A Beaumont Christmas Wedding (9 page)

As Matthew drove off, his mind was a jumble of wedding stuff and family stuff and Whitney. Zipping Whitney into the bridesmaid dress. Stripping her out of her clothes. Admiring her perfectly done hair. Messing her hair up.

He had to pull this wedding off. He had to stay on message. He had to prove he belonged up there with the other Beaumonts, standing by Phillip’s side.

That was what Matthew wanted.

Wasn’t it?

Ten

S
he checked her watch. Three to eleven. She’d gotten up at her regular time and gone out with Jo to look at the young mare she was working with. Jo hadn’t pressed her about Matthew, except to say, “You and Matthew...” there’d been a rather long pause, but Whitney hadn’t jumped into the breach “...do all right yesterday?” Jo had finally finished.

“Yeah. I think you were right about him—he seems like a good guy who’s wound a bit too tight.”

Which
had
to be the explanation as to why he’d tied her to the bed with a necktie.

Which did nothing to explain why she’d let him do it and explained even less why she’d enjoyed it.

And now? Now she was going to spend the afternoon with him again. Which was great—because it’d been so long since she’d had sex with another person and Matthew wasn’t just up to the task—he was easily the best lover she’d ever had.

But it was also nerve-racking. After all, he’d tied her to the bed and made her climax several times. How was she supposed to look him in the eye after that? Yes, she’d slept around a lot when she’d been an out-of-control teenager trying to prove she was an adult. Yes, she’d had some crazy sex. The gossips never let her forget that.

But she’d never had that kind of sex clean and sober. She’d never had any kind of sex sober. She’d never looked a lover in the eye without some sort of chemical aid to cover up her anxiety at what she’d done, what she might still do.

And now, as she adjusted her hat and sunglasses, she was going to have to do just that. She had no idea what to do next. At least she had Betty—the small donkey’s ears were soft, and rubbing them helped Whitney keep some sort of hold on her anxiety. It would be fine, she kept telling herself as she petted Betty.
It
will
be fine
.

At exactly eleven, Matthew walked through the door at Phillip and Jo’s house, cupped her face in his hands and made her forget everything except the way she’d felt beneath his hands, his body. Beautiful. Sexy.

Alive.

“Hi,” he breathed as he rested his forehead against hers.

Maybe this wouldn’t be complicated. It hadn’t seemed complicated when he’d pinned her to the wall yesterday. Maybe it would be...easy. She grinned, slipping her arms around his waist. “Hi.” Then she looked at him. “You’re wearing a tie?”

Color touched his cheeks, but he didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, he looked the way he had yesterday—hungry for more. Hungry for her.

“I usually wear ties.” Heat flushed down her back and pooled low. But instead of pulling that tie off, he added, “Are you ready?”

She nodded, unable to push back against the anxiety. This time, at least, it didn’t have anything to do with him. “We have to go, right?”

He leaned back and adjusted her hat, making sure her hair was fully tucked under it. “We’ll just look at the places. And after yesterday, I cut a couple of the other options off the list, so it’s only four places. We’ll park, go in, look at the menu and come back out. Okay?”

“What about lunch?” Because the going-in part hadn’t been the problem yesterday.

“I decided we’ll have lunch at my apartment.”

She looked at him in surprise. “You decided, huh?”

Thus far, she hadn’t actually managed to successfully make it through a meal with him. If they were alone at his place, would they eat or...?

He ran his thumb over her lower lip. “I did.” Then Betty butted against his legs, demanding that he pet her, too. “You getting ready to walk down the aisle, girl?” he asked as he checked his phone. “We need to get going.”

Despite the kiss that followed this statement—how was she going to make it to lunch without ripping his clothes off?—by the time they got into the car and were heading off the farm, she was back to feeling uneasy. She didn’t normally fall into bed with a man she’d known for a day. Not since she’d started over.

Matthew had said he knew she was Whitney Maddox...but had he, really? He’d admitted having a huge crush on her back in the day.

“You’re nervous,” he announced when they were back on the highway, heading toward Denver.

She couldn’t deny it. At least she’d made it into the car without stepping on him or anything. But she couldn’t bring herself to admit that she was nervous about him. So she went with the other thing that was bothering her. “How’s your brother—Byron?”

Matthew exhaled heavily. “He’s fine. I got him bailed out. Our lawyers are working to get the charges dropped. But his black eye won’t be gone by the wedding, so I had to add him to the makeup artist’s list.”

“Oh.” He sounded extremely put out by this situation, but she was pretty sure he’d told his brother to do something dramatic. To bury her lead. She couldn’t help but feel that, at the heart of it, this was her fault.

“The media took the bait, though. You didn’t even make the website for the
Denver Post
. Who could pass up the chance to dig up dirt on the Beaumont Prodigal Son Returned? That’s the headline the
Post
went with this morning. It’s already been picked up by
Gawker
and
TMZ
.”

She felt even worse. That wasn’t the message Matthew wanted. She was sure that this was exactly what he’d wanted to avoid.

“You’re quiet again,” he said. He reached over and rubbed her thigh. “This isn’t your fault.”

The touch was reassuring. “But you’re off message. Byron getting arrested isn’t rehabilitating the Beaumont family image.”

“I know.” He exhaled heavily again. “But I can fix this. It’s what I do. There’s no such thing as bad PR.”

Okay, that was another question that she didn’t have an answer to. “Why? Why is
that
what you do?”

Matthew pulled his hand back and started drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “How much do you know about the Beaumonts?”

“Um...well, you guys were a family beer company until recently. And Jo told me your father had a bunch of different children with four different wives and he had a lot of mistresses. And he forgot about your sister and brother’s birthday.”

“Did Jo say anything else?”

“Just that you’d threatened all the ex-wives to be on their best behavior.”

“I did, you know.” He chuckled again, but there was at least a little humor in it this time. “I told them if they caused a scene, I’d make an example out of them. No one’s hands are clean in this family. I’ve buried too many scandals.” He shot her an all-knowing grin. “They won’t risk pissing me off. They know what I could do to them.”

She let that series of ominous statements sink in. Suddenly, she felt as if she was facing the man who’d caught her the first night—the man who’d bury her if he got the chance.

But that wasn’t the man who’d made love to her last night—was it? Had he offered his brother up as bait to protect her...or because that was still an easier mess to clean up than the one she’d make?

“Are your hands clean?”

“What?”

“You said no one’s hands in your family are clean. Does that include you?”

His jaw tensed, and he looked at her again. He didn’t say it, but she could tell what he was thinking. Not anymore. Not since he tied her to the bed.

Just then his phone chimed. He glanced down at the screen before announcing, “We need to keep to the schedule.”

Right. They weren’t going to talk about him right now.

He obviously knew a great deal about her past, but what did she know about him? He was a Beaumont, but he was behind the scenes, keeping everyone on message and burying leads.

“We’re here,” he announced after a few more minutes of driving. She nodded and braced herself for the worst.

The restaurant seemed overdone—white walls, white chairs, white carpet and what was probably supposed to be avant-garde art done in shades of black on the wall. A white tree with white ornaments stood near the front. It was the most depressing Christmas tree Whitney had ever seen. If a restaurant was capable of trying too hard, this one was. Whitney knew that Jo would be miserable in a place like this.

“Seriously?” she whispered to Matthew after reading the menu. Most of it was in French. She had no idea what kind of food they served here, only that it would be snooty.

“One of the best restaurants in the state,” he assured her.

Then they went to a smaller restaurant with only six tables that had a menu full of locally grown microgreens and other items that Whitney wasn’t entirely sure qualified as food. Honest to God, one of the items touted a kind of tree bark.

“How well do you even know Jo?” she asked Matthew as they sped away from the hipster spot. “I mean, really. She’s a cowgirl, for crying out loud. She likes burgers and fries.”

“It’s a nice restaurant,” he defended. “I’ve taken dates there.”

“Oh? And you’re still seeing those women, are you?”

Matthew shot her a comically mean look.

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?