The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield (35 page)

Both men ignored me.

“Of course it’s never your fault, Frans!” Brandon shot back. “Every time something goes wrong, it’s always someone else responsible for it. It’s only your responsibility if it’s convenient to you and it serves your purpose—it doesn’t matter who gets hurt in the process.”

Francis’s face darkened furiously. “You’re getting carried away again with your preaching, Brand, which you have no right to give considering what a hypocrite you are. You’re just as bad as you accuse me to be and you know it.”

My eyes widened at those words and Brandon anger was boiling off of him he could’ve run a steam engine with it. 

“I don’t think so,” Brandon said slowly and menacingly, advancing toward Francis despite his sisters’ hold. “I will never be as vile as you are, wondering out loud what to do next to the company as if my father was already a cold, dead slab of meat just waiting to be disposed of.”

I sucked in a breath, my own anger blazing through me. My hands clenched so tightly around the coffee cups, I was surprised they didn’t collapse and spill all over my hands. 

“Are you for real?” I hissed at Francis. “At a time like this, that’s what you’re concerned about?”

He gave me a snide smile. “Aren’t you concerned about the same thing, Charlotte? With Martin dead, your husband’s likely to gain more money and power. Wasn’t that the whole point of why you married him?”

You son of a bitch.

 
As I was about to launch myself at him, red flickering across my vision, Brandon’s feral growl caught me off guard and I watched in horror as my husband charged forward, tackling his cousin with a shoulder to the chest, throwing them both down on the floor.

“Shit.” 

Jake’s muttered curse barely registered as he crouched down to set the coffee cups he’d been holding on the floor and rushed over to the two men brawling in the hospital lobby.

“Brandon! Francis! Stop it!” Anna’s pleaded hysterically. "What the hell is wrong with you two?"

Tessa pulled Mattie close to her side to keep him out of the fray while Jake’s arm shot out to keep Anna from throwing herself into the mix as her brother and cousin rolled around the floor, trying to get as much fist into the other’s face as possible.

“Don’t you ever dare speak a crude word to my wife, you ass!” Brandon spewed, grabbing Francis by the collar and fiercely jabbing him on the jaw.

This can't be happening. Brandon is pummelling his scum of a cousin into the hospital floor until he becomes fossilized in it, hours after our wedding and with his father in critical condition. Can this night get any crazier?

Apparently, it could because without being really conscious of it as my feet moved, I found myself pouring the now-tepid coffee over both of their heads.

That stilled them.

“Charlotte, what the hell?” Brandon demanded, blinking rapidly at me through the brown liquid dripping down the side of his face.

Francis sputtered and raised his head, shaking as much coffee as he could off himself.

“As much as I would love to flatten Francis into a permanent floor fixture, this is not the time and place to do it!” I grated, glaring at both of them. “Martin needs us here and I’ll be damned if I’m going to have to spend the next few hours bailing you out of jail.”

Jake gently took my arm to lead me away but I shook free from him.

I planted my fists on my waist and stared down the two cousins. “Now, be big boys and pick yourselves up the floor before I wipe it clean with your asses.”

Francis glowered at me. “You’re so much prettier when you don’t open your mouth, Charlotte.”

Francis has a death wish. Brandon is going to kill him before this day is done.

Brandon’s eyes closed briefly before they opened again, flashing me a look of remorse. 

“Sorry, baby, but I’m not going to let that comment pass,” he muttered before he turned to Francis and slugged him in the face again. 

Francis fought back and I had no choice but to step back as the two stumbled along the floor again, trying to get at each other’s throats. 

Jake groaned and dived in, trying to pull Brandon away from his cousin.

Thirty seconds later, the hospital lobby was full of staff and other people trying to break up the fight.

I closed my eyes and swore softly.

I knew I wasn’t going to have a typical wedding night. I just had no clue it would turn out this way.

I grimaced at the sight of Brandon’s busted lip and the bruises on his jaw. My heart twisted but I reined my emotions in.

If he kept this up, I’d be a young widow in no time.

***

“Don’t be such a baby!”

“Charlotte, I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m sticky with coffee, my father just came out of a bypass surgery and I still smell like the jail cell I sat in for two hours.”

I winced at Brandon’s incensed reply which only worsened my pounding headache.

“Uh-huh,” I said on my cell phone as I rode up the elevator to Brandon’s penthouse. “That’s what happens when you insist on beating Francis into a pulp and the hospital staff calls the cops on you. Unfortunately for you, your Dad had to go into surgery just then so we all got a little busy. I forgot to call your lawyer right away."

“You forgot?” Brandon repeated in disbelief. “You forgot after you promised you’d call Bill right right away as the police was carting me off in the back of their car? I waited for an hour thinking he was coming any minute considering the exorbitant amount of money I pay him and my entire legal team. When he still didn’t show, I called him and was dumbfounded to learn that he was still snoring away because he had no idea I was incarcerated.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Brand, it’s two hours. You made it out of there before your father came out of surgery. You were driven away from your short stint as a hardened criminal in the cushy backseat of your luxury car. Yes, you’re tired, hungry, a little smelly and filthy. Life isn’t perfect. You had the money to bail yourself out of jail after a mere two hours of inconvenience, your father’s alive and on his way to recuperating and your wife isn’t about to kill you yet despite how foolishly you acted this morning. You’re lounging about in Martin’s five-star hotel-like hospital suite where I’ll meet you in half an hour with fresh clothes so you can shower, and a king’s meal to stuff down your throat. Stop complaining and count your blessings.”

I heard his agitated exhalation. He sounded like he was gritting his teeth before replying.

“But you weren’t here when I got back,” he complained.

I couldn’t help but smile as the elevator opened to the private foyer of the penthouse.

Since Martin came out of surgery and both Brandon and Francis, from each of their separate cells, decided not to press any charges against each other, I'd been able to relax again. 

“Of course, I’m not. Knowing how much you want to wring my neck right now, I thought I’d give you some time to cool off before I show my face with some peace offering.”

I pressed the fob Gilles gave me on my way up after he drove me from the hospital for a key-less entry to the condo. I called him and Felicity around seven-thirty when I felt that it was as decent an hour as I could find to alert them of the situation with Martin and Brandon’s arrest. Apparently, they’d already heard and were on their way because the cousins’ scuffle in the hospital was already all over the local morning news.

The paps were already camped outside the hospital when I left and Jake had arranged to beef up the Maxfields’ security.

"Half hour, okay?" Brandon said with a resigned sigh. "If you're not here then, I'll come and get you."

I snorted as I went into the condo and headed toward our bedroom—er, I meant Brandon's bedroom where I just happened to be sleeping in the last few days until I felt well enough to stay in my own. 

You're so full of crap, Charlotte. Admit it, you want to keep sharing Brandon's bed. If you can affix yourself to the furniture, you would.

"You never warned me you were going to be such a needy husband," I teased, smirking. 

"If I've become one, it's all your fault," Brandon replied sulkily. Really, he sounded like a six-year-old but the fact that I knew he knew exactly how he was acting and hated it endeared him to me a little more. “How did you get in anyway? I’m yet to give you your keys. I was going to give them to you today.”

“Gilles,” I answered. “Perks of having my own bodyguard-slash-chauffeur. And Winnie remembers me, of course.”

“Who’s Winnie?”

“My friend at the concierge, remember? The one who dealt with Simone two nights ago.” I sighed. “By the way, would your siblings need food too? I'll make sure to bring enough. The fridge there is stocked but mostly with just granola bars and those microwavable sandwiches. There’s gourmet food service but I was a little offended by their prices. I can't rob a sick man like that.”

“Well, Anna already ordered food and fed everyone so don’t worry about them,” Brandon answered with a sigh. “Jake drove them home after I got back and he’s getting some sleep too for a bit before swinging by again later. You and me are on watch but Dad hasn’t even woken up yet so we can nap a little. There’s a nice, big sofa bed here.”

I grinned. “I know. I saw it. Not exactly the marital bed to spend our first day married on but I’ll bring some more blankets for us.”

"Just get here, okay?" he asked, his voice faltering a little, more desperate than impatient. “I need to relax and I can’t until you’re here.”

"Okay, babe," I said. "Now, let me go so I can get on with what I need to do here and head back over there as soon as possible."

"Alright. See you later, babe."

The whole babe-endearment just kind of came out of nowhere there but it didn't sound awkward—which was ironic considering how much I was deliberating over that mere gesture we fell into.

Finally, I slipped my cellphone into my jeans' back pocket and looked around, alerted by the sound of the TV playing in the kitchen.

Eyes narrowed, I grabbed a large, decorative slate stone sitting on top of a side table, cursing its weight and whatever insane idea that possessed me to think that I could possibly smack an intruder in the head with it when I could barely hold it steady, and made my way to the kitchen.

I listened by the corner that led into the kitchen, frowning as I picked up the lines from the TV show.

Surely, someone breaking in wouldn't sit around and watch a Judge Judy rerun, would they?

“Who’s there?” I demanded, poking my head out and zeroing in on a woman sitting by the kitchen island, drying dishes. “Who are you?”

She looked to be in her late-thirties, attractive with her bone structure and sharp gray eyes which held no emotion when they collided with my narrowed gaze.

“Mrs. Maxfield?” she asked warily.

My brows furrowed, lowering the stone to one of the kitchen side counters. “Um, who are you married to? Martin? He never mentioned a wife.”

A look of surprise, and then confusion, crossed the woman’s face. 

And then she smiled tightly, as if straining to rein in any display of emotion. “I was addressing you, Mrs. Maxfield.”

“Oh.” Right. New last name since last night.  How can you forget that you now have a last name that works like a credit card, a VIP pass and a celebrity ID all at once?

The woman stood and walked with poise toward me, dipping into an informal curtsy once she was in front of me. Who the hell curtsies these days unless facing a damned monarch?

“I’m Gwen McGowan, the housekeeper.”

Yes, right. Brandon’s phantom housekeeper who only showed up every few days to tidy up and cook him some food. He claimed disliking having a clutter of people in his place that he’d done away with a permanent household staff. 

I smiled broadly at her, taking her hand in both of mine for an energetic handshake which seemed to perplex her as she straightened, still staring at our joint hands. “So glad to meet you, Gwen. My name’s Charlotte Sam—I mean, Maxfield.”

It might take a few days and several pinches on my arm for me to get used to this new last name. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Maxfield,” Gwen said politely after withdrawing her hand. “Congratulations on your nuptials—”

“Please, don’t stand on ceremony with me,” I appealed with a small laugh. “Just call me Charlotte, I’ll call you Gwen. Really, I’m not big on the excessive formalities." 

It was suddenly hard to be Mrs. Maxfield in that moment. It was hard to play a poised and pleasant yet unattainable woman of the world when I was in sneakers, jeans, a neon pink tank top and a messy topknot.

Gwen looked at me for a moment as if in deliberation before nodding and tipping me a small smile. “Alright, Charlotte. If that’s what you would like.”

I let out a short sigh of relief before grinning at the housekeeper. “Actually, what I would really like is a big tub of strong, black coffee I can fuel on and some breakfast to bring to the hospital for Brandon.”

“Oh, yes. I heard about his father,” Gwen said with a concerned frown. “Is he alright now?”

“Pretty much,” I nodded, rounding the counter to look grab the tall, porcelain mug I’d been using in the last couple of days and filling it with some freshly brewed coffee. I closed my eyes briefly as I breathed it in, instantly relaxed by the strong, bitter smell. The hospital coffee, whatever little I had of it, tasted like mere drippings to this.

I took a long, leisurely sip before looking back up at Gwen. “Doctors said the bypass went well and he just has to recover now. That means a week or so in the hospital for him and some of us who will be keeping watch.”

“The news said something about your husband too and some altercation with his cousin in the hospital,” Gwen asked slowly as though extremely cautious of what she was saying. “I hope he’s alright, too. And his cousin.”

I smiled at the woman in reassurance as I went to open the fridge and take out an assortment of ingredients for the sandwiches I was making. “Francis should be comfortable back in his own apartment now and Brandon will be in better shape once I bring him some clean clothes and food so he can eat and rest. We haven’t had any sleep or anything to eat since we got back from the wedding party last night.”

Gwen stepped forward, her eyes widening as she watched me haul out a wooden cutting board and knife. “No, let me do it, please. I can make your sandwiches while you attend to whatever you need to. They’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

As much as I didn’t like letting other people do my tasks for me simply because of our economic gap, I flashed Gwen a smile. “That would be terrific, thank you. I’ll just have a quick shower and load up a bag for Brandon and then I’m going to head back to the hospital.”

The housekeeper nodded. “I’ll pack you a cooler bag with snacks and energy drinks and water. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”

I wanted to hug Gwen and twirl her around but I strongly suspected that a Mrs. Maxfield wouldn’t be particularly prone to dancing with the help so I just beamed at her and rattled off a handful of thank-yous before grabbing my mug and dashing off to the bedroom.

I drank half of the coffee before scrambling into the shower. The steam helped my aching midsection and the pounding headache the lack of sleep, the summer heat and the pain meds joined forces to torture me with.

After drying my hair enough that it wasn’t dripping all over the place, I let it hang over my back and put on a pair of white, cotton shorts, a floral peasant blouse and my red Chuck Taylors. I pulled a white fedora over my head and grabbed a pair of oversized sunglasses that would hopefully do two things: keep me incognito and block out the glare of the sun which was worsening my headache.

Since we had a lot of stuff already packed in bags for our honeymoon trip, I had to go rummaging in the epic walk-in closet. After emptying a small, leather duffel bag I’d dug out, I went to rifle through some of Brandon’s clothes to find him a comfortable, uncomplicated set to wear along with a clean pair of black boxer briefs which I stared at for a full minute. It was hard not to imagine the snug fit of the fabric over the slopes and planes of that certain part of Brandon’s anatomy which I became intimate with last night—or much earlier this morning.

Of all things that could’ve interrupted you, a heart attack—neither yours nor his—was the last thing you expected.

If things had progressed much further, I would’ve probably would’ve acquired respiratory and circulatory problems—too much gasping and moaning and fevered blood directed to specific pleasure zones that were near bursting with sensations. 

So how did you say your heart attack came to be, Mrs. Maxfield? Too much pleasure from your husband?

If nothing had happened to Martin, we would already be aboard Brandon’s private jet by now, kicking back and enjoying the high life while we traveled in comfort and luxury to his secret destination for our honeymoon.

I wasn’t sure if I had been looking forward to it or dreading it—after my defenses crumbled so easily last night, I suspected it would’ve happened anyway, no matter my initial preference. My body clearly preferred Brandon and it didn’t care about some of the minor technicalities of our relationship.

All it wanted was to make sweet, passionate love to the man I married and I wanted to call my true husband.

For how long? A year or forever?

I snapped myself out of the daydream and sat on Brandon’s side of the bed to pick up some of his important items like his watch, tablet and cell phone charger from his night stand.

The bluetooth wireless headset I’d been clutching in my hand fell and clattered to the floor, bouncing off a small, black leather portfolio folder sticking out from under the bed.

Absently, I picked it up to put it away in case it was important and work-related but as the folder contents shifted to one side, the top right corner peeking out from under the cover, I noticed the edge of a colored map.

Before I could even consider that what I was doing was snooping, I found myself opening the folder and glancing down at its contents.

My eyes widened, my heart starting a quick cadence.

Tucked in the folder was a small collection of traveler’s maps, assorted pairs of tickets, brochures and guides. Under them was a notepad clipped on the folder, scribbled with Brandon’s unmistakeable large, bold scrawls.

My breath caught in my throat as I set aside the other contents of the folder to scan Brandon’s notes.

Project: Honeymoon with Charlotte

Goal: Make my wife happy and let her have some fun at her favorite place in the world.

Timeline: One week (July 21-27)

Resources: C’s profile report, Aimee, Anna, Tessa, Felicity

 
Brainstorming ideas:

1. Quaint, romantic, private accommodations (C dislikes blatant displays of wealth)

-Hotel des Grandes Ecoles (rustic, charming, courtyard dining)

-L’Hotel (historical, fashionable, suite overlooks Paris rooftops)

-penthouse; Walter building; 16th district; view of Eiffel tower, the Seine; for lease

2. Lavoie Ecole de Patisserie (C’s pastry school; see about programs and classes)

3. Macarons at Pierre Herme (C’s favorite. Ever. As per Aimee. Very important!)

4. Dine at Parisian cafes (Le Cafe de Flore, of course. C loves it.)

5. Romantic (C digs the big R) strolls along the Tuileries garden (classic), the Seine (Paris, after all), The Latin Quarter (old world charm), Buttes-Chaumont (waterfalls!), Montmartre (poetry-inspiring; should I prepare a poem? too much?)

6. Museums (C adores them) Louvre, Marmottan (Monet), Musee d’orsay