A Beaumont Christmas Wedding

by Sarah M. Anderson

  “No.” But that was all he said as he continued to scowl at his phone.

  “Why the heck not?”

  He looked up at her, his eyes full of nothing but challenge. “Because you are beautiful the way you are. Don’t let anyone take that away from you.” Then his phone buzzed and he said, “Excuse me,” and was gone.

  Whitney sat there, stunned, as Rachel cleaned up her pixie cut.

  Beautiful?

  Was that how he thought of her?

  Seven

  This was going south on him. Fast. Matthew struggled to keep his cool. He’d learned a long time ago that losing his temper didn’t solve anything. But he was getting close to losing it right now.

  When the photo of him and Whitney, taken from the sidewalk while they sat inside the restaurant, had popped up on Instagram with the caption OMG WHITNEY WILDZ IN DENVER!?! he’d excused himself from the stylist’s room so that he could be mad without upsetting Whitney. She’d had enough of that already.

  He’d already reported the photo, but he knew this was just the beginning. And after years of cleaning up the messes his siblings and stepmothers had left behind, he also knew there was no way to stop it.

  He was going to make an effort, though. Containment was half the battle. The other half? Distraction.

  If he could bury the lead on Whitney under some other scandal...

  He scanned the gossip sites, hoping that someone somewhere had done something so spectacularly stupid that no one would care about a former teen star having lunch.

  Nothing. Of all the weeks for the rest of the world to be on its best behavior.

  In the days of old—when he’d found himself faced with a crowd of paparazzi outside his apartment, demanding a reaction about his second stepmother’s accusation that she’d caught Hardwick Beaumont in bed with his mistress in this very hotel—Matthew had relied on distraction.

  He’d called Phillip, told him to make a scene and waited for the press to scamper off. It’d worked, too. Bailing Phillip out was worth it when Hardwick had called Matthew into his office and told him he’d done a nice job handling the situation.

  “You’re not mad at Phillip? Or...me?” Matthew had asked, so nervous he’d been on the verge of barfing. The only other times Hardwick had called Matthew into his office had been to demand to know why he couldn’t be more like Chadwick.

  Hardwick had gotten up and come around his desk to put his hands on Matthew’s shoulders. Hardwick had been older then, less than five years from dying in the middle of a board meeting.

  “Son,” Hardwick had said with a look that could have been described only as fatherly on his face. It’d looked so unnatural on him. “When you control the press, you rule the world—that’s how a Beaumont handles it.”

  Son. Matthew could count on both hands the number of times that Hardwick had used that term of affection. Matthew had finally, finally done something the old man had noticed. For the first time in his life, he’d felt like a Beaumont.

  “You just keep looking out for the family,” Hardwick had said. “Remember—control the press, rule the world.”

  Matthew had gotten very good at controlling the press—the traditional press. It was the one thing that made him a Beaumont.

  But social media was a different beast, a many-headed hydra. You cut off one Instagram photo, another five popped up.

  He couldn’t rely on Phillip to cause a scene anymore, now that the man was clean and sober. Chadwick was out, as well—he didn’t deal with the press beyond the controlled environment of interviews that Matthew prescreened for him.

  Matthew stared at his phone. He could call his sister Frances, but she’d want to know why and how and details before she did anything. And once she found out that her former childhood idol Whitney Wildz was involved...

  That left him one choice. He dialed his younger brother Byron.

  “What’d I do now?” Byron said. He yawned, as if Matthew had woken him up at two in the afternoon.

  “Nothing. Yet.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “You are in Denver, right?”

  “Got in this morning.” Byron yawned again. “Hope you appreciate this. It’s a damn long flight from Madrid.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “You mean beyond flying halfway around the world to watch Phillip marry some horse trainer?” Byron laughed.

  Matthew gritted his teeth. Byron sounded just like Dad. “Yes. I need you to be newsworthy today.”

  “What’d Phillip do this time? I thought he was getting married.”

  “It’s not Phillip.”

  Byron whistled. “What’d you get into?”

  Matthew thought back to the photo he’d already reported. Whitney—sitting right next to him. Those people hadn’t known who he was, but it wouldn’t take long for someone to figure out that Whitney Wildz was “with” a Beaumont. “I just need a distraction. Can you help me out or not?”

  This was wrong. All wrong. He was trying to prove that the Beaumont family was back on track, above scandal. He was trying to prove that he had complete control over the situation. And what was he doing?

  Asking his brother to make a mess only days before the wedding...to protect Whitney.

  What was he thinking?

  He was thinking about the way her face had closed down the moment she realized people were staring, the way she sat in his car as if he were driving her to the gallows instead of a posh salon.

  He was thinking about the way she kept offering to change her hair—to drop out—so that he could stay on message.

  He was thinking how close he’d come to kissing her at that lunch counter.

  “How big a distraction?”

  “Don’t kill anyone.”

  “Damn,” Byron said with a good-natured chuckle. “You’ll bail me out?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a pause that made Matthew worry. “Hey—did you invite Harper to the wedding?”

  “Leon Harper, the banker who forced Chadwick to sell the Brewery?”

  “Yeah,” was the uninformative response. But then Byron added, “Did you invite him?”

  “No, I didn’t invite the man who hated Dad so much he took it out on all of us. Why?”

  “I’ll only help you out if you invite the whole Harper family.”

  “He has a family?” Matthew had had the displeasure of meeting Harper only a few times, at board meetings or other official Brewery functions. The man was a shark—no, that was unfair to sharks everywhere. The man was an eel, slippery and slimy and uglier than sin.

  Plus, there was that whole thing about hating the Beaumonts enough to force the sale of the family business

  “Are you serious? Why on God’s green earth would you want Harper there?”

  “Do you want me to make headlines for you or not?” Byron snapped.

  “They can’t come to the wedding—there’s no room in the chapel. But I’ll invite them to the reception.” There would be plenty of room for a few extra people at the Mile High Station. And in a crowd of six hundred guests—many of whom were extremely famous—the odds of Harper running into a Beaumont, much less picking a fight with one, were slim. Matthew could risk it.

  “Done. Don’t worry, big brother—I’ve got a bone or two to pick now that I’m Stateside.” Byron chuckled. “Can’t believe you want me to stir up trouble. You, of all people.”

  “I have my reasons. Just try not to get a black eye,” Matthew told him. “It’ll look bad in the photos.”

  “Yeah? This reason got a name?”

  The back of Matthew’s neck burned. “Sure. And does the reason you ran off to Europe for a year have a name?”

  “I was working,” Byron snapped.

  “That’s what I’m doing here.
Don’t kill anyone.”

  “And no black eyes. Got it.” Byron hung up.

  Matthew sagged in relief. Byron had been in Europe for over a year. He claimed he’d been working in restaurants, but really—who could tell? All that Matthew knew was that Byron had caused one hell of a scene at a restaurant before winding up in Europe. There he’d kept his head down long enough to stay the heck out of the headlines. That’d been good enough for Matthew. One less mess he had to clean up.

  This would work. He’d send out a short, boring press release announcing that Whitney Maddox, former star of Growing Up Wildz and close friend of the bride, was in Denver for the Beaumont wedding. The Beaumonts were pleased she would be in the wedding party. He’d leave it at that.

  Then tonight Byron would go off the rails. Matthew was reasonably sure that his little brother wouldn’t actually kill anyone, but he’d put the odds of a black eye at two to one. Either way, he was confident that Byron would do something that washed Whitney right out of the press’s mind. Who cared about a former child star when the prodigal Beaumont had returned to raise hell at his brother’s wedding?

  “Mr. Beaumont?” Rachel, the stylist, opened the door and popped her head out. “We’re ready for the big reveal.”

  “How’d she turn out?” Now that he had his distraction lined up, he could turn his attention back to Whitney. All of his attention.

  Rachel winked at him. “I think you’ll be pleased with the results.”

  Matthew walked into the private room. Whitney’s back was to him. Her hair wasn’t noticeably shorter, but it was shaped and sleek and soft-looking. A large rhinestone clip was fastened on one side, right over her white streak. He walked around to the front. Her eyes were closed. She hadn’t seen yet.

  God, she was beautiful. Stunning. The makeup artist had played up her porcelain complexion by going easy on the blush and heavy on the red lips. Instead of the smoky eye that Frances and Serena were going to wear, the artist had gone with a cat’s-eye look.

  “Whoa,” he heard himself say. How could people look at this woman and only see Whitney Wildz?

  Because the woman sitting in the chair in front of him was so much more than Whitney Wildz had ever been.

  Whitney’s nose wrinkled at him, but there was no missing the sweet little smile that curved up the corners of her mouth.

  He was going to kiss her. Just as soon as they didn’t have hairstylists and makeup artists hanging around, he was going to muss up that hair and smudge that lipstick and he wasn’t going to feel bad about it at all.

  “Ready, Ms. Maddox?” Rachel said. She spun Whitney’s chair around and said, “Ta-da!”

  Whitney blinked at her reflection, her pale eyes wide with shock.

  Rachel’s smile tensed. “Of course, it’ll look better with the dress. And if you don’t like it...”

  “No, it’s perfect,” Matthew interrupted. “Exactly how I want her to look. Great job.”

  Whitney swallowed. “Perfect?” It came out as a whisper. He noticed her chest was rising and falling with increasing speed.

  He knew what was happening. His sister Frances had always done the same thing when she’d been busted for sneaking around with the hired help. The shallow, fast breathing meant only one thing.

  Whitney was about to freak out.

  “If you could give us a moment,” he said to the stylist.

  “Is everything—?” Rachel asked, throwing a worried look back at Whitney as Matthew hurried the woman out of the room.

  “It’s perfect,” Matthew reassured her as he shut the door in her face. Then he turned back to Whitney.

  She’d come up out of the chair and was leaning into the mirror now. His mind put her back in her dress. “You’re going to look amazing.”

  She started, as if she’d forgotten he was still there. Meeting his gaze in the mirror’s reflection, she gave him a nervous grin. “I don’t look like...her too much?”

  Like Whitney Wildz.

  He couldn’t see anything of that ghost of the past in the woman before him—anything beyond a distinctive hair color. She wasn’t Whitney Wildz—not to him. She was someone else—someone better.

  Someone he liked.

  Someone he’d defend, no matter what the cost.

  He couldn’t help it. He closed the distance between them and brushed the careful edge of her hairstyle away from her cheek. Then he tilted her head back to face him.

  “You look like you,” he assured her.

  Her gaze searched his. The desperation was undisguised this time. He wanted to make her feel better, to let her know that he’d take care of her. He wouldn’t throw her to the wolves or leave her hanging.

  His lips brushed hers. Just a simple, reassuring kiss. A friendly kiss.

  Yeah, right.

  Except...she didn’t close her eyes. He knew this because he didn’t, either. She watched him kiss her. She didn’t throw her arms around his neck and she didn’t kiss him back. She just...watched.

  So he stopped.

  She was even paler now, practically a ghost with red lips as she stared at him with those huge eyes of hers.

  Damn it. For once he’d let his emotions do the thinking for him and he’d screwed up.

  “Whitney...”

  “Knock-knock!” Rachel said in a perky voice as the door opened. “What did we decide?”

  He ran the back of his hand over his mouth and then looked at Whitney. “I think she’s perfect.”

  Eight

  Matthew had been right. The staff at the hotel and spa were exceedingly discreet. There were no cameras or phones pointed at her when she walked out of the hotel. No one yelled her name as the valet pulled up with Matthew’s car. Not a single person tried to grab her while the doorman opened her door and waited for her to get seated.

  But Matthew had kissed her. Somehow, that made everything worse. And better.

  She didn’t know which. All she knew was that when he’d touched her—when he’d looked at her—and said she looked like herself, she’d wanted to kiss him and not kiss him and demand to know which “you” she looked like.

  Which Whitney he thought he was kissing.

  God, her brain was a muddled mess. She knew what to expect from the crowd at the restaurant. She did not know what to expect from Matthew Beaumont.

  Except that he was probably going to keep confusing her.

  Which he did almost immediately.

  “I have the situation under control,” he told her as they drove off for what she hoped was Jo and Phillip’s farm. She couldn’t take any more of this gadding about town. “I’ve done a press release announcing your involvement in the wedding.”

  “You’re announcing I’m here? I thought that’s what you wanted to avoid.” She was feeling better now. Ridiculous, yes. But the sight of her in that mirror, looking like...well, like a Hollywood movie star, but a classic one, had short-circuited her brain. And then he’d kissed her.

  “Trust me—after what happened at the restaurant, everyone knows you’re here. There’s no putting that genie back in the bottle.”

  “This does not make me feel better.” She ran her hand over her hair. It felt much smoother than normal. She didn’t feel normal right now.

  “As I was saying,” Matthew went on with a tense voice, “I’ve sent out a short, hopefully boring press release announcing that we’re happy you’re here. Then tonight my younger brother Byron will do something excessive and highly Beaumont-like.”

  “Wait, what?”

  He didn’t look at her—traffic was picking up—but his grin was hard to miss. “Byron’s going to bury the lead. That’s you.”

  “I—I don’t understand. I thought you wanted the Beaumonts to stay out of the headlines.” She was sure that he’d said something
to that effect yesterday.

  “I do. Byron was going to be newsworthy anyway. He flew off to Europe over a year ago and even I don’t know why. This is just...building on that buzz.”

  She gave him a look. Was he serious?

  He was.

  “And it’s the kind of situation I’m used to dealing with,” he went on. “I can control this kind of press. I’m not going to let people manhandle you.” He said it in such a serious tone that she was momentarily stunned.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  She swallowed, hoping she wouldn’t trip over her words. At least she was safely buckled in a car. The chances of her tripping over her feet were almost zero. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  She wanted to believe that. Desperately. But... “You’re going to throw a Beaumont under the bus for me? You don’t even know me.”

  “That’s not true. And it’s not throwing Byron under the bus if he willingly agrees. The situation is under control,” he said again, as if it was a mantra.

  She wasn’t sure she believed that, no matter how many times he said it. “You don’t even know me,” she repeated. “Yesterday you wouldn’t have just thrown me under the bus to stay on message—you would have backed the bus over me a few times for good measure.”

  “I know you breed award-winning horses, rescue dogs, name your cats after aging pop singers and will do anything for your friends, even if it puts you in the line of fire.” He glanced over at her. “I know you prefer jeans and boots but that you can wear a dress as well as any woman I’ve ever seen. I know that once you were a rock star but now you’re not.”

  Her cheeks warmed at the compliments, but then she realized what he’d said. Rock star? She’d played a rock star on television. Most people considered her an actress first—if they considered her a musician at all.

  Unless... There was something going on here, something that she had to figure out right now. “You recognized me. Right away.”

  He didn’t respond immediately, but she saw him grip the steering wheel even tighter. “Everyone recognizes you. You saw what happened at lunch today.”