She giggled at him. This was nice. Comfortable. Plus, she hadn’t had to take her hat or sunglasses off, so no one had even looked twice at her. “Gosh, maybe it was your pretentious taste in dining, huh?”
“Careful,” he said, trying to sound serious. The grin, however, completely undermined him. “Or I’ll get my revenge on you later.”
All that glorious heat wrapped around the base of her spine, radiating outward. What was he offering? And more to the point—would she take him up on it this time?
Still, she didn’t want to come off as naive. “Promises, promises. Do either of the remaining places serve real food?”
“One.” His phone chimed again. “Hang on.” He answered it. “Yes? Yes, we’re on our way. Yes. That’s correct. Thanks.”
“We’re on our way?”
That got her another grin, but this one was less humorous, hungrier. “You’ll see.”
After a few more minutes, they arrived at their destination. It wasn’t so much a restaurant but a pub. Actually, that was its name—the Pub. Instead of the prissiness of the first two places, this was all warm wood and polished brass. “A bar?”
“A pub,” he corrected her. “I know Jo doesn’t drink, so I was trying to avoid places that had a bar feel to them. But if I left it up to Frances, she’d have you all down at a male strip club, shoving twenties into G-strings.”
Realization smacked her upside the head. This wasn’t about her or even Jo—this whole search for a place to have a bachelorette party was about managing his sister’s image. “You were trying to put us in places that would look good in the society page.”
His mouth opened, but then he shut it with a sheepish look. “You’re right.”
The hostess came forward. “Mr. Beaumont, one moment and I’ll get your order.”
“Wait, what?”
He turned to her and grinned. “I promised you lunch.” He handed her a menu. “Here you go.”
“But...you already ordered.”
“For the bachelorette party,” he said, tipping the menu toward her.
She looked it over. There were a few oddities— microgreens, again!—but although the burgers were touted as being locally raised and organic, they were still burgers. With fries.
“In the back,” Matthew explained while they were waiting, “they have a more private room.” He leaned down so that his mouth was right by her ear. “It’s perfect, don’t you think?”
Heat flushed her neck. She certainly hadn’t expected Denver at Christmas to be this...warming. “You knew I was going to pick this place, didn’t you?”
“Actually, I reserved rooms in all four restaurants. There’ll be people looking to stalk the wedding party no matter what. And since we’ve been seen going over the menu at three of the places, they won’t know where to start. This will throw them off the trail.”
She gaped at him. That was what covering your bases looked like. She’d never been able to plan like that. Which was why she was never ready for the press.
“Really? I can’t decide if that’s the most paranoid thing I’ve ever heard or the most brilliant.”
He grinned, brushing his fingers over her cheek. “You can’t be too careful.”
He was going to kiss her. In public. She, more than anyone, knew what a bad idea that was. But she was powerless to stop him, to pull away. Something about this man destroyed her common sense.
The hostess saved Whitney from herself. “Your order, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Thank you. And we have the private room for Friday night?”
“Yes, Mr. Beaumont.”
Matthew grabbed the bagged food. “Come on. My place isn’t too far away.”
* * *
Matthew pulled into the underground parking lot at the Acoma apartments. He’d guessed right about the Pub, which was a good feeling. And after Whitney’s observations about burgers and fries, he felt even better about ordering her that for lunch.
But best of all was the feeling of taking Whitney to his apartment. He didn’t bring women home very often. He’d had a couple of dates that turned out to be looking for a story to tell—and sell. Keeping his address private was an excellent way to make sure that he wouldn’t get up in the morning and find paparazzi parked outside the building, ready to catch his date leaving his place in the same outfit she’d had on the night before.
He wasn’t worried about that happening with Whitney. First off, he had no plans of keeping her here all night long—although that realization left him feeling strangely disappointed. But second?
As far as he could tell, no one had made him as the man sitting next to Whitney Wildz the other day. Frankly, he couldn’t believe it—it wasn’t as if he were an unknown quantity. He talked to the press and his face was more than recognizable as a Beaumont.
Still, it was a bit of grace he was willing to use as he led Whitney to the elevator that went up to the penthouse apartment.
Inside, he pressed her back against the wall and kissed her hungrily. Lunch could wait, right?
Then she moaned into his mouth, and his body responded. He’d wanted to do this since he’d walked into Phillip’s house this morning—show her that he could be spontaneous, that he could give her more than just one afternoon. He wanted to show her that there was more to him than the Beaumont name.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, the unfamiliarity of it struck him as...wrong. Hadn’t it always been about the Beaumont name?
“Oh, Matthew,” she whispered against his skin.
Yeah, lunch could wait.
Then the doors opened. “Come on,” he said, pulling her out of the elevator and into his penthouse.
He wanted to go directly to the bedroom—but Whitney pulled up short. “Wow. This is...perfect.”
“Thanks.” He let go of her long enough to set the lunch bag down on a counter. But before he could wrap his arms around her again, she’d walked farther in—not toward the floor-to-ceiling windows but toward the far side of the sitting room.
The one with his pictures.
As Whitney stared at the Wall of Accomplishments, as he thought of it, something Phillip had said last night came back to him. You always went for such boring women.
They hadn’t been boring. They’d been safe. On paper, at least, they’d been perfect. Businesswomen who had no interest in marrying into the Beaumont fortune because they had their own money. Quiet women who had no interest in scoring an invite to the latest Beaumont Brewery blowout because they didn’t drink beer.
Women who wouldn’t make a splash in the society pages.
Whitney? She was already making waves in his life—waves he couldn’t control. And he was enjoying it. Craving more. Craving her.
“This...” Whitney said, leaning up on her tiptoes to look at the large framed photo that was at the center of the Wall of Accomplishments. “This is a wedding photo.”
Eleven
“Yes. That’s my parents’ wedding.”
The tension in his voice was unmistakable.
“But you’re in the picture. That’s you, right? And the boy you’re standing next to—that’s Phillip? Is the other one Chadwick?” The confusion pushed back at the desire that was licking through her veins. She couldn’t make sense out of what she was looking at.
“That’s correct.” He sounded as if he were confirming a news story.
“But...you’re, like, five or something? You’re a kid!”
A tight silence followed this statement. She might have crossed some line, but she didn’t care. She was busy staring at the photo.
A man—Hardwick Beaumont—was in a very nice tuxedo. He stood next to a woman in an exceptionally poofy white dress that practically dripped crystals and pearls. She had giant teased red hair that wasn’t contained at all by
the headband that came to a V-point in the middle of her forehead. The look spoke volumes about the high style of the early ’80s.
In front of them stood three boys, all in matching tuxedos. Hardwick had his hand on Chadwick’s shoulder. Next to Chadwick stood a smaller boy with blond hair. He wore a wicked grin, like a sprite out to stir up trouble. And standing in front of the woman was Matthew. She had her hand on his shoulder as she beamed at the camera, but Matthew looked as though someone were jabbing him with a hatpin.
When he did speak, he asked, “You didn’t know that I wasn’t born a Beaumont?”
She turned to stare at him. “What? No—what does that mean?”
He nodded, nearly the same look on his face now that little-kid Matthew had worn for that picture. “Phillip is only six months older than I am.”
“Really?”
He came to stand next to her, one arm around her waist. She leaned into him, enjoying this comfortable touch. Enjoying that he wasn’t holding himself apart from her.
“It was a huge scandal at the time—even by Beaumont standards. My mother was his mistress while he was still married to Eliza—that’s Phillip and Chadwick’s mother.” He paused, as if he were steeling himself to the truth. “Eliza didn’t divorce him for another four years. I was born Matthew Billings.”
“Wait—you didn’t grow up with your dad?”
“Not until I was almost five. Eliza found out about me and divorced Hardwick. He kept custody of Chadwick and Phillip, married my mom and moved us into the Beaumont mansion.”
She stared at him, then back at the small boy in the photo. Matthew Billings. “But you and Phillip seem so close. You’re planning his wedding. I just thought...”
“That we’d grown up together? No.” He laughed, a joyless noise. “I remember her telling me how I’d have my daddy and he’d love me, and I’d have some brothers who’d play with me, so I shouldn’t be sad that we were leaving everything behind. She told me it was going to be perfect. Just...perfect.”
The way he said it made it pretty clear that it wasn’t. Was this why everything had to be just so? He’d spent his life chasing a dream of perfection?
“What happened?”
He snorted. “What do you think? Chadwick hated me—deeply and completely. Sometimes Phillip was nice to me because he was lonely, too.” He pointed at the wedding photo. “Sometimes he and Chadwick would gang up on me because I wasn’t a real Beaumont. Plus, my mom got pregnant with Frances and Byron almost immediately and once they were born...well, they were Beaumonts without question.” He sighed.
His dad had forgotten about him. That was basically what Jo had said Hardwick Beaumont did—all those wives, mistresses and so many children that they didn’t even know how many there were. What a legacy. “So how did you wind up as the one who takes care of everyone else?”
He moved, stepping back and wrapping both arms around her. “I had to prove I belonged—that I was a legitimate Beaumont, not a Billings.” He lowered his head so that his lips rested against the base of her neck.
She would not let him distract her with something as simple, as perfect, as a kiss. Not when the key to understanding why was right in front of her.
“How did you do that?”
His arms were strong and warm around her as they pulled her back into his chest. All of his muscles pressed against her. and for a moment she wondered if he was going to push her against the wall and make her cry out his name again, just to avoid answering the question.
But then he said, “I copied Chadwick. I got all As, just like Chadwick did. I went to the same college, got the same MBA. I got a job at the Brewery, just like Chadwick. He was the perfect Beaumont—still is, in a lot of ways. I thought— It sounds stupid now, but I thought if I could just be the perfect Beaumont, my mom would stop crying in her closet and we’d be a happy family.”
“Did it work?” Although she already knew the answer to that one.
“Not really.” His arms tightened around her, and he splayed his fingers over her ribs in an intimate touch. She leaned into him, as if she could tell him that she was here for him. That he didn’t have to be perfect for her.
“When Frances and Byron were four, my parents got divorced. Mom tried to get custody of us, but without Beaumont money, she had nothing and Hardwick’s lawyers were ruthless. I was ten.”
“Do you still see her?”
“Of course. She’s my mother, after all. She works in a library now. It doesn’t pay all of her bills, but she enjoys it. I take care of everything else.” He sighed against her skin, his hands skimming over her waist. “She apologized once. Said she was sorry she’d ruined my life by marrying my father.”
“Do you feel the same way?”
He made a big show of looking around his stunning apartment. “I don’t really think this qualifies as ‘ruined,’ do you?”
“It looks perfect,” she agreed. But then, so did the wedding photo. One big happy family.
“Yeah, well, if there’s one thing being a Beaumont has taught me, it’s that looks are everything. Like when a jealous husband caught Dad with his wife. There was a scene—well, that’s putting it mildly. I was in college and walked out of my apartment one morning and into this throng of reporters and photographers and they were demanding a good reaction quote from me—they wanted something juicy, you know?”
“I know.” God, it was like reliving her own personal hell all over again. She could see the paparazzi jostling for position, shouting horrible things.
“I didn’t know anything about what had happened, so I just started...making stuff up.” He sounded as if he still didn’t believe he’d done that. “The photos had been doctored. People would do anything for attention, including lay a trap for the richest man in Denver—and we would be suing for libel. The family would support Hardwick because he was right. And the press—they took the bait. Swallowed it hook, line and sinker. I saved his image.” His voice trailed off. “He was proud of me. He told me, ‘That’s how a Beaumont handles it.’ Told me to keep taking care of the family and it’d be just fine.”
“Was it?”
“Of course not. His third wife left him—but he bought her off. He always bought them off and kept custody of the kids because it was good for his image as a devoted family man who just had really lousy luck when it came to women. But I’d handled myself so well that when a position in the Brewery public relations department opened up, I got the job.”
He’d gone to work for his brother after that unhappy childhood. She wasn’t sure she could be that big of a person. “Do your brothers still hate you?”
He laughed. “Hell, no. I’m too valuable to them. I’ve gotten Phillip out of more trouble than he even remembers and Chadwick counts me as one of his most trusted advisors. I’m...” He swallowed. “I’m one of them now. A legitimate Beaumont—the brother of honor at the wedding, even. Not a bastard that married into the family five years too late.” He nuzzled at the base of her neck. “I just... I wish I’d known it would all work out when I was a kid, you know?”
She knew. She still wished she knew it would all work out. Somehow. “You know what I was doing when I was five?”
“What?”
“Auditions. My mother was dragging me to tryouts for commercials,” she whispered into the silence. “I didn’t care about acting. I just wanted to ride horses and color, but she wanted me to be famous. She wanted to be famous.”
She’d never understood what Jade Maddox got out of it, putting Whitney in front of all those people so she could pretend she was someone else. Hadn’t just being herself been enough for her mother?
But the answer had been no. Always no. “My first real part was on Larry the Llama—remember that show? I was Lulu.”
Behind her, Matthew stilled. Then, suddenly, he was laughing. The joy spilled ou
t of him and surrounded her, making her smile with him. “You were on the llama show? That show was terrible!”
“Oh, I know it. Llamas are weird. Apparently everyone agreed because it was canceled about six months later. I’d hoped that was the end of my mother’s ambitions. But it wasn’t. I dreamed about having brothers or sisters. I didn’t even meet my dad until I became famous, and then he just asked for money. Jade’s the one who pushed me to audition for Growing Up Wildz, who pushed them to make the character’s name Whitney.”
His eyebrows jumped. “It wasn’t supposed to be Whitney?”
“Wendy.” She gave him a little grin. “It was supposed to be Wendy Wildz.”
“Wow. That’s just...” he chuckled. “That’s just wrong. Sorry.”
“It is. And I went along with it. I thought it’d be cool to have the same name as the character. I had no idea then it’d be the biggest mistake of my life—that I’d never be able to get away from Whitney Wildz.”
He spun her around and gazed into her eyes. “That’s not who you are to me. You know that, right?”
She did know. She was pretty sure, anyway. “Yes.”
But then his mouth crooked back into a smile. “But...Lulu?”
“Hey, it was a great show about a talking llama!” she shot back, unable to fight back the giggle. “Are you criticizing quality children’s programming written by adults on drugs?”
“What was it ol’ Larry used to say? ‘It’s Llama Time!’ And then he’d spit?” He tried to tickle her.
She grabbed his hands. “Are you mocking llamas? They’re majestic animals!”
He tested her grip, but she didn’t let go. Suddenly, he wasn’t laughing anymore and she wasn’t, either.
She found herself staring at his tie. It was light purple today, with lime-green paisley amoebas swimming around on it. Somehow, it looked good with the bright blue shirt he was wearing. Maybe that was because he was wearing it.
He leaned down, letting his lips brush over her forehead, her cheek. “What are you going to do?” he asked, his voice husky. “Tie me up? For making fun of a llama?”
A Beaumont Christmas Wedding Page 11