Capital Wives

by Rochelle Alers

  “Are you comfortable, baby?”

  She moaned and closed her eyes. “Very.” Deanna wanted to tell Spencer she wasn’t as comfortable as she was happy—happy that she’d gotten her husband back. When she’d taken time to reexamine what had gone wrong with her marriage, she hadn’t been able to come up with one plausible reason why she and Spencer were growing further and further apart. If it wasn’t for fundraisers or dinner parties that required an escort, they wouldn’t be a couple.

  “I’ve missed you so much.” Her thoughts had just slipped out.

  Wrapping his arms around Deanna’s waist, Spencer pushed his groin to her hips. “I’ve missed you, too. But that’s going to change.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “We’re going to spend a lot more time together. I want you to let me know when you have a free week so we can go away.”

  A warning bell went off in Deanna’s head, and she wanted to ask Spencer what’s up? but didn’t want to appear suspicious or ungrateful. She’d spent so much time complaining that she didn’t get to see enough of him, and now when he was offering a romantic getaway she was going to question why.

  “Where are we going?” she asked instead.

  Spencer pressed his mouth to the nape of her damp neck. “Anyplace where it’s warm. This winter is the first one since I left Chicago that really got to me.”

  Deanna smiled. “Now you know D.C. winters can’t compare to Chicago’s. It’s just that we’ve had more snow this winter than we’ve had in years.”

  “That’s why I want to get away. How does St. Croix sound to you?”

  Her smile became a full grin. “It sounds wonderful.” She also wanted to tell Spencer that winter was over, but again she decided not to mention it.

  “It’s the perfect place for us to make a baby,” he whispered in her ear.

  Deanna gasped when she felt the hardened flesh pushing against her buttocks. Turning to face Spencer, she straddled him while at the same time grasping his erection and guiding it between her thighs. Throwing back her head, she moaned as he lifted his hips and pushed inside her.

  In a moment of madness Deanna forgot about Richard Douglas and his threats. The only thing that mattered was the blood-engorged flesh sliding in and out of her vagina. There were three reasons why she’d married Spencer Tyson: intelligence, ambition and sex. And at times it was the sex that seemed to supersede his other assets. He was the first man to make her come by just staring at his hard-on. If there was a contest for men who were hung like a horse there was no doubt her husband would be a winner.

  The warm bubbles swept around their writhing bodies as Deanna tried to get even closer. Spencer shifted and she looped her legs around his waist. Holding tightly to his strong neck, she leaned back, screaming when she felt him touch her womb. She screamed over and over as the orgasms continued to come until she gave one last shudder and collapsed against Spencer’s chest.

  Spencer reversed their positions, his hips moving faster and faster until he felt the familiar tingling at the base of his spine. Grasping Deanna’s breasts, he squeezed them tightly while surrendering to an ecstasy that left him mewling like a wounded animal. It didn’t matter how many women he’d slept with; none could come close to what his wife offered him. He hadn’t been the first man in her bed, but since making her his wife he knew he was the only man who’d been in her bed.

  Bethany tapped lightly on her daughter’s bedroom door before pushing it open and walking in. Abigail sat at her desk, the wires from her iPod in her ears, while she sang loudly. Leaning against the door frame, Bethany smiled and shook her head. It was obvious her daughter had multitasking down to a science. Abigail could listen to music, talk and do homework all at the same time.

  Bethany had to admit that she and Damon had produced two very attractive children with above-average intelligence. They had also inherited their father’s driving ambition. For them it couldn’t be just good, but exceptional. When Abigail had an assignment to identify the differing parts of a flower, she’d embarked on a project to have Bethany purchase fresh flowers at a florist, then painstakingly separated the flower with tweezers and displayed them under glass.

  Her teacher and principal had recommended she be skipped to the next grade, but Bethany wouldn’t approve it. Although her daughter was academically ahead of her peers, it wasn’t the same socially. There were times when the eight-year-old acted more like five or six when she couldn’t get her way. Her temper tantrums had subsided to once or twice a month, but they were back with more regularity now that Paige had come to live with them.

  Bethany approached Abigail, running a hand over her ash-blond hair. Large dark blue eyes looked at her before Abigail gave her a sweet smile and pulled the buds from her ears.

  “How’s the homework, Abby?” Bethany asked.

  “It’s good.”

  She peered at the page where Abigail had completed several math computations. Bethany had decided to compromise with the direction of her daughter’s education. The child would take advanced classes, but would remain with children her own age in her homeroom.

  She kissed the sweet-smelling moonlit strands. “How are things in school?”

  Abigail turned off her iPod. She pursed her lips. “It’s okay.”

  Bethany’s pale eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Just okay, sweetheart?”

  “I’m not fighting with Melissa anymore.”

  Reaching for Abigail’s hands, Bethany eased her from the chair and led her over to the daybed in an alcove. When she’d had her daughter’s room decorated she’d purchased the daybed for Abigail because it was where she lounged in the space that had become her play corner. The space was a quintessential girl’s room, with white furniture and pink accents. The duvet on the double bed matched the tiny rose-sprigged design on the daybed cushions and pillows and the wallpaper in the play area.

  “I didn’t know you were fighting with Melissa.” Bethany’s voice was soft, calming.

  Abigail pulled her legs up in a yoga position. Blond wavy hair concealed her face when she leaned forward. “We weren’t really fighting, Mom. Melissa got mad when she thought I said that her mother was a slut. But I didn’t say it, Mom. It was Hannah who’d heard her mother call Melissa’s mother a slut because she found her in bed with Jason Babinski’s father.”

  Cradling Abigail’s head to her chest, Bethany kissed her hair again. She knew the women because their children were in some of the same classes, but she hadn’t accepted their invitations to join them for coffee. Maybe it was time she became more responsive to their offers.

  “I’m glad you finally worked it out, baby. And, you know what I’ve told you about repeating gossip.”

  Abigail nodded. “What goes around comes around.”

  She had warned her children about repeating what they’d overheard others say, while Damon was adamant about them not using profanity. Bethany knew she was being hypocritical, because she was about to do exactly what she’d cautioned her son and daughter not to do: repeat gossip. Waiting until Connor, Abigail and Paige had left for school and Damon for his office, she had gone to the home office, closed the door and retrieved the flash drive she’d concealed on a bookshelf behind a stack of romance novels.

  Salacious gossip she’d overheard she’d typed for the column “Fact or Fiction, Real or Rumor?” She would blog the Daily Dish on a netbook that Nathan had given her. Bethany had repaid Tiffany Jones in spades when Damon had inadvertently mentioned that her daughter had left rehab to take up with an L.A.-based Mexican-American mechanic. Bethany’s scathing, acerbic wit came through when she wrote: It is apparent a D.C. doyenne’s strung-out daughter checked out of her posh L.A. rehab spa because she prefers chorizo instead of breakfast links with her eggs.

  Now she had Libby Archer and Jason Babinski Sr. to add to the list of cheaters. Bethany thought about what Deanna had told her about her about cheating on Spencer, but that was old news. What she wanted was something new, fresh. She had made ce
rtain to save everything on the flash drive instead of her home computer, because Bethany didn’t want anything traced back to her. And she knew Nate would never reveal his source. He’d reassured her no names would ever appear in the column or blog—only innuendos, insinuations and ambiguities.

  “I’m not going to stay long. I just came in to see how you were doing.”

  “I’m almost finished with my homework,” Abigail said.

  “Don’t stay up too late.”

  Abigail kissed her mother’s cheek. “I won’t.”

  Bethany walked out of Abigail’s bedroom and across the hall to Connor’s. She peered in. The glow from several night-lights revealed he was in bed. She and Damon never had to tell Connor to go to bed. Because he required more sleep than most kids his age in order to be alert, her son made certain to get at least ten hours of sleep on school nights.

  She continued down the hallway, stopping at Paige’s bedroom. Bethany was surprised to find the door open. Paige would come home from school and remain cloistered in her bedroom until it was time for dinner. She was usually talkative during the meal, but once the table was cleared she retreated to her room and closed the door until the following morning.

  Bethany met Paige’s startled gaze as she sat on her bed. “Hi.” Her greeting was shaded in neutral tones.

  “What do you want?” Paige spat out.

  “Please watch your tone,” Bethany warned.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. This is your house.”

  “This is also your home, Paige, so that means everyone respects one another.”

  Walking in, Bethany sat on a chair near the door. What had surprised her when Paige had come to live with them was that her bedroom was always incredibly neat. Mrs. Rodgers had remarked that all she had to do was change Paige’s bed, clean her en suite bath, dust and vacuum. She never had to pick up clothes or shelve books, which made the housekeeper’s job an easy one.

  Paige rolled her eyes. “What-eva.”

  Bethany decided to overlook her stepdaughter’s surly attitude. “I want to know if you want a sweet-sixteen party.”

  Paige’s lip curled. “Yeah, right.”

  “Is that a yes or no, Paige?”

  “That’s means you must be on the pipe. Who the hell would I invite to my party?”

  Again, Bethany ignored the insolence. “How about the kids in your class?”

  “I don’t want anything to do with a bunch of losers.”

  “Why are they losers?” Bethany asked.

  Falling back on the pile of pillows behind her shoulders, Paige stared up at the ceiling. “All they do is get high and have sex.”

  Years of performing in front of a camera came into play when Bethany’s expression did not change with the teenager’s admission. She didn’t want to acknowledge that children who’d come from good homes were getting high on drugs. But she was relieved that despite Paige’s anger and hostility she hadn’t gone along with the others. The last thing she needed was to deal with a drug-addicted, promiscuous adolescent.

  “Are there any kids in your school who you’d want to invite?”

  Paige lifted her shoulders under an oversize black T. “There are a few, but they’re not in my class.”

  “How many would you like to invite?”

  There came a beat of silence before Paige said, “I’ll let you know.”

  “When, Paige?”

  “When I think about it.”

  “Don’t think too long, because I need to talk to an event planner about what you’d want.”

  “Do you mean what you want?” Paige snapped nastily.

  “This is not about me,” Bethany countered. “I’m not the one turning sixteen.”

  “What if I don’t want a sweet-sixteen party? All I want is a nose job, and Daddy said I could have one.”

  Bethany pushed off the chair, coming to stand. “If you don’t want a party, then you won’t have one. Good night.”

  Turning on her heel, she walked out of Paige’s bedroom and closed the door behind her. Not having to become involved in planning a party for Paige eliminated what Bethany knew would become a misgiving for making the suggestion. She’d wanted a party to celebrate her sixteenth birthday, but not when her parents couldn’t put food on the table. Her mother had surprised her with her favorite dessert—lemon-filled coconut layer cake and a pearl necklace. It hadn’t mattered that the pearls were imitation and the coating would soon peel off, but for Bethany that had become a birthday to remember.

  Five years later she’d received another memorable gift for her twenty-first birthday—a strand of twelve millimeter golden South Sea pearls from Mikimoto. The actor she’d been dating at the time was a closet gay who’d been touted as one of Hollywood’s sexiest men. She’d kept his secret, and when he’d asked what she wanted for her birthday, Bethany had told him a strand of pearls. They continued to date until her contract with the soap wasn’t renewed.

  After she’d left L.A., Bethany decided to reinvent herself when she concentrated on her new profession as a news journalist. It was a decision she never regretted. She’d married a D.C. power broker, had her dream house and two beautiful children. Her life was as perfect as it could get. The exception was Paige.

  She’d promised herself to try and get along with the recalcitrant girl by extending the olive branch, but she still wasn’t getting through to her. Perhaps, she mused, it was time she stopped trying.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Marisol cradled a tall glass filled with freshly squeezed lemonade. She’d held on to the glass to give herself something to do with her hands.

  Was she bored?

  Yes.

  Did she want to go home?

  Yes!

  She wanted to be anywhere except in Bryce’s sister’s Annapolis family room eating tasteless food. How, she mused, could Georgina contract with a caterer whose dishes were so bland they could’ve passed for her own?

  “What are you thinking about, m’ija?” Bryce whispered in her ear as he flopped down beside her.

  “How I wished I would’ve remembered to put a bottle of sofrito in my purse to sprinkle on my food,” Marisol whispered back.

  “Stop it, sweetheart. The food’s not that bad.”

  Shifting slightly, she stared at Bryce, drowning in his baby-blue eyes. “How can you say that after eating my food?”

  Leaning closer, he kissed her cheek. “No one can match you in the kitchen or in the bedroom.”

  Marisol wanted to tell him that for all that went on in the bedroom she still wasn’t pregnant. Deanna and Bethany had cautioned her to relax, and she wanted to tell them that if she was any more relaxed she would be comatose.

  She took a sip of lemonade, then let out an audible sigh. Marisol knew if she didn’t stop obsessing about becoming pregnant she was going to go crazy. After all, she wouldn’t be the first woman who wouldn’t be able conceive. It also wouldn’t be the end of the world—at least not her world.

  “Please take this,” she said to Bryce, handing him her glass when his two-year-old niece extended her arms for Marisol to pick her up. “Come, baby girl, and give Titi some love.” The little girl with a mop of dirty-blond hair and large soft brown eyes planted a wet, noisy kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, Jessica.” Turning her head slightly, she kissed the toddler. Jessica put two fingers in her mouth, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

  Marisol lost track of time as she, too, closed her eyes, shutting out the activity going on around her as she held the sleeping child. She felt Bryce when he got up, heard the shrieks of children as they chased one another in and out of the room. If it hadn’t been raining they would’ve played outdoors on the expansive property with outdoor basketball and tennis courts and inground pool.

  She’d managed to spend the day with Bryce’s family without fanfare. His sisters had greeted her with polite smiles and impersonal embraces. Their children were more effusive, calling her Titi or Aunt Mari, while her mother-in-law was speechless for a lo
ng moment when she’d given her a pair of sapphire-and-diamond earrings and sapphire-and-gold cuff links for her father-in-law. The card had read from her and Bryce, but his parents knew she’d been the one to select the jewelry.

  “Are you practicing?”

  Marisol smiled, but didn’t open her eyes when Cynthia McDonald sat beside her. “You could say that,” she told Bryce’s mother.

  “Bryce told me the two of you are planning to start a family.”

  Marisol’s eyelids fluttered wildly before she was able to look at Cynthia. The elegant woman had celebrated her seventieth birthday days before Christmas, but her plastic surgeon had managed to turn back time, because a recent face-lift and dermabrasion had erased minute lines and wrinkles that left her face smooth, flawless. She’d suspected her mother-in-law had also had her nose done, because it appeared smaller, more delicate.

  Why, she wondered, did Bryce tell his mother that when they’d been trying for years to have a baby? Marisol nodded. “Yes, it’s true.”

  Cynthia McDonald’s blue-green gaze did not waver. “I know you and I haven’t always gotten along, only because I didn’t think you would make a good wife for my son.”

  A sardonic smile twisted Marisol’s mouth. “You’ve changed your mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “What made you change your mind, Cynthia?”

  The older woman patted her short coiffed silver hair. “I’ve noticed a change in Bryce. He is a lot more focused since he’s married you. He used to have a nervous energy that I’d found off-putting. It was as if he had to prove to his father that he had I think he called it the ‘chops’ to continue the family business.”