Capital Wives

by Rochelle Alers

  “I’m good, Shaniece.”

  “What do you want me to tell them at work?”

  “Don’t tell them anything, because the nosy heifers don’t need to know,” she spat. “The only thing I’m worried about is whether the fibroid is malignant or benign. Tell Congresswoman Canton I should be back to work in a couple of days.”

  “She’ll probably tell you to take the rest of the week off.”

  Jenah closed her eyes. She was still feeling effects of the tranquilizer they had given her to keep her calm. “I don’t want to use up all my sick leave.”

  Shaniece stared at Jenah, realizing for the first time that she had two different-colored eyes. Jenah always styled her hair so that it hid her bright blue eye. “That’s what sick leave is for. You take it when you’re sick.”

  Jenah waved her hand and closed her eyes. She wanted her gone so she could cry for what had been and would never be again. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

  “I’m leaving, but I’ll call you later to make sure you don’t need anything. Don’t you want me to leave you something to read?”

  “Sure.”

  Reaching into her tote, Shaniece took out several tabloids and a copy of the Washington Post. “I read the paper, so you can keep it.”

  Jenah waited until she heard the self-locking door slam behind Shaniece before she opened her eyes. She’d lied to the woman, but then Spencer had lied to her. Her life from the time she’d met Spencer Tyson that fateful election night had been one big lie. Whenever she didn’t join her friends for after-work mixers she told them she had to meet her boyfriend who lived in Philly and was only in town on business for the night or the weekend. No one knew she’d been sleeping with a married man who’d put her up in a luxurious suite at the Victoria for their trysts. When she’d mentioned giving up her apartment to live in the residential hotel, Spencer had insisted she keep her apartment. Fortunately for her she had, or she would’ve found herself out on the street looking for someplace to live.

  Reaching for the newspapers, she spied a tabloid that had come out of nowhere to challenge the other super market favorites. What she liked about the Dish was that it was devoted exclusively to Beltway gossip. The editor was more than clever. He or she was brilliant. Longtime insiders knew exactly who they were talking about, but because no names were mentioned the tittle-tattle had become hearsay.

  Then there was the blog moderated by someone called the Insider. When Jenah had gone online to read the entries she felt as if they knew about her and Spencer, even though the blogger hadn’t mentioned the occupation of the married man the aide was seeing after hours. When the Insider refused to identify the member of Congress the aide worked for but hinted at her breast size, Jenah knew for certain they were talking about her because she wore a 40DD.

  She’d lost her baby, so there wouldn’t be a paternity suit. However, there were other ways to make Spencer Tyson pay for messing her over.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Marisol sat in the middle of the bed with Wesley, her laptop turned at an angle where they both could view the monitor. She had completed floor plans for every room in the duplex; the last one was the living room.

  She’d spent two weeks in Puerto Rico and Bryce hadn’t returned any of her calls. Her initial concern for his well-being had become apathy. It’d taken her a while to conclude that if anything had happened to Bryce someone would’ve called her cell.

  She pointed to a floor plan labeled Living Room. “From the entry hall, traffic should flow around the center love seat. These two chairs can be lightweight enough to move when entertaining,” she said, pointing to symbols representing chairs.

  Wesley leaned to his left, his shoulder pressing against Marisol’s. “Why did you put a table behind the center love seat?”

  “A dining-size table serves as a library table for display and may be used for impromptu meals when you want a view of the beach and ocean.” Clicking the mouse, she dropped in a matching love seat. “I’ve arranged this one at a right-angle configuration to two conversation areas during a larger party.” She clicked again, this time dragging a small table between two other chairs. “I added the small writing table that can be set up as a bar for parties. I know you said that your sisters plan to vacation here with their children, but there’s always the possibility that the adults will want to do some entertaining.”

  “When we’re all together we do a lot of entertaining. What are those circles on the tables?”

  Marisol gave him a sidelong glance. “Those are decorative lamps. The one to the left of the right-angle love seat is a floor lamp. I placed them there to form a triangle of soft light for the evening hours.”

  He smiled. “Nice. What about a carpet?”

  “I think you would do better with a room-size carpet because remember you’re going to have to deal with sand being tracked inside the house. You can use a room-size carpet that should come to within eighteen to twenty-four inches of the walls. It’s acceptable for furniture along the edges to sit partially off the carpet. You’ll have to wait until we get back to D.C. to see the carpet samples.”

  “You make it look so simple.”

  Marisol saved the floor plan, then shut down the laptop. “It’s simple because you can see it right in front of you. If I’d tried to explain it would be a muddled mess.”

  Wesley reached for the computer, placing it on the floor beside the bed. Then he eased Marisol down to the mattress, he turning on his side to lie beside her. “You are truly a renaissance woman. You’re an incredible decorator and you cook as well as any TV chef.”

  Shifting, Marisol faced Wesley, their noses inches apart. “You probably thought I was going to give you ptomaine.”

  “No way. Not when my mouth was watering when you were making the sofrito.”

  “I have my abuela to thank for my cooking skills. She used to tease me that I would never get a husband if I didn’t learn to cook. It was only when I was older that I realized I didn’t need to learn to cook to get a husband when there were restaurants and caterers.”

  “If you hadn’t become a decorator, what would you’ve been?”

  “I don’t know. I’d thought about becoming a nurse but I’m squeamish when it comes to blood.”

  “Where did you go to college?” Wesley asked.

  “I completed my undergraduate work at the Pratt Institute School of Art and Design and I did my graduate work at Parsons New School for Design.”

  “Did you need an MFA?”

  “I do if I decide I want to teach.”

  Wesley ran a forefinger down the length of her nose. “I admire you.”

  “Why?”

  “You know exactly what you want to do with your life.”

  “And you don’t?” she asked.

  Long black lashes came down, concealing the intensity in Wesley’s eyes. “No. I like being a politician but I don’t like politics.”

  “That sounds like a contradiction.”

  He glanced up, impaling her with an intense stare. “It is.” Wesley’s expression changed. “How would you like to go swimming with me to celebrate our last day here?”

  Marisol let out a groan. She’d spent her time designing floor plans while Wesley had passed the time swimming and sunbathing. “I didn’t bring a suit.”

  “Why don’t you wear your bra and panties? I’m certain they cover more than some women who wear what could pass for a bikini.”

  “You’re probably right. Go put on your suit and I’ll look for a something that won’t look too risqué. I’ll meet you on the beach.”

  Waiting until Wesley walked out the bedroom, closing the door behind him Marisol left the bed and searched through her luggage for a bra and a pair of matching panties. Pulling on a black silk and lace ensemble, she skipped down the staircase, left through the rear door, smiling when she saw Wesley dive in under a wave. He’d spread out two large towels on the sand. Waving her hand, she caught his attention and raced into the clear green
water to join him. Losing track of time, she and Wesley became children, swimming, floating and splashing each other in the warm water.

  Unaccustomed to the strenuous activity, Marisol pleaded fatigue and collapsed facedown on the towel. She slipped the straps to her bra off her shoulders and unhooked the back to avoid tan lines.

  “Why did you wimp out on me?” Wesley asked in her ear.

  She peered at him through half-closed eyes. “It’s been a while since I’ve swum in the ocean. It’s going to take a while for me to build up stamina.”

  “Don’t move. I’m going into the house to get sunblock for you.”

  Marisol wanted to tell Wesley she couldn’t move if her life depended upon it. Resting her head on folded arms, she closed her eyes. The heat from the sun and the cooling breeze coming off the ocean lulled her into a state of total relaxation. She hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until she felt the cooling liquid on her back when Wesley slathered her with sunblock.

  His impersonal touch changed when he rubbed the protective lotion along her inner thigh and down her legs. She was certain he could feel her trembling. “Wes.”

  Leaning down, Wesley pressed his mouth to her ear. “Don’t worry, querida. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.”

  Marisol swallowed the lump in her throat as she struggled to control the swell of foreign emotion that frightened her. “I want…” Her words trailed off when she met Wesley’s hungry stare.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to make love to me.”

  “¿Es cierto?”

  She smiled. “I’m very certain.”

  Marisol closed her eyes when Wesley removed her bra and panties. She’d just asked him to do something that no doubt would change her and her life forever.

  If she had been completely honest with herself, Marisol would’ve acknowledged her attraction to Wesley Sheridan the moment he had walked into her home. She hadn’t known what it was, but it was as if he could see through the facade she’d erected to pretend she was happy—indescribably happy. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her husband, but their relationship had been based on conditions: she wouldn’t sleep with him until he committed to marriage.

  The need for her to keep her business totally separate from Bryce’s. Her need to maintain her independence at all costs. Her need to prove to her in-laws that she was worthy to become a McDonald. And she was tired. Exhausted and tired of fighting with Bryce to determine whether he was able to father a child.

  She’d asked a man who wasn’t her husband, a man who wasn’t a friend but a client, to make love to her. Wesley may have planned to seduce her when he’d asked her to come away with him, but that no longer mattered. Looping her arms around Wesley’s neck, she buried her face between his neck and shoulder when he moved over her.

  “I can assure you there will be no turning back.”

  She smiled. “Did I ask you to turn back?”

  Her bravado vanished when she found herself on her back, staring up at Wesley. The tropical sun had tanned his face until he was as dark as she was. Marisol’s gaze did not waver when he pushed his trunks off his waist, down his hips and stepped out of them. Her eyes traveled from his face, down to his chest and still lower to his groin. He was fully aroused, his blood-engorged sex hanging heavily between muscled thighs.

  Their gazes fused as she extended her arms. “Venga, mi querido.”

  Wesley couldn’t believe he was going to make love to a woman who’d haunted him from the first time he saw her. Making love on the beach went beyond any-and everything he could’ve imagined. A mile of private beach guaranteed there wouldn’t be any prying eyes.

  Parting her legs with his knee, he guided his sex between her thighs, pushing gently until he was fully sheathed inside her moist warmth. Then he began to move. Thrusting, withdrawing over and over until the only thing in the world that mattered was the woman writhing under him. Without warning he reversed their position, cupping her hips as she sat astride him, her small, firm breasts bouncing as she came down on his erection. Watching his penis slide in and out of her body, the secretions from their lovemaking mingling with pubic hair.

  Wesley reversed positions again, his hips slamming into hers until the dam broke and he completed himself inside her at the same time Marisol’s screams echoed in his ear; the walls of her vagina held him in a vise before easing only to do it again over and over as she climaxed.

  They lay together, joined and spent, while waiting for their breathing to return to a normal rhythm. The enormity of what they’d shared did not hit Wesley until he pulled out and lay on his back while staring up at the cloudless sky. It was the first time in his life he’d made love with a woman without using protection.

  His anxiety subsided when he realized if Marisol had asked him to make love to her, then she had to be on birth control. She had waited for the last day of what had become a two-week fantasy vacation to let him make love to her. Even if it would become the only time at least he would be left with memories of their time together.

  “Do you think we should go inside?” Her voice was low, sultry.

  Wesley smiled. “No one’s going to see us.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Everyone’s stretch of beach is indicated by boundary markers. And no one trespasses or they’re subject to a hefty fine.”

  “How much is the fine?”

  “Five thousand for the first offense, and seventy-five hundred for the second.”

  “That’s excessive, Wes.”

  “So is trespassing.”

  Marisol shifted until she lay on her side; she pressed her face to her lover’s shoulder, resting one arm over his waist. “Flip me over once I’m done on this side.”

  Wesley cursed his luck. Marisol had waited hours before they were to leave to return to the mainland to allow him to make love to her. He wondered if it was a deliberate move on her part so there would be no bonding.

  They would return to D.C. to pick up the pieces of their lives as if the two weeks had been a dream. He’d deliberately kept his distance because she’d proved to be too much a temptation. She’d come to Puerto Rico to work, not have an affair. And she hadn’t realized the scope of the project she’d taken on because there hadn’t been time for her to visit with relatives. She had eleven rooms to decorate and twelve days in which to complete the task. If they hadn’t shared meals, Wesley wouldn’t have spent any time with her.

  Marisol hadn’t mentioned Bryce returning her calls, and he hadn’t asked. What he didn’t tell her was if Bryce didn’t want his wife, then Wesley Sheridan was more than ready and willing to step in and replace him.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Damn, girl, you are wearing the hell out of your vacation,” Deanna remarked when Bethany’s housekeeper led her into the back porch where Marisol and Bethany waited for her.

  Marisol fluttered her lashes. “It was a working vacation.”

  Bethany patted the back of a chair. “Sit here, Deanna. I did ask our girlfriend how much work she got done, but she wouldn’t tell me.”

  Marisol moved over to sit on a cushioned chair pulled up to the table Bethany had set with china, silver and crystal. “I completed floor plans for eleven rooms in twelve days. The other two days were for travel.”

  “Did you miss your honey bunny?” Bethany drawled.

  Shaking out her napkin, Marisol placed it over her lap. “No.”

  “No?” Deanna and Bethany chorused.

  “Why on earth not?” Bethany asked.

  Marisol told her friends about calling Bryce and he not calling her back. “After the third day I said the hell with him. If he’s going to act like a jackass, then I’ll treat him like one and ignore him.”

  Deanna stared at Marisol. She’d cut her hair in a becoming pixie style, while her face was tanned a deep tawny brown. “What did he say for himself when you got back?”

  “He kissed me and asked if I’d had a good
time.”

  “That’s it?” Deanna asked.

  Marisol lifted her tanned shoulders. “That’s it.”

  Bethany picked up a bowl of salad, handing it to Marisol. “Did you have a fight before you left?”

  “Nope. I know he didn’t like me going away with a man.”

  “Especially if that man is Wesley Sheridan,” Bethany crooned.

  Deanna narrowed her eyes at their hostess. “What are you trying to say, Beth-Ann?”

  “It’s as plain as the nose on your face, Dee. Bryce is jealous of Wesley Sheridan.”

  Deanna trained her gaze on Marisol. “Have you given Bryce cause to be jealous?”

  Marisol met Deanna’s eyes. “No.”

  “Mrs. Paxton, there’s someone at the door asking for you.” The three women turned to look at the housekeeper standing at the entrance to the porch.

  Bethany placed her napkin beside her plate. “Please excuse me.”

  Marisol waited until she and Deanna were alone to tell her that she’d slept with Wesley. “It was only once, and the day before we were leaving.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose subliminally I was angry with Bryce and wanted to get back at him. Please don’t tell me I was stupid and immature, because I’ve called myself that and a whole lot worse.”

  “Are you going to see him again?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but not to sleep together.”

  “Be careful,” Deanna whispered. “A love triangle usually ends badly.”

  “It was only one time, and I’m certain Wesley wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his political career.”

  “I hope you’re right, Marisol. Sex can make people do crazy things.” Deanna gave her friend a quick overview of what had happened at the Brandon-Phillips. “It happened so quickly I didn’t have time to react. He’d barely taken a sip of his drink when he started gasping for breath. Some woman told me to get up and walk out and I didn’t think twice. I never got to see what John looked like when he asked for my cell. He erased the number and it was over. I scoured every newspaper and online news story to see if there was anything written about Richard Douglas, but I found nothing.”