered. “If you’d looked into the closets in each of the bedrooms you would’ve seen inflatable mattresses. Although you’re the first person to come here to stay, I still didn’t want to be caught unprepared in case my parents or my sisters came down with their kids. I didn’t buy this place for myself, but for my nieces and nephews. Both my sisters are teachers and they usually vacation together. This is the perfect spot for them to come down during school vacations to hang out on the beach.”
“Do you want to childproof the house?”
Wesley shook his head. “No. I’d like you to give it a spa or resort look. I’d want the furniture to be functional, but inviting.”
“How many children do they have between them?”
“Four. Taryn has two boys ages six and four, and Jennifer has a set of three-year-old twin girls.” He held up his hands. “And before you say anything, I’ll tell you.”
Marisol affected a sexy moue, bringing Wesley gaze to linger on her mouth. “What makes you think I was going to say anything?”
His forefinger touched her left eyebrow. “This goes up just a fraction before you ask a question.”
Marisol’s fingers circled his wrist, pulling his hand away from her face. “You see a lot, don’t you?”
Wesley took a step until they were inches apart. “I see what I want to see, Marisol. I see an incredibly beautiful, talented woman who is in love with life. You have a special fuego I find intoxicating. A fire I—”
“Stop it, Wes.”
“Stop what, Marisol? Stop telling you not what you want to hear but what you need to hear? Bryce doesn’t deserve you.”
“And you do?”
The nostrils of Wesley’s thin nose flared slightly. “The only thing I’m going to admit to is that I wouldn’t treat you as if you were something I bid on and won at an auction. You’re nothing more to him than a priceless piece of art or a jewel he’d happened to inherit. What man who loves a woman enough to marry her introduces her as ‘my wife’? You have a name. And it is Marisol, not ‘my wife.’”
“Don’t you think maybe I should take some of the blame for that?”
“Why, Marisol?”
“Because I’ve allowed it to go on instead of stopping him.”
Wesley shook his head. “No, querida. I’m not going to let you get out of it by accepting blame for someone else’s inadequacies. Bryce McDonald is what I think of as a golden boy. He was born into wealth, never had to concern himself with what college he wanted to attend because Daddy and Grandpa would make it happen by pulling out their checkbooks. Fortunately for your husband he has other assets. Men and women find him attractive, and he has an uncanny perception to identify an opponent’s weakness and use it against him.”
Marisol stared wordlessly at Wesley, her breath catching in her throat. It was as if her brain had shut down within seconds of him calling her querida, or darling. The word had slipped like an involuntary reflex.
“Did you invite me to come to Puerto Rico to try and seduce me, Wesley?”
He smiled. “Not intentionally.”
Both eyebrows lifted. “Not intentionally? But you do admit that you’d like to seduce me?”
“The only thing I’m going to admit is that I wish I’d met you before Bryce McDonald did. I would never treat you with so little respect.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Wes. I’d never let Bryce or any man disrespect me.”
“That’s where you are wrong, Marisol. You are Bryce McDonald’s beautiful little muñeca, una muñeca he takes out and puts on display for other men to see how lucky he is to have you. Close your mouth, querida,” he cautioned when her jaw dropped again. “I’m saying all these things not to come between you and your husband but—”
“You could’ve fooled me,” Marisol countered.
“The problem is you’re not willing to accept the truth,” Wesley retorted.
Marisol wanted to tell Wesley that she knew the truth and he was right. She was Bryce’s doll; all he was concerned with whenever they went out together as a couple was how she looked. He so wanted to refute his mother’s assessment that she was no more than a homeless ragamuffin that he’d spent a small fortune on haute couture and jewelry for her.
Walking over to the chaise, she flopped down on it. Crossing her sandaled feet at the ankles, Marisol stared at the deep rose-pink color on her toes before shifting her gaze to a copse of palm trees. She wondered how much Wesley had surmised from sitting at her table sharing lunch with her and Bryce, or how much he’d uncovered by talking to her husband. If women talked, baring their souls to one another, then it probably was no different with men.
Although she’d never kept track of Bryce’s clients or where he was flying off to, she had to know that he and Wesley had spent an inordinate amount of time together in order for him to strategize the congressman’s campaign.
“Bryce told you about me, didn’t he?”
Wesley walked over and sat on the chaise next to Marisol’s. Reaching across the small space separating them, he took her hand, threading their fingers together. “Yes. He told me how he’d met you, how you wouldn’t sleep with him until he put a ring on your finger. He wasn’t very happy about that because somehow he felt you’d used your body as a bargaining chip. It was apparent his mother wasn’t too happy that he’d wanted to marry a Latina, but he was determined to marry you.”
Marisol closed her eyes as a cold chill swept over her body. At that point she felt as if she were in the Arctic Circle instead of in the Caribbean. “What else did he tell you, Wesley?”
When Wesley saw her pained expression he regretted having said anything to Marisol about her relationship with his campaign strategist. “I’ve already said too much.”
Sitting up and swinging her legs over the chaise, Marisol practically launched herself at Wesley, landing on his chest. Her eyes narrowed like a cat. “You opened the door, so you’d better let me in, Wesley, or I’m going to call one of my relatives to come and drive me to Ponce where I’ll book a flight back to D.C. Then, I’m going to spill my guts to Bryce about everything you’ve told me about my husband. What’s it going to be, Congressman Sheridan?” Pushing into a sitting position, she averted her face.
“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet they neighbor’s wife…”
“Why are you quoting the tenth commandment to me?” Marisol whispered.
“Because I’ve committed a sin.”
“What sin, Wes?”
“I’m coveting another man’s wife. After I’d asked Bryce to become my campaign strategist we spent a lot of time together. If he was going to take me on as a candidate, I had to tell him everything about myself so he wouldn’t be surprised if my opponent uncovered some long-lost secret that might spark a scandal. I gave him the names of every woman I’d slept with, the few with whom I’d had long-term relationships and if I’d ever been involved with men, prostitutes or had engaged in a threesome.”
“Did you?”
Wesley also sat up, leaning close enough to Marisol to smell the subtle floral scent clinging to her hair and skin. “No. I’ve always been one-on-one with women. Very discerning women.”
“So discerning or discriminating that you want to sleep with me?”
“Would you prefer I lie, querida?”
“I’m not your love or your darling, so please stop calling me that. I’m a woman you hired to decorate your house. I can’t be anything more to you than that.”
A deafening silence followed Marisol’s statement. She found Wesley very attractive, but not so much s
o she’d break her vow to remain a faithful wife. She had no way of knowing if Bryce was a faithful husband, and she didn’t want to know if he hadn’t been. Her mother-in-law had revealed that Bryce had slept with a lot of women before he’d married her, so Marisol had hoped he’d had his fill of sleeping with other women.
What she had insisted on before sleeping with Bryce was that he get tested for STDs. He’d become angry, walking away, and Marisol didn’t hear from him in more than two weeks. They’d reunited when he returned, agreeing to take the test. She also agreed to be tested at the same time and when the results came back, both were negative.
Marisol had lost track of the number of women in her old neighborhood who had been affected with HIV because their sexual partners hadn’t wanted to use protection. Some were still living with the disease while too many others had died. Just like she hadn’t wanted to become a single mother, she also hadn’t wanted to come down with a terminal disease.
The past two weeks had been one of discovery. Cynthia McDonald had disclosed the sordid events in Bryce’s life before she’d married him, and Wesley had just revealed Bryce’s resenting her insistence that she not sleep with him without a promise of commitment. He’d proposed, given her a ring and she’d given him her virginity. And from her vantage point Marisol realized Bryce had gotten the better deal.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Mrs. Tyson.”
“Mr. Douglas. What took you so long to call me back?”
A deep chuckle came through the speaker feature. When Deanna saw the word private on her cell’s display, she’d decided to use the feature and placed a small handheld tape recorder beside the phone to record the conversation. It if hadn’t been Richard Douglas, then she wouldn’t have recorded the call.
“Are you saying that you missed me?”
“Does anyone miss a pit viper?”
“Careful, Mrs. Tyson. I don’t like insults.”
Deanna closed her eyes, counting slowly to ten. She’d tried remembering all she had to do if her blackmailer called her again, and right now her mind was a complete blank. And it wasn’t as if she could tell the man to call her back while she talked to Marisol, because her friend was in Puerto Rico with Wesley Sheridan. Then she remembered what Marisol’s friend John had told her.
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