Capital Wives by Rochelle Alers Page A

their magic.
    Life was better than good for Marisol.
    It was perfect.
    Bryce had told his wife what he knew she’d wanted to hear. He had no intention of subjecting himself to a fertility test when he knew what the results would be. How could he explain to Marisol that he’d slept with a woman who let him do whatever he wanted to her and in the end had contracted aSTD that left him unable to father a child? And he definitely had no intention of adopting some woman’s cast-off or stray. If it wasn’t his seed, then he didn’t want it.

Capital Wives

Chapter Four
    M arisol and Deanna exchanged puzzled glances in the mirror of the powder room at the National Museum of Women in the Arts. “Is that someone crying?” Deanna whispered.
    Marisol nodded. “I think so.” Soft sobs were coming from behind the door of one of the stalls.
    Deanna bent down to find a pair of pale feet in a pair of designer heels. “Block the door and do not let anyone in,” she told Marisol. “I’m going to try and get her to come out.” She knocked softly on the stall door while Marisol walked to the outer door. “Hello? Are you all right in there?”
    â€œLeave me alone.”
    â€œI’m not going to leave you alone until you open the door to let me see that you’re okay.”
    â€œUse another bathroom,” Marisol called out to someone knocking on the door. “Someone just threw up in here.”
    â€œGood girl,” Deanna crooned, replying to her friend’s quick thinking. She knocked softly on the stall again. “Open the door or I’ll get the museum’s security to do it.”
    What she didn’t want was to read about an incident that someone had been found dead or unconscious in the restroom during a fundraiser and she had done nothing because she was minding her business.
    â€œJust open it a little bit,” Deanna continued, this time in a softer tone. She heard the distinctive sound of the sliding latch and then the door opened a fraction. “A little more so I can see your face.” The crack widened and she saw the pale, mascara-streaked face with red, puffy eyes. “You know you can’t go back to the ballroom looking like a hot mess.” The blonde woman nodded. “Where’s your purse?”
    â€œIt’s…it’s back at my table.”
    â€œWho are you here with?”
    â€œMy husband.”
    â€œDon’t move,” Deanna ordered. Walking back to the counter, she pulled several tissues from a dispenser, pushing the wad through the slight opening. “Blow your nose.”
    â€œHey, Dee. I’m not going to be able to keep them out indefinitely.”
    â€œGive me a few more minutes,” she said to Marisol. “Who’s your husband?”
    There came a moment of silence. “Damon Paxton.”
    Deanna whistled softly. She knew there was something familiar about the woman, but hadn’t been able to recall her name. The tabloids had had a field day when Damon Paxton divorced his wife to marry a woman young enough to be his daughter. The fact that Jean Paxton had come from an old D.C. moneyed family hadn’t endeared Bethany to those who had labeled her as a home wrecker, along with a few other four-and five-letter words that were whispered but not printed.
    â€œClose the door. I’m going to get your purse, so you can clean up your face before you go back to your table. I’mcertain you don’t want to give the old cows the satisfaction of seeing you upset.”
    â€œYou know who I am?”
    â€œYes, I do. Now, close and lock the door. Marisol, come here,” she called out when the lock to the stall slid into place.
    Marisol McDonald strutted over in a pair of five-inches strappy stilettos. Instead of the requisite full-length gown, she had worn a short fitted black dress with a scooped neckline and bared back. Her inky-black curls, piled atop her head,