by Shelly Ellis
“What’s his name?”
She squinted at Antonio. Why did he want to know that?
“What’s his name?” he repeated again, glowering at her and taking a menacing step toward her. “What’s that motherfucker’s name?”
She was still gaping when he suddenly lunged for her, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her so hard that her bones rattled. “Tell me! Tell me, goddamn it!”
“Tony, you’re hurting me!”
“Just tell me his name!” he ordered as he shoved her back against the wall.
“It’s Marques!” she screamed and he finally released her. Paulette’s teeth were chattering from how much she was shaking. “Marques W-w-whitney.”
She watched helplessly as her husband stormed across their bedroom’s plush carpet. He grabbed his car keys from his mahogany dresser, along with his cell phone. She took hesitant steps toward him.
“What . . . what are you doing?”
He turned and roughly shoved past her on his way to their bedroom door.
“W-where are you going, Tony? Tony?”
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he strode through the bedroom doorway into their second-floor hall. She raced after him, running to catch up with him as he went down the hall and then the staircase. He took the steps two at a time.
“Tony, please don’t leave! I’m sorry!” she yelled as he walked across their marble foyer, swung open the front door, and slammed it closed behind him. She stared at the closed front door in shock.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered before crumbling to the bottom step and bursting into sobs.
Later that night, Paulette called her husband’s cell phone more than a dozen times. He never answered. Evan called her, along with Leila and Terrence.
“Just checking to see if you guys are on your way,” Evan said in the voice mail message. “We don’t want to start the dinner without you. Give me a call when you get this.”
But Paulette never returned their phone calls. She just sat in the dark at the bottom of the staircase, crying softly and waiting for her husband to come home. She stared eagerly at the window when she caught sight of passing headlights, only to close her eyes, dejected when the headlights didn’t turn into her driveway and, instead, continued down the road.
At 3 a.m., Antonio still had not returned. Heartbroken and exhausted, Paulette finally climbed the stairs, collapsed into her bed, and drifted off to sleep.
Paulette awoke a little before eight o’clock with puffy eyes and a hung-over feeling, like she had downed several bottles of wine. She pushed herself up to her elbows and looked to her left to find her husband’s pillow still empty. Her shoulders fell.
So that’s it, she thought as she pushed her hair out of her eyes and stared at the vacant spot on the bed beside her. Her marriage was over. She wondered whether she or her brother would get divorced first.
Paulette slowly climbed out of bed and went into her bathroom, removing her cocktail dress from the night before, which was now soiled with her sweat, tears, and makeup. She took a quick shower, brushed her teeth, and tamed the rat’s nest that was her hair so that she could put it into a braid at the nape of her neck. By the time she walked down the stairs in a T-shirt and drawstring pants to the foyer below, she felt less groggy but still miserable. She also felt slightly nauseated, though she wasn’t sure if that was the aftermath of the horrible night she had endured, or morning sickness starting to rear its ugly head. As she neared the kitchen, she paused. Her eyes widened in amazement. She halted in the entryway.
“Tony?”
He was standing near the granite counter with a laundry basket filled with folded clothes in one of his arms. A glass of orange juice was in his other hand. He was watching the small flat-screen TV on one of the kitchen counters. The volume was set on low, but she could see he had turned on the morning news where a digital map showed backups along the major arteries of Capital Beltway. It was such a benign scene—Antonio standing there in the kitchen with a laundry basket watching the news—that it caught her off guard. It was like she had pressed rewind and last night had never happened.
“Tony, what are you . . . when did you get in?” she asked, gazing at him in disbelief.
He glared at her. The look on his face alone—contempt mixed with barely contained anger—was a reminder that last night had indeed happened.
“Not too long ago,” he mumbled.
She hesitated again before stepping into their kitchen. “Look, Tony, about . . . about what happened yesterday . . .”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But . . . but Tony, I still have to—”
“I told you, I don’t wanna fucking talk about it!” he exploded, slamming his glass back to the kitchen island, causing juice to splash over his hand and onto the granite.
She watched as he dropped the basket to the floor, grabbed the edge of the counter, leaned forward, and closed his eyes. She could see the muscles in his back and arms go rigid. He took several long breaths.
“I just . . . I just need some time, all right?” he rasped hoarsely. “I just need some time . . . to work through this.”
She nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “Whatever . . . whatever you need.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her. He then grabbed the basket from the floor and strode out of the room.
Paulette stood alone in the kitchen for several seconds, not moving and listening to the sound of the news broadcast playing in the background and Antonio’s angry footsteps.
Her marriage wasn’t over, but it was nowhere near to what it used to be. Antonio said he needed time, but how long would that be? Would he forgive her in enough time for her to tell him about the baby? Would he figure out that she was pregnant before she had the chance to explain everything to him?
Paulette sighed wearily and reached for a roll of paper towels and began to clean up the spilled orange juice. She looked at the glass that Antonio had held and saw that it was now cracked. She poured out the juice and tossed the glass into the trash, then grabbed the cold pitcher filled with OJ and carried it across the kitchen to the refrigerator.
Even though her life was falling apart, that didn’t mean she also had to have a dirty kitchen.
As she placed the pitcher on the kitchen shelf, she noticed the news broadcast on television out of the corner of her eye. Police cruisers were parked in front of the wrought-iron fence of an apartment complex. The scene gave her pause. She turned and looked at the screen more closely. It was Marques’s apartment complex with the bold words HOMICIDE underneath it.
Paulette quickly reached for the remote and turned up the volume, feeling her hand shake as she did it.
“Police are investigating the homicide of a long-time resident of Blue Arbor Towers,” a female voice said as the camera zoomed in on the front door of Marques’s apartment building, where several officers, in uniforms and plain clothes, streamed in and out. “The victim, Marques Whitney, was bludgeoned and strangled. Witnesses say that they heard noises coming from Whitney’s apartment sometime in the early morning hours. Several report that they heard screaming, but no one saw the victim or anyone else leave the apartment.”
A panicked voice started to scream in Paulette’s head, “Where was Tony all last night when he wouldn’t answer your phone calls? Where did he go? Did he use Marques’s name to find him? Had Antonio tracked down her lover and strangled him to death?”
No, Paulette thought desperately as her shaking increased. Tony wouldn’t do that!
The TV screen cut to the placid face of the Asian woman behind the news desk.
“Whitney was facing charges of drug possession and violation of parole at the time of his death. A confidential source said police speculate that his murder may be drug related. There are currently no suspects.” The woman abruptly smiled. “In lighter news, a local track team is headed to—”
“I’m beat,” Antonio suddenly said behind Paulette, making her whip around from the t
elevision and stare up at him. “I’m getting some sleep.”
Paulette stared at Antonio, looking at his calm expression. She gaped.
“I’ll be in the guest room. I’m moving my things in there,” he said flatly.
“O-okay,” she said softly, then watched her husband walk out of the kitchen and slowly up the stairs.
As she stared at Antonio’s retreating back, she fought to control her breathing. She couldn’t stop shaking. The vague nausea that she had felt before suddenly came over her like a superstorm. She turned, raced to the kitchen sink, and vomited until she felt completely empty.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
BEST KEPT SECRETS
Shelly Ellis
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The suggested questions that follow are included to
enhance your group’s reading of this book.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. Was Evan justified in turning Leila away when she asked him for help at Paulette’s wedding?
2. Paulette sees her mother-in-law as an obstacle to her happiness with her new husband, Antonio. How would you establish boundaries with your intrusive mother-in-law?
3. Leila once lied to Evan to get something for Brad. Have you ever told a lie for love? If not, under what circumstances is lying for love justified?
4. Evan knows that he should leave his wife. Is he noble or stupid for putting his family reputation before his personal desires?
5. Paulette’s ex-boyfriend blackmails her into giving him money in order to protect her secret. Was she right to give in to his extortion, or should she have told her husband the truth instead?
6. Should Leila have accepted Evan’s offer to hire her considering their past sexual tension?
7. Evan and Leila decide to engage in an affair. Is Leila a hypocrite for doing this after she suffered for years through her husband’s affairs?
8. In a final act of mercy, Evan decides to help his wife even though she had been cruel to him and cheated on him for most of their marriage. Would you have done the same?
9. Paulette finally decides to confess her secrets to her husband, but she doesn’t tell him her biggest secret. Should she have told him everything?
Secrets and scandals are a way of life for the wealthy
Murdochs of Chesterton, Virginia. But the lies that bind
them may end up tearing them apart . . .
Don’t miss the next thrilling novel in the
Chesterton Scandal series,
Bed of Lies
Available in May 2016!
Chapter 1
TERRENCE
“Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about, baby!” Terrence Murdoch yelled over the heavy bass before tossing hundred-dollar bills into the air and letting them fall like confetti. The cute brunette in front of him showed her appreciation by doing a split on the stage, clad in only a smile and a bright yellow G-string that glowed under the blue-hued stage lights. Two other strippers danced beside her in clear platform stilettos, gyrating and swinging around each pole as Terrence and his friends hooted and yelled with delight in the VIP section of the club.
Terrence didn’t know where to look first. It was a delectable sampling of full breasts, round thighs, and pert behinds. He just wanted to dive in and bask in all the womanly beauty.
He raised his beer bottle and toasted the sexy performance. “I’ve died and gone to heaven!” he cried. He then turned to his older brother Evan who had hung back from the stage and chose to stay at the table behind them. “Ain’t they beautiful, man?”
When he saw what Evan was doing, his grin disappeared. He slammed his bottle back to the table in outrage. “Ev, what the . . . what the fuck? Are you kidding me?”
Instead of admiring the strippers, Evan had been squinting down at his BlackBerry under the flashing strobe lights. At Terrence’s cry of outrage, the company CEO glanced up from his phone screen.
“Huh?” Evan asked absently. “Oh, yeah, it’s great, Terry.” He began to type on the phone keys again.
“Ev, put that damn phone down and look at this, man!”
“I’ll be right with you. Just let me finish this email,” Evan said, still furiously typing. “Got to get this out tonight. They’re in a different time zone.”
Terrence reached over and yanked the BlackBerry out of Evan’s hand, catching his brother by surprise.
“No, look at it now! How can you be doing business when you have this in front of your face?” he asked, jabbing toward the stage.
One of the women dropped to her knees before turning her ass toward the men huddled around her. She did a twerk that made the men holler for more. Another stripper hopped up on a pole and twirled around and around, letting her blond curls dangle inches above the ground.
“I mean . . . come on!” Terrence turned back to look at his brother with a grin that was so wide it could barely be contained on his face. “Look at this!”
Evan gazed at the two strippers, inclined his head, and nodded. “Nice,” he said thoughtfully, like he was considering a new pair of shoes.
“Nice?” Terrence comically looked at the women on stage, whipped his head to glare at his brother then stared at the women on the stage again. “What the hell do you mean, ‘Nice’?” He jabbed his index finger at the strippers. “Those women are fuckin’ perfect, Ev!”
Evan emphatically shook his head and smiled as he reached into his jacket pocket and whipped out another cell phone. He dragged his index finger across the screen, scrolling through a series of photos. “No, this is perfect.”
He held the glass screen toward Terrence. Terrence squinted under the club lighting to see what his brother was showing him. It was a photo of Evan’s fiancée, Leila. She was wearing a tank top and yoga pants and rolling her eyes as Evan took the picture, like she had wanted anything but to be photographed at that moment.
Terrence had to admit that his future sister-in-law was one gorgeous woman. And Evan had been pining after her for years—hell, decades! He had been secretly in love with her since he was nine years old. In Evan’s mind, Leila Hawkins had probably reached almost mythical proportions in beauty, brains, and loveliness.
But still, how could a man ignore what was right in front of his face? It destroyed the whole purpose of Evan being here at the strip club if he sat toward the back of the room, fiddling on his BlackBerry.
Terrence had invited Evan out with his friends for a night of drinking and debauchery to give Evan a long-needed break. His older brother was a consummate workaholic and now when he wasn’t working, he was almost plastered to the side of his new fiancée. Terrence had wanted his big bro to have some fun. But Evan looked like he would be more entertained if he was sitting at his desk at Murdoch Conglomerated going over contracts and sales figures. Or maybe he’d rather be sitting beside Leila, staring at tablecloth swatches for their wedding reception.
“Are you telling me you aren’t just a little bit interested in looking at those titties?” Terrence pleaded. He once again pointed to the stage. “Not just a little?”
Evan burst into laughter. “I’m sorry, Terry, but from here they look like average breasts to me. But you know what? Go ahead and enjoy yourself. Don’t let me ruin your fun.” He yanked his BlackBerry out of Terrence’s hand. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll take this back.”
Terrence slowly shook his head in bemusement as he watched his brother sit down in one of the leather club chairs and start scanning through his emails again.
“Operation: Get Evan Turnt Up” was going downhill—fast.
Terrence glanced at the drink Evan was now sipping: a Shirley Temple. He could try to ply Evan with alcohol to make him loosen up, but he knew that wouldn’t work. Evan didn’t drink thanks to his alcoholic wife, Charisse. Her drunkenness had been part of the reason they were now getting a divorce—that and the fact that she had been cheating on Evan.
Nope, getting him drunk is out of the question, Terrence thought.
An idea suddenly
popped into Terrence’s head. A wicked smile crossed his full lips.
“Well, if they just look like average titties from here, I guess you’re going to have to see them up close.”
Evan frowned quizzically as he lowered his glass black to the marble tabletop and looked up from his email. “I’m sorry . . . what?”
Terrence suddenly turned on his heel, marched toward the stage, and shoved a group of his friends aside so that he was front and center.
“Ladies!” he shouted as he whipped out a series of hundred-dollar bills, spread them into a fan, and brandished them in the air. “My brother would like a lap dance. Now! A grand to the first woman who does it.”
The three strippers paused mid-routine. One almost fell off her pole. Another scrambled off her knees. The three women ran off the stage and came barreling toward Evan, whose mouth was agape. One looked like she nearly twisted her ankle trying to make her way down the short staircase.
“No!” Evan said, holding up his hands in protest and furiously shaking his head. “Really, ladies, I’m fine. I don’t . . . I don’t want a lap dance!”
Terrence cackled as he watched the strippers shove and elbow check each other to get to Evan first. The blonde turned out to be the victor and promptly fell into Evan’s lap and started gyrating for all she was worth.
“Terry!” Evan yelled, trying his best to rise out of his chair without touching the half-naked women who were huddled around and over him. “Terry!”
“Enjoy it, Ev!” Terrence grabbed his beer and held it up before tossing the hundreds in his hand into the air and taking a swig. “You deserve it!”
“Hey, you forgot this,” Terrence said as he handed Evan his suit jacket.
The two men walked out of the strip club almost two hours later into the chilly February night. A few of Terrence’s friends trailed behind them, laughing and joking with one another.