Best Kept Secrets

by Shelly Ellis

  She cringed with disgust. “I’m not ‘sticking up’ for him! I’m just saying that—”

  “That’s he’s a hard worker. Yeah, he’s a great goddamn guy. Well, if he’s so great then why am I the one here eating you out and not him? Huh?”

  “You are so . . . so crude,” she huffed.

  Crude? Dante almost laughed. Here she was pretending to be the demure socialite when she had been anything but that less than five minutes ago. He wished he had a tape to replay to show how fast she had ripped off her reception gown, reached for his pants’ zipper, and had his dick in her mouth. He wished he could replay all the moaning and yelling she had done.

  “Let’s cut the bullshit, Charisse. I’m crude, but I’m honest, which is more than I can say for that corny-ass husband of yours.”

  Charisse scowled and extinguished her cigarette. She climbed off the bed, stumbling slightly before she regained her footing. She grabbed the pink silk robe that was tossed over the side of her grand oak headboard.

  “I’m, uh . . . I’m getting tired,” she mumbled as she started to shove her arms into the robe sleeves.

  Tired?

  Okay, maybe he had pushed her a bit too far with his honesty. He knew he could be a little caustic, and maybe even crass, at times and often found it hard to keep himself in check. But he wanted to woo this woman, to win her to his side, because there were sides here in the war he was waging. He wanted to use her affections in his favor in the future. He couldn’t do that if he pissed her off.

  “Charisse, come on, baby—”

  “You should . . . you know, probably head home now,” she said, stepping out of his grasp. She tied the robe belt into a bow and pushed her hair out of her face. “Evan might be heading back from the wedding soon.”

  Not likely, Dante thought. She was just making up excuses to get rid of him, but he wouldn’t be put off that easily.

  “Honey,” he whispered as he stood from the bed and walked naked toward her. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  She looked away and pretended to cry, wiping at her eyes, puckering her lips. He wrapped an arm around her slender waist as she dropped her head to his shoulder.

  “Evan’s so mean to me, Dante,” Charisse whimpered with a sniff, slurring some of her words again. “I don’t . . . I don’t need for you to be mean to me too.”

  He wondered if those fake tears worked on her husband. They certainly didn’t work on him, but he was willing to play along.

  “I know. I’m sorry if I hurt you.” He reached for her now empty glass, grabbed a nearby decanter, and filled the glass again. “Here, have a drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

  She hesitated before accepting his liquid peace offering. He knew her. She was never one to turn down a drink. She sipped from the glass before raising her head from his shoulder and looking up at him.

  “Do you mean it?”

  He nodded. “Of course, I do.”

  After that, she downed the rest of her glass in one gulp.

  Dante reached for her robe belt and began to slowly untie it. “What do you say we have one more go around before I leave?” he asked, pulling open one of the robe panels and cupping one of her breasts. He ran his thumb over the nipple and could feel her tremble slightly under his palm. “One more before I hit the road, baby . . . before Evan comes home?”

  If he comes home . . .

  “I don’t know, Dante,” she whispered.

  Then his hand descended to the moist spot between her thighs. “You sure about that?” he asked, rubbing her there. He lowered his lips to her neck and kissed her pulse then her shoulders.

  She set her glass back on the night table and pushed the robe off of her shoulders, letting it fall to the hardwood floor, her tears now forgotten. “Well, okay, but we’ll have to be . . . you know, quick.”

  “Quick, huh?” he asked before roughly shoving her back onto the bed, then flipping her over so that she was face down on the sheets.

  She raised herself so that she was kneeling on all fours. “Well, not too fast,” she moaned as he began to stroke her again with the tantalizing slow circular motion of his fingers, making her wetter. She balled the sheets in her fists. “We . . .” She groaned and started to pant. “We still have to enjoy ourselves, right?”

  “Damn straight,” he said, parting her legs further and climbing between them. He then reached for one of the unopened packets of condoms still on her night table.

  Because if there was one thing he did do for Charisse, that was help her enjoy herself. He offered her booze, conversation, and “no-strings attached” sex while she played poor little rich girl in her jilted husband’s mansion.

  And she better remember that shit when I need a favor from her one day, he thought as he entered her and the yelling started all over again.

  Chapter 4

  PAULETTE

  “Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts,” Paulette murmured as she set the pregnancy test on the marble countertop. She gazed into the mirror, wiping at the lipstick on her teeth, finger-combing wayward strands of hair back into place. She glanced at the pregnancy test, willing the word PREGNANT to appear in the digital window. When the twirling hour glass stayed on the screen instead, she grumbled.

  What the hell is taking it so long?

  Unable to handle the torture of suspense any longer, she decided to cover the plastic stick with a hand towel and busy herself straightening up the master bathroom, wiping down the counter, rearranging the toothbrushes and cans of shaving cream.

  She glanced at the hand towel again.

  It was one of eight embroidered in Edwardian Script with the letter W. The “W” represented Williams, her new surname since tying the knot with the love of her life, Antonio Williams, five weeks ago. The hand towels had been a wedding gift—one of many that Paulette still was unearthing from the four-foot-tall piles of wrapped boxes and gift bags in their living room downstairs. She had taken a break from the great unwrapping to take her pregnancy test, and now she was questioning that decision.

  I should have waited a few more days, maybe even a week, she thought. I took it too soon.

  But she couldn’t turn back now. She had peed on the stick and now she’d just have to wait for the results.

  Paulette turned on the faucet and washed her hands though they weren’t dirty. She was running out of ways to distract herself. Her gaze drifted back to the hand towel on the counter yet again.

  The test should be finished by now. The box said less than five minutes for results.

  She reached for the towel, then hesitated. What if the test said she wasn’t pregnant?

  She was only late by a couple of days, but her periods had always been so regular that you could practically set a clock to them. And she had prayed during her honeymoon that she and Antonio would make a baby while in Cabo San Lucas. Maybe God had heard her prayer. Wouldn’t it be perfect for a little girl or boy to arrive nine months after their wedding—a little girl who had big brown eyes like Paulette or a little boy who would one day be as tall and strong as his daddy, Antonio? This baby would make everything right in their lives, and he or she could finally erase the memory of the baby Paulette had lost long ago.

  “Lost? What do you mean ‘lost’? The baby you killed, you mean,” the shrewish voice in her head corrected, but she quickly snuffed it out.

  She didn’t want to think about that right now. That had happened back when she was sixteen years old. She hadn’t known any better. She wasn’t that foolish girl anymore, desperate to break out of the mold of “Perfect Paulette” that had been created by her family and her father, George, in particular. Now she was a happily married woman!

  Paulette pursed her lips, closed her eyes, and pulled back the hand towel. When she opened her eyes and saw the digital screen on the pregnancy test, her shoulders slumped.

  NOT PREGNANT, it read.

  She took a deep breath, sucking in her disappointment and pushing it like her breath to the pit of her st
omach.

  “Well, I’ve only been off the pill a couple of months,” she whispered, gnawing her bottom lip. Her body probably needed time to adjust, for the plumbing to get back into the swing of things. She would get pregnant soon. She was sure of it.

  “Baby,” Antonio said, startling her with a knock at the bathroom door, “you’ve been in there for a while. Everything okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Paulette answered quickly, grabbing the pregnancy test, instruction leaflet, and box, and dumping them all in a grocery bag. She knotted the bag and frantically looked around her for a place to hide it. She settled for a shelf underneath her side of the bathroom counter. “I’ll be right out!”

  She didn’t want Antonio to know she was taking the test. He didn’t even know she was trying to get pregnant, that she was off the pill.

  When she’d tried not long after they’d become engaged to broach the topic of having a baby, he’d said that it would probably be better for them to wait.

  “What’s the rush?” he had asked. “Let’s get settled first. Let’s spend a few years with it being just us. We’ve got years to have a baby.”

  But she couldn’t wait years. She wanted a baby now! When she got pregnant, she’d tell Antonio it was an accident.

  I guess something went wrong with my birth control or maybe I skipped a day, she thought, rehearsing the lie in her head. Besides, she knew when he found out that he was going to be a father he’d be too elated to ask any questions.

  “Baby, seriously, are you okay in there?” Antonio asked, knocking again.

  “I’m fine . . . really!” She closed the oak cabinet and turned off the faucet. “I’m just . . . just freshening up!”

  “Well, hurry up and come out here! I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  A surprise? She paused.

  Antonio was always full of surprises. He had been since the early days when they started dating. He’d surprise her with sweet gestures that would make most women swoon. Of course, since they had arrived home from their honeymoon it had been a while since he had brought home a bouquet of roses or since she’d wandered into the bathroom to find a candlelit bubble bath waiting for her. Now Antonio was more preoccupied with catching up with work at his consulting firm. He hoped to move up the management ladder and maybe become a senior VP one day. That meant long hours and Antonio often coming home late, but Paulette supported her husband’s industrial spirit. So what if it meant she ate more and more meals alone at home and sometimes went to bed without seeing him at all? She was his wife and therefore, his biggest cheerleader.

  “Your job as a wife is to maintain the home, your family, and your marriage, Sweet Pea. That’s what every good woman does,” Paulette’s deceased mother’s voice suddenly intoned, playing back from memory. The instant Paulette heard the voice, she cringed. She didn’t want advice like that. She didn’t want to be like her mother, ignored and taken for granted by their father—hell, taken for granted by everyone!

  No, Paulette wouldn’t be like Angela Murdoch. The distance she felt from her husband was only temporary. She’d carve her own path and have a happy marriage—unlike her mother.

  Paulette opened the bathroom door to find her husband patiently waiting for her.

  While she had been unpacking their wedding gifts, he had been in their garage, cutting the wood trim that would go in their entryway. Since about 8 a.m. neighbors could hear the sound of his buzzing table saw halfway down the block. Antonio’s T-shirt and jeans were now covered with sawdust and oil. Sweat stains were on his shirt along his chest and under his arms.

  He had never looked more handsome or sexy to her.

  “What’s the surprise?”

  “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.” He then leaned forward to kiss her.

  She closed her eyes and braced herself for a warm, wet one, but instead he placed a chaste kiss on her cheek. She opened her eyes, taken aback.

  “Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand and dragging her down the hall toward the stairwell.

  Steel pans with paint rollers, paint cans, and tarp littered the hardwood floor and leaned against the wainscoting, making their hallway a bit of a hazard zone. Antonio was still putting the last finishing touches here too.

  Paulette thought all his DIY projects were sweet. She had grown up having servants doing things for her. Having a man who insisted doing everything himself was rather charming.

  “It must be a good surprise if you’re this excited,” she said as they walked down the stairs.

  “Oh, trust me,” he assured her as they stepped off the last riser. “You’ll love it. Close your eyes first.”

  She did as he ordered, allowing him to guide her a few feet as she held out her free hand to avoid hitting a wall or stumbling on their Afghan rug.

  “All right. Open your eyes,” he said.

  She slowly opened them, still grinning. When she saw who was standing in front of her, her smile teetered a little. It took all her willpower and upbringing to keep it in place.

  “Mama’s here to make us brunch, baby!” he said, rubbing Paulette’s shoulders. “And she brought your favorite—sticky buns!”

  His plump mother turned around from the oven, bumping the door closed with her hip. She proudly held up a steaming pan of the buns in illustration.

  This was the surprise?

  First of all, Paulette hated his mother’s sticky buns with a passion. The melted icing would stick to the roof of her mouth. The pecans would lodge in her teeth. And she didn’t know what diabolical substance was in those things that always made her constipated.

  “I just warmed these up,” said Reina Williams, taking off her oven mitts and setting the pan on the granite countertop. She glanced at Paulette and absently waved her toward the overhead cabinets. “Go and get some plates so I can serve this, will ya? Antonio, honey, you go and have a seat at the table.”

  The way Reina was acting, you would think she was standing in her French country kitchen and Paulette was the visitor. Paulette gritted her teeth as she walked to the cabinets, while Antonio grinned as he pulled out a chair at their kitchen table, shoved aside the pitcher filled with hydrangeas, and waited for his wife and mother to serve him.

  Paulette removed the ceramic plates from the shelves, resisting the urge to smash them to the tiled floor in frustration.

  Much like her gooey pastries, Antonio’s mother, Reina, had the bad habit of lingering around longer than she should and leaving a nasty taste behind. Since Paulette and Antonio had arrived back from their honeymoon, Reina had come to their new home almost daily to add her own knickknacks and finishing touches, to cook a few meals, and to generally make sure that “her boy” was being taken care of.

  Paulette had known that Antonio was a bit of a mama’s boy. When they had started dating, she had found it charming that he had such a close relationship with his mother. A man who respects his mama is bound to respect the woman he loves, as the saying goes. But as time wore on, the connection between Antonio and Reina began to make Paulette more and more . . . uncomfortable.

  Reina’s name meant “queen” in Spanish, and obviously, the three-hundred-and-fifty-pound woman seemed to take that title literally. She had tried to flex her muscles with Paulette early on, making critical comments about how she wore her hair, what clothes she wore, and how she should properly show Antonio affection. Paulette had tried to be nice and accommodate her at first, but after a while she’d started to chafe under Reina’s constant criticisms.

  Paulette had grown up with a father who had lorded over her and the rest of her family. Once she’d moved out of the Murdoch estate and become an adult, she’d had no desire to return to those days. She didn’t want to be like her mother, who had sat by quietly while being taken advantage of. She wouldn’t bow down and kiss Reina’s ring, no matter how much the woman wanted.

  Paulette set two plates on the table. “Actually, I think I’ll save my sticky buns for later, Reina. I’m not hungry.”

>   “You should be hungry,” Reina said as she walked to the table. She used a metal spatula to scoop out a sticky bun onto Antonio’s plate. “Tony tells me you didn’t cook any breakfast this morning—not even for him!”

  Paulette glanced at her husband, who looked down sheepishly as he grabbed his fork and dug into his sticky dessert.

  Thanks a lot, honey, she thought.

  “I didn’t have a chance to cook anything,” she explained, leaning against the kitchen island. “We both had a busy morning.”

  “Uh-huh,” Reina grunted, eyeing her. “Well, Tony’s a boy who needs three meals a day. He’s always been a big eater.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. But Tony knows how to use an oven just like I do, don’t you, baby?”

  At that, even through all those layers of fat, Paulette could see Reina’s shoulders and back stiffen. She wasn’t accustomed to being talked back to, but it was something she would just have to get used to from now on, Paulette resolved.

  Antonio loudly cleared his throat. “So, uh, baby, think you can take a break from our wedding gifts?” he asked, trying desperately to change the subject. He knew how she felt about his mother, but he hated to see the two argue. “Mama wondered if maybe you could go to church with her and help out.”

  “The deaconesses are gathering goods for our food drive,” Reina said proudly while Antonio helped himself to yet another sticky bun. “Lots of good Christian folk donated canned food and other things for the homeless. We could use some extra volunteers.”

  “Sorry, Reina, I would love to,” she lied, “but I already have other plans for today. I was going to visit someone. I haven’t seen her since the wedding and I really didn’t get to talk to her that day anyway with all the stuff that was going on.”

  Reina frowned. “What friend?”

  As if asking, “What person could possibly be more important than me?”

  “Leila Hawkins. You don’t know her, but she used to be a close friend of the family. She was good buddies with my brother Evan.”

  Very good . . . then it all fell apart, Paulette thought sadly. She had never gotten a straight answer from Evan for why he was no longer friends with Leila.