A Beaumont Christmas Wedding

by Sarah M. Anderson

  It was then that he noticed the noise. The restaurant had gone from humming to a hushed whisper. The carols over the sound system were loud and clear. He looked over his shoulder and was stunned to find that a good part of the restaurant was staring at them with wide eyes. Cell phones were out. People were snapping pictures, recording videos.

  Oh, hell. This was about to become a PR nightmare. Worse—if people figured out who he was? And put two and two together? Nightmare didn’t begin to cut what this was about to become.

  “We need to leave.”

  The women outside were headed inside.

  “Are you trying to get...out...?” Whitney saw the women, then glanced around. “Oh.” Shame flooded her cheeks. She grabbed her sunglasses out of her bag and shoved them back onto her face. “Yes.”

  Sadly, the glasses did little to hide who she was. In fact, they gave her an even more glamorous air, totally befitting a big-name star.

  Matthew fished a fifty out of his wallet and threw it on the counter, even though they weren’t going to eat anything they’d ordered.

  As they stood, the small group of women approached. “It’s really you,” one of the woman said. “It’s really Whitney Wildz!”

  The quiet bubble that had been building over the restaurant burst and suddenly people were out of their seats, crowding around him and Whitney and shoving camera phones in their faces.

  “Is this your boyfriend?” someone demanded.

  “Are you pregnant?” someone else shouted.

  “Are you ever going to clean up your act?” That insult was shouted by a man.

  Matthew was unexpectedly forced into the role of bouncer. He used his long arms to push people out of Whitney’s way as they tried to walk the twelve feet to the door. It took several minutes before they were outside, but the crowd moved with them.

  He had his arm around her shoulders, trying to shield her as he rushed for his car. With his long legs, he could have left half of these idiots behind, but Whitney was much shorter than he was. He was forced to go slow.

  Someone grabbed Whitney’s arm, shouting, “Why did you break Drako’s heart?”

  Matthew shoved and shoved hard. They were at his car, but people were pushing so much that he had trouble getting the passenger door open. “Get back,” he snarled as he hip-checked a man trying to grab a lot more than Whitney’s arm. “Back off.”

  He got the door open and basically shoved her inside, away from what had rapidly become a mob. He slammed the door shut, catching someone’s finger. There was howling. He was feeling cruel enough that he was tempted to leave the finger in there, but that would be the worst sort of headline—Beaumont Heir Breaks Beer Drinker’s Hand. So he opened the door just enough to pull the offending digit out and then slammed it shut again.

  Whitney sat in the passenger seat, already buckled up. She stared straight ahead. She’d gotten her hat back on, but it was too late for that. The parts of her face that were visible were tight and blank.

  Matthew stormed around to the driver’s side. No one grabbed him, but several people were recording him. Great. Just freaking great.

  He got in, fired up the engine on his Corvette Stingray and roared off. He was furious with the waitress—she’d probably called her girlfriends to tell them that Whitney Wildz was at her table. He was furious with the rest of the idiots, who’d descended into a mob in mere minutes.

  And he was furious with himself. He was the Beaumont who always, always handled the press and the public. Image was everything and he’d just blown his image to hell and back. If those people hadn’t recognized him from the get-go, it wouldn’t take much online searching before they figured it out.

  This was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to happen—Whitney Wildz would turn this wedding and his message into a circus of epic proportions. Yeah, he’d been a jerk to her about it last night, but he’d also been right.

  Even if she was a cowgirl who fostered puppies and adopted greyhounds, even if she was a respected horse breeder, even if she was nothing he’d expected in the best possible ways, it didn’t change the perception. The perception was that Whitney Wildz was going to ruin this wedding.

  And he wouldn’t be able to control it. Any of it. Not the wedding, not the message—and not himself.

  He was screwed.

  Six

  They drove in silence. Matthew took corners as if he were punishing them. Or her. She wasn’t sure.

  She wished she had the capacity to be surprised by what had happened at the restaurant, but she didn’t. Not anymore. That exact scene had played out time and time again, and she couldn’t even feel bad about it anymore.

  Instead, all she felt was resigned. She’d known this was going to happen, after all. And if she was disappointed by how Matthew had reacted, well, that was merely the by-product of him confusing her.

  She’d allowed herself to feel hopeful because, at least some of the time, Matthew liked her.

  The real her.

  She thought.

  She had no idea where they were, where they were going, or if they were going there in a straight line. He might be taking the long way just in case any of those fans had managed to follow them.

  “Are you all right?” he growled out as he pointed his sleek car toward what she thought was downtown Denver.

  She wouldn’t flinch at his angry tone. She’d learned a long time ago that a reaction—any reaction—would be twisted around. Best to be a placid statue. Although that hadn’t always worked so well, either.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? That one guy—he grabbed you.”

  “Yes.” Had that been the same man whose hand had gotten crushed in the door?

  Even though she had her gaze locked forward, out of the corner of her eye she could see him turn and give her a look of disbelief. “And that doesn’t piss you off?”

  This time, she did wince. “No.”

  “Why the hell not? It pissed me off. People can’t grab you like that.”

  Whitney exhaled carefully through her nose. This was the sort of thing that someone who had never been on the receiving end of the paparazzi might say. Normal people had personal space, personal boundaries that the rest of humanity agreed not to cross. You don’t grab my butt, I won’t have you arrested.

  Those rules hadn’t applied to her since the days after her show had been canceled. The day she’d bolted away from her mother’s overprotective control.

  “It’s fine,” she insisted again. “It’s normal. I’m used to it.”

  “It’s bullshit,” he snapped. “And I won’t stand by while a bunch of idiots take liberties with you. You’re not some plaything for them to grope or insult.”

  She did turn to look at him then. He had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as he glared at the traffic he was speeding around. He was serious.

  She couldn’t remember the last time someone hadn’t just stood by and watched the media circus take her down.

  Like the time she’d flashed the cameras. She hadn’t had on any panties because the dress made no allowances for anything, the designer had said. Yeah, she’d been high at the time, but had anyone said, “Gee, Whitney, you might want to close your legs”? Had anyone tried to shield her from the cameras, as Matthew had just done, until she could get her skirt pulled down?

  No. Not a single person had said anything. They’d just kept snapping pictures. And that next morning? One of the worst in her life.

  He took another corner with squealing tires into a parking spot in front of a tall building. “We’re here.”

  “Are you on my side?” she asked.

  He slammed the car into Park, causing her to jerk forward. “What kind of question is that?”

  “I mean...” Was he the kind of guy who would have tol
d her she was flashing the cameras? Or the kind who would have gotten out of the way of the shot? “No one’s ever tried to defend me from the crowds before.”

  Now it was his turn to look at her as if she were nuts. “No one?”

  This wasn’t coming out well. “Look, like you said—in the interest of transparency, I need to know if you’re on my side or not. I’m not trying to mess up your message. I mean, you saw how it was.” Suddenly, she was pleading. She didn’t just want him on her side, watching her back—she needed him there. “All I did was take off my hat.”

  He gave her the strangest look. She didn’t have a hope in heck of trying to guess what was going on behind his deep blue eyes.

  “That’s just the way it is,” she told him, her voice dropping to a whisper. Every time she let her guard down—every time she thought she might be able to do something normal people did, like go out to lunch with a man who confused her in the best possible ways—this was always what would happen. “I—I wish it wasn’t.”

  He didn’t respond.

  She couldn’t look at him anymore. Really, she didn’t expect anything else of him. He’d made his position clear. His duty was to his family and this wedding. She could respect that. She was nothing but a distraction.

  A distraction he’d almost kissed in a crowded restaurant.

  So when he reached over and cupped her face in his hand, lifting it until she had no choice but to look at him, she was completely taken off guard. “I refuse to accept that this is ‘just the way it is.’ I refuse to.” His voice—strong and confident and so close—did things to her that she barely recognized. “And you should, too.”

  Once, she’d tried to fight back, to reclaim her name and her life. She’d tried to lend her celebrity status to animal shelters. It’d gotten her nothing but years of horrible headlines paired with worse pictures. She hadn’t done anything public since the last incident, over two years ago.

  She looked into his eyes. If only he were on her side... “What I do doesn’t matter and we both know it.”

  He gave her another one of those looks that walked the fine line between anger and disgust. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  She glared at him. She couldn’t get mad at those people—but him? She could release a little rage on him. After all, he’d been barely better than those people last night. “I’m not going to sit around and fume and mope about how I’m nothing but a commodity to people. I’m not going to sit around and feel bad that once upon a time I was young and stupid and crazy. And I’m not going to let anyone else sit around and feel bad for me. I’m not an object of your pity or derision. Because that’s not who I am anymore.”

  If he was insulted by her mini tirade, he didn’t show it. He didn’t even let go of her. Instead, one corner of his mouth curled up into an amused grin.

  “Derision, huh?” He was close now, leaning in.

  “Yes.”

  That’d been last night. Right after she’d first fallen into his arms. After she’d dared to hope she might have a little Christmas romance. The memory made her even madder.

  “So if you’re going to ask me to drop out, just get on with it so I can tell you I already told Jo I would and she begged me not to because you invited a bunch of strangers to her wedding and she wants one friend standing next to her. Now, are you on my side or not?”

  Because if he wasn’t, he needed to stop touching her. She was tired of not knowing where she stood with him.

  He blinked. “I won’t let anyone treat you like that.”

  “Because it’s bad for your message?”

  His fingers pulled against her skin, lifting her face up. Closer to him. “Because you are not a commodity to me.”

  The air seemed to freeze in her lungs, making breathing impossible. He was going to kiss her. God, she wanted him to. Just as she’d wanted him to kiss her in the restaurant.

  And see what had happened? She could still feel that man’s hand on her butt.

  As much as she wanted to kiss Matthew—to be kissed for the real her, not the fake one—she couldn’t.

  “I’m going to ruin the wedding.” It was a simple statement of an unavoidable fact.

  It worked. A shadow clouded his face, and he dropped his hand and looked away. “We’re going to be late.”

  “Right.” She didn’t want to do this anymore, didn’t want to be the reason the wedding went off script. She wanted to go back to her ranch—back where dogs and cats and horses and even Donald, the crazy old coot, didn’t have any expectations about Whitney Wildz.

  Matthew opened her door and held out his hand for her. She’d promised Jo. Until Jo told her she could quit, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. That was that.

  So she sucked it up, put her hand in Matthew’s and stood.

  He didn’t let go of her, didn’t step back. Instead, he held on tighter. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She put on a smile for him. She wouldn’t be okay until she was safely back home, acres of land between her and the nearest human. Then she’d put her head down and get back to work. In a while—a few weeks, a few months—this wedding would be superseded by another celebrity or royal doing something “newsworthy.” This would pass. She knew that now. She hadn’t always known it, though.

  “I’m fine,” she lied. Then, because she couldn’t lie and look at him, she stared up at the white building. “Where are we?” Because the sign said Hotel Monaco.

  “The Veda spa is inside the hotel.”

  He still didn’t let her go. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, as if they’d walked out of 1908 or something. When she shot him a look, he said, “Practice.”

  Ah, yes. That whole walking-down-the-aisle thing.

  So she put on her biggest, happiest smile and held an imaginary bouquet in front of her. She’d been an actress once, after all. She could fake it until she made it.

  He chuckled in appreciation. “That’s the spirit,” he said, which made her feel immensely better. He handed his keys to a valet and they strode through the hotel lobby as if they owned the place.

  “Mr. Beaumont! How wonderful to see you again.” The receptionist at the front desk greeted them with a warm smile. Her gaze flicked over Whitney. “How can I help you today?”

  “We’re here for the spa, Janice,” he said. “Thank you.” As he guided Whitney down a hallway, she gave him a look. “What?”

  Jealousy spiked through her. “You check into a hotel in your hometown in the middle of the day often? So often they know you by name?”

  He pulled up right outside the salon door. “The Beaumonts have been using the hotel for a variety of purposes for years. The staff is exceedingly discreet. Chadwick used it for board meetings, but our father was...fond of using it for other purposes.” Then he blushed. The pink color seemed out of place on his cheeks.

  Ah—the father who sired countless numbers of children. She bit her tongue and said, “Yes?”

  “Nothing,” he said with more force than she expected. “The Beaumonts have a long business relationship with the hotel, that’s all. I personally do not check into the rooms.”

  He opened the door to the spa. Another receptionist stood to greet them. “Mr. Beaumont,” she said with a deferential bow of the head. “And this is—” she checked a tablet “—Ms. Maddox, correct?”

  “Yes,” Whitney said, feeling her shoulders straighten a bit more. If she could get through this as Ms. Maddox, that’d be great.

  “This way. Rachel is ready for you.”

  They went back to a private room. Whitney hadn’t been in a private salon room in a long time. “This is nice,” she said as Matthew held the door open for her.

  “And it better stay that way. Rachel,” he said to the stylist with every color of red in her hair, “can you give me a moment? I have
something I need to attend to.”

  “Of course, Mr. Beaumont.” Rachel turned to face her. “Ms. Maddox, it’s a delight to meet you.”

  Whitney tried not to giggle. A delight? Really? Still, this was a good test of her small-talk skills. At the wedding, she would be meeting a lot of people, after all. “A pleasure,” she agreed.

  She sat in the chair, and Rachel fluffed her hair several times. “Obviously, the bride will have her hair up,” Rachel said. “Ms. Frances Beaumont has requested Veronica Lake waves, which will look amazing. Ms. Serena Beaumont will have a classic twist. You...” Her voice trailed off as she fingered Whitney’s home-cut pixie.

  “Don’t have a lot to work with,” Whitney said. “I know. I was thinking. Maybe we should take it blond.”

  Rachel gasped in horror. “What? Why?”

  “She’s not taking it blond,” Matthew announced from the door as he strode in. He didn’t look at Whitney—he was too busy scowling at his phone. But the order was explicit.

  “Of course not,” Rachel hurriedly agreed. “That would be the worst possible thing.” She continued fluffing. “We could add in volume and extensions. Blond is out but colored strands are very hot right now.”

  Whitney cringed. Extensions? Volume? Colored streaks?

  Why not just put her in a torn T-shirt emblazoned with the Growing Up Wildz logo and parade her down the street?

  “Absolutely not,” Matthew snapped. “We’re going for a glamorous, classic look here.”

  If the stylist was offended by his attitude, she didn’t show it. “Well,” she said, working her fingers through Whitney’s hair, “I can clean up the cut and then we can look at clips? Something bejeweled that matches the dresses?”

  “Perfect,” Matthew agreed.

  “People will recognize me,” Whitney reminded him, just because she felt as if she should have some say in her appearance. She glanced at the stylist, who had the decency to not stare. “Just like they did at the restaurant. If you won’t let her dye it, at least get me a wig.”