Enchantress? That was a new one. And also a testament to Mario’s superpowers. Phillip stopped by the office on a semi-regular basis to have meetings with Chadwick and Matthew about his position as head of special promotions for the brewery. She’d talked to him face-to-face dozens, if not hundreds, of times.
Chadwick made a sound that was somewhere between clearing his throat and growling. “Phillip, you remember Serena Chase, my executive assistant.”
If Phillip was embarrassed that he hadn’t recognized her, he gave no sign of it. He didn’t even break eye contact with her. Instead, he favored her with the kind of smile that probably made the average woman melt into his bed. As it was, she was feeling a little dazzled by his sheer animal magnetism.
“How could I forget Ms. Chase? You are,” he went on, leaning into her, “unforgettable.”
Desperate, she looked at Frances, who gave a small shrug.
“That’s enough.” No mistaking it this time—that was nothing but a growl from Chadwick.
If Chadwick had growled at anyone else like that, he would have sent them diving for cover. But not Phillip. Good heavens, he didn’t even look ruffled. He did give her a sly little wink before he touched her hand to his lips again. Chadwick tensed next to her and she wondered if a brawl was about to break out.
But then he released his grip on her hand and turned his full attention to his brother. Serena heaved a sigh of relief. No wonder Phillip had such a reputation as a ladies’ man.
“So, news,” he said in a tone that was only slightly less sultry than the one he’d been using on her. “I bought a horse!”
“Another one?” Frances and Chadwick said at the same time. Clearly, this was something that happened often.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Chadwick looked...murderous. There really was no other way to describe it. He looked like he was going to throttle his brother in the middle of the Art Museum. “I don’t suppose this one was only a few thousand?”
“Chad—hear me out.” At this use of his shortened name, Chadwick flinched. Serena had never heard anyone call him that but Phillip. “This is an Akhal-Teke horse.”
“Gesundheit,” Frances murmured.
“A what?” Chadwick was now clutching her fingers against his arm in an almost desperate way. “How much?”
“This breed is extremely rare,” Phillip went on. “Only about five thousand in the world. From Turkmenistan!”
Serena felt like she was at a tennis match, her head was turning back and forth between the two brothers so quickly. “Isn’t that in Asia, next to Afghanistan?”
Phillip shot her another white-hot look and matching smile. “Beautiful and smart? Chadwick, you lucky dog.”
“I swear to God,” Chadwick growled.
“People are staring,” Frances added in a light, singsong tone. Then, looking at Serena for assistance, she laughed as if this were a great joke.
Serena laughed as well. She’d heard Chadwick and Phillip argue before, but that was usually behind Chadwick’s closed office door. Never in front of her. Or in front of anyone else, for that matter.
For once, Phillip seemed to register the threat. He took an easy step back and held out his hands in surrender. “Like I was saying—this Akhal-Teke. They’re most likely the breed that sired the Arabians. Very rare. Only about five hundred in this country, and most of those come from Russian stock. Kandar’s Golden Sun isn’t a Russian Akhal-Teke.”
“Gesundheit,” Frances murmured again. She looked at Serena with a touch of desperation, so they both laughed again.
“He’s from Turkmenistan. An incredible horse. One to truly found a stable on.”
Chadwick pinched the bridge of his nose. “How much?”
“Only seven.” Phillip stuck out his chest, as if he were proud of this number.
Chadwick cracked open one eye. “Thousand, or hundred thousand?”
Serena tried not to gape. Seven thousand for a horse wasn’t too much, she guessed. But seven hundred thousand? That was a lot of money.
Phillip didn’t say anything. He took a step back, though, and his smile seemed more...forced.
Chadwick took a step forward. “Seven what?”
“You know, one Akhal-Teke went for fifty million—and that was in 1986 dollars. The most expensive horse ever. Kandar’s Golden Sun—”
That was as far as he got. Chadwick cut him off with a shout. “You spent seven million on a horse while I’m working my ass off to keep the company from being sold to the wolves?”
Everything about the party stopped—the music, the conversations, the movement of waiters carrying trays of champagne.
Someone hurried toward them. It was Matthew Beaumont. “Gentlemen,” he hissed under his breath. “We are having a charity event here.”
Serena put her hand on Chadwick’s arm and gave it a gentle tug. “A very good joke, Phillip,” she said in a slightly too-loud voice.
Frances caught Serena’s eye and nodded in approval. “Chadwick, I’d like to introduce you to the director of the food bank, Miriam Young.” She didn’t know where, exactly, the director of the food bank was. But she was sure Ms. Young wanted to talk with Chadwick. Or, at least, had wanted to talk to him before he’d started yelling menacingly at his relatives.
“Phillip, did I introduce you to my friend Candy?” Frances added, taking her brother by the arm and pulling him in the opposite direction. “She’s dying to meet you.”
The two brothers held their poses for a moment longer, Chadwick glaring at Phillip, the look on Phillip’s face almost daring Chadwick to hit him in full view of the assembled upper crust of Denver society.
Then the men parted. Matthew walked on the other side of Chadwick, ostensibly to lead the way to the director. Serena got the feeling it was more to keep Chadwick from spinning and tackling his brother.
“Serena,” Matthew said simply. “Nicely done. Thus far,” he added in a heavy tone, “the evening has been a success. Now if we can just get through it without a brawl breaking out—”
“I’m fine,” Chadwick snapped, sounding anything but. “I’m just fine.”
“Not fine,” Matthew muttered, guiding them into a side gallery. “Why don’t I get you a drink? Wait here,” he said, parking Chadwick in front of a Remington statue. “Do not move.” He looked at Serena. “Okay?”
She nodded. “I’ve got him.”
She hoped.
Nine
Chadwick had never really believed the old cliché about being so mad one saw red. Turns out, he’d just never been mad enough, because right now, the world was drenched in red-hot anger.
“How could he?” he heard himself mutter. “How could he just buy a horse for that much money without even thinking about the consequences?”
“Because,” a soft, feminine voice said next to him, “he’s not you.”
The voice calmed him down, and some of the color bled back into the world. He realized Serena was standing next to him. They were in a nearly empty side gallery, in front of one of the Remington sculptures that made the backbreaking work of herding cattle look glorious.
She was right. Hardwick had never expected anything from Phillip. Never even noticed him, unless he did something outrageous.
Like buy a horse no one had ever heard of for seven million damn dollars.
“Remind me again why I work myself to death so that he can blow the family fortune on horses and women? So Frances can sink money into another venture that’s bound to fail before it gets off the ground? Is that all I’m good for? A never-ending supply of cash?”
Delicate fingers laced through his, holding him tightly. “Maybe,” Serena said, her voice gentle, “you don’t have to work yourself to death at all.”
He turned to her. She was staring at the statue as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
Phillip had done whatever the hell he wanted since he was a kid. It hadn’t mattered what his grades were, who his friends were, how many sports cars
he had wrecked. Hardwick just hadn’t cared. He’d been too focused on Chadwick.
“I...” He swallowed. “I don’t know how else to run this company.” The admission was even harder than what he’d shared over dinner. “This is what I was raised to do.”
She tilted her head to one side, really studying the bronze. “Your father died while working, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” Hardwick had keeled over at a board meeting, dead from the heart attack long before the ambulance had gotten there. Which was better, Chadwick had always figured, than him dying in the arms of a mistress.
She tilted her head in the other direction, not looking at him but still holding his hand. “I rather like you alive.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she answered slowly, like she really had to think about it. But then her thumb moved against the palm of his hand. “I do.”
Any remaining anger faded out of his vision as the room—the woman in it—came into sharp focus.
“You told me a few days ago,” she went on, her voice quiet in the gallery, “that you wanted to do something for yourself. Not for the family, not for the company. Then you spent God only knows how much on everything I’m wearing.” He saw the corner of her mouth curve up into a sly smile. “Except for a few zeros, this isn’t so different, is it?”
“I don’t need to spend money to be happy like he does.”
“Then why am I wearing a fortune’s worth of finery?”
“Because.” He hadn’t done it because it made him happy. He’d done it to see her look like this, to see that genuine smile she always wore when she was dressed to the nines. To know he could still make a woman smile.
He’d done it to make her happy. That was what made him happy.
She shot him a sidelong glance that didn’t convey annoyance so much as knowing—like that was exactly what she’d expected him to say. “You are an impossibly stubborn man when you want to be, Chadwick Beaumont.”
“It has been noted.”
“What do you want?”
Her.
He’d wanted her for years. But because he was not Hardwick Beaumont, he’d never once pursued her.
Except now he was. He was walking a fine line between acceptable actions and immoral, unethical behavior.
What he really wanted, more than anything, was to step over that line entirely.
She looked up at him through her thick lashes, waiting for an answer. When he didn’t give her one, she sighed. “The Beaumonts are an intelligent lot, you know. They’ll learn how to survive. You don’t have to protect them. Don’t work for them. They won’t ever appreciate it because they didn’t earn it themselves. Work for you.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “Do what makes you happy. Do what you want.”
She did realize what she was telling him, didn’t she? She had to—her fingers wrapped around his, her palm pressed against his cheek, her dark brown eyes looking into his with a kind of peace that he couldn’t remember ever feeling.
What he wanted was to leave this event behind, drive her home, and make love to her all night long. She had to know that was all he wanted—however not-divorced he was, pregnant she was, or employed she was by him.
Was she giving him permission? He would not trap his assistant into any sexual relationship. That wasn’t him.
God, he wanted her permission. Needed it. Always had.
“Serena—”
“Here we are.” Matthew strode into the gallery leading Miriam Young, the director of the Rocky Mountain Food Bank, and a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses. He gave Serena a look that was impossible to miss. “How is everything?”
She withdrew her hand from his cheek. “Fine,” she said, with one of those beautiful smiles.
Matthew made the introductions and Serena politely declined the champagne. Chadwick only half paid attention. Her words echoed around his head like a loose bowling ball in the trunk of a car.
Don’t work for them. Work for you.
Do what makes you happy.
She was right. It was high time he did what he wanted—above and beyond one afternoon.
It was time to seduce his assistant.
* * *
Standing in four-inch heels for two hours turned out to be more difficult than Serena had anticipated. She resorted to shifting from foot to foot as she and Chadwick made small talk with the likes of old-money billionaires, new-money billionaires, governors, senators and foundation heads. Most of the men were in tuxes like Chadwick’s, and most of the women were in gowns. So she blended in well enough.
Chadwick had recovered from the incident with Phillip nicely. She’d like to think that had something to do with their conversation in the gallery. With the way she’d told him to do what he wanted and the way he’d looked at her like the only thing he wanted to do was her.
She knew there was a list of reasons not to want him back. But she was tired of those reasons, tired of thinking she couldn’t, she shouldn’t.
So she didn’t. She focused on how painful those beautiful, beautiful shoes were. It kept her in the here and now.
Shoes aside, the evening had been delightful. Chadwick had introduced her as his assistant, true, but all the while he’d let one of his hands rest lightly on her lower back. She’d gotten a few odd looks, but no one had said anything. That probably had more to do with Chadwick’s reputation than anything else, but she wasn’t about to question it. Even without champagne, she’d been able to fall into small talk without too much panic.
She’d had a much nicer time than when she used to come with Neil. Then, she’d stood on the edge of the crowd, judiciously sipping her champagne and watching the crowd instead of interacting with it. Neil had always talked to people—always looking for another sponsor for his golf game—but she’d never felt like she was a part of the party.
Chadwick had made her a part of it this time. She wasn’t sure she’d ever truly feel like she fit in with the high roller crowd, but she hadn’t felt like an interloper. That counted for a great deal.
The evening was winding down. The crowd was trailing out. She hadn’t seen Phillip leave, but he was nowhere to be seen. Frances had bailed almost an hour before. Matthew was the only other Beaumont still there, and he was deep in discussion with the caterers.
Chadwick shook hands with the head of the Centura Hospital System and turned to her. “Your feet hurt.”
She didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the shoes, but she wasn’t sure her toes would ever be the same. “Maybe just a little.”
He gave her a smile that packed plenty of heat. But it wasn’t indiscriminately flirtatious, like his brother’s. All night long, that goodness had been directed at only one woman.
Her.
He slid a hand around her waist and began guiding her toward the door. “I’ll drive you home.”
She grinned at this statement. “Don’t worry. I didn’t snag a ride with anyone else.”
“Good.”
The valet brought up Chadwick’s Porsche, but he insisted on holding the door for her. Then he was in the car and they were driving at a higher-than-average speed, zipping down the highway like he had someplace to be.
Or like he couldn’t wait to get her home.
The ride was quick, but silent. What was going to happen next? More importantly, what did she want to happen next? And—most importantly of all—what would she let happen?
Because she wanted this perfect evening to end perfectly. She wanted to have one night with him, to touch the body she’d only gotten a glimpse of, to feel beautiful and desirable in his arms. She didn’t want to think about pregnancies or exes or jobs. It was Saturday night and she was dressed to the nines. On Monday, maybe they could go back to normal. She’d put on her suit and follow the rules and try not to think about the way Chadwick’s touch made her feel things she’d convinced herself she didn’t need.
Soon enough, he’d pulled up outside her apartment. His Porsche stuck out like a sore thumb in the p
arking lot full of minivans and late-model sedans. She started to open her door, but he put a hand on her arm. “Let me.”
Then he hopped out, opened her door and held his hand out for her. She let him help her out of the deep seats of his car.
Then they stood there.
His strong hand held tight to hers as he pulled her against his body. She looked up into his eyes, feeling lightheaded without a drop of champagne. All night long, he’d only had eyes for her—but they’d been surrounded by people.
Now they were alone in the dark.
He reached up and traced the tips of his fingers over her cheek. Serena’s eyelids fluttered shut at his touch.
“I’ll walk you to your door,” he said, his voice thick with strain. He stroked her skin—a small movement, similar to the way he’d touched her on Monday.
But this was different. Everything was different now.
This was the moment. This was her decision. She didn’t want sex with Chadwick to be one of those things that “just happened,” like her pregnancy. She was in control of her own life. She made the choices.
She could thank him for the lovely evening and tell him she’d see him bright and early Monday morning. She could even make a little joke about seeing him in a towel again. Then she could walk into her apartment, close the door and...
Maybe never have another moment—another chance—to be with Chadwick.
She made her choice. She would not regret it.
She opened her eyes. Chadwick’s face was inches from hers, but he wasn’t pressing her to anything. He was waiting for her.
She wouldn’t make him wait any longer. “Would you like to come in?”
He tensed against her. “Only if I can stay.”
She kissed him then. She leaned up in the painful, beautiful shoes and pressed her lips to his. There was no “kissing him back,” no “waiting for him to make the first move.”
This was going to happen because she wanted it to. She’d wanted it for years and she was darn tired of waiting. That was reason enough.
“I’d like that.”
The next thing she knew, Chadwick had physically swept her off her feet and was carrying her up to her door. When she gave him a quizzical look, he grinned sheepishly and said, “I know your feet hurt.”
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