The Beaumont Brothers: Not the Boss's Baby. Sarah M. Anderson
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Chadwick had never really believed the old cliché about being so mad one saw red. Turns out, he’d just never been mad enough, because right now, the world was drenched in red-hot anger.
“How could he?” he heard himself mutter. “How could he just buy a horse for that much money without even thinking about the consequences?”
“Because,” a soft, feminine voice said next to him, “he’s not you.”
The voice calmed him down, and some of the color bled back into the world. He realized Serena was standing next to him. They were in a nearly empty side gallery, in front of one of the Remington sculptures that made the backbreaking work of herding cattle look glorious.
She was right. Hardwick had never expected anything from Phillip. Never even noticed him, unless he did something outrageous.
Like buy a horse no one had ever heard of for seven million damn dollars.
“Remind me again why I work myself to death so that he can blow the family fortune on horses and women? So Frances can sink money into another venture that’s bound to fail before it gets off the ground? Is that all I’m good for? A never-ending supply of cash?”
Delicate fingers laced through his, holding him tightly. “Maybe,” Serena said, her voice gentle, “you don’t have to work yourself to death at all.”
He turned to her. She was staring at the statue as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
Phillip had done whatever the hell he wanted since he was a kid. It hadn’t mattered what his grades were, who his friends were, how many sports cars he had wrecked. Hardwick just hadn’t cared. He’d been too focused on Chadwick.
“I...” He swallowed. “I don’t know how else to run this company.” The admission was even harder than what he’d shared over dinner. “This is what I was raised to do.”
She tilted her head to one side, really studying the bronze. “Your father died while working, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” Hardwick had keeled over at a board meeting, dead from the heart attack long before the ambulance had gotten there. Which was better, Chadwick had always figured, than him dying in the arms of a mistress.
She tilted her head in the other direction, not looking at him but still holding his hand. “I rather like you alive.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she answered slowly, like she really had to think about it. But then her thumb moved against the palm of his hand. “I do.”
Any remaining anger faded out of his vision as the room—the woman in it—came into sharp focus.
“You told me a few days ago,” she went on, her voice quiet in the gallery, “that you wanted to do something for yourself. Not for the family, not for the company. Then you spent God only knows how much on everything I’m wearing.” He saw the corner of her mouth curve up into a sly smile. “Except for a few zeros, this isn’t so different, is it?”
“I don’t need to spend money to be happy like he does.”
“Then why am I wearing a fortune’s worth of finery?”
“Because.” He hadn’t done it because it made him happy. He’d done it to see her look like this, to see that genuine smile she always wore when she was dressed to the nines. To know he could still make a woman smile.
He’d done it to make her happy. That was what made him happy.
She shot him a sidelong glance that didn’t convey annoyance so much as knowing—like that was exactly what she’d expected him to say. “You are an impossibly stubborn man when you want to be, Chadwick Beaumont.”
“It has been noted.”
“What do you want?”
Her.
He’d wanted her for years. But because he was not Hardwick Beaumont, he’d never once pursued her.
Except now he was. He was walking a fine line between acceptable actions and immoral, unethical behavior.
What he really wanted, more than anything, was to step over that line entirely.
She looked up at him through her thick lashes, waiting for an answer. When he didn’t give her one, she sighed. “The Beaumonts are an intelligent lot, you know. They’ll learn how to survive. You don’t have to protect them. Don’t work for them. They won’t ever appreciate it because they didn’t earn it themselves. Work for you.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “Do what makes you happy. Do what you want.”
She did realize what she was telling him, didn’t she? She had to—her fingers wrapped around his, her palm pressed against his cheek, her dark brown eyes looking into his with a kind of peace that he couldn’t remember ever feeling.
What he wanted was to leave this event behind, drive her home, and make love to her all night long. She had to know that was all he wanted—however not-divorced he was, pregnant she was, or employed she was by him.
Was she giving him permission? He would not trap his assistant into any sexual relationship. That wasn’t him.
God, he wanted her permission. Needed it. Always had.
“Serena—”
“Here we are.” Matthew strode into the gallery leading Miriam Young, the director of the Rocky Mountain Food Bank, and a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses. He gave Serena a look that was impossible to miss. “How is everything?”
She withdrew her hand from his cheek. “Fine,” she said, with one of those beautiful smiles.
Matthew made the introductions and Serena politely declined the champagne. Chadwick only half paid attention. Her words echoed around his head like a loose bowling ball in the trunk of a car.
Don’t work for them. Work for you.
Do what makes you happy.
She was right. It was high time he did what he wanted—above and beyond one afternoon.
It was time to seduce his assistant.
* * *
Standing in four-inch heels for two hours turned out to be more difficult than Serena had anticipated. She resorted to shifting from foot to foot as she and Chadwick made small talk with the likes of old-money billionaires, new-money billionaires, governors, senators and foundation heads. Most of the men were in tuxes like Chadwick’s, and most of the women were in gowns. So she blended in well enough.
Chadwick had recovered from the incident with Phillip nicely. She’d like to think that had something to do with their conversation in the gallery. With the way she’d told him to do what he wanted and the way he’d looked at her like the only thing he wanted to do was her.
She knew there was a list of reasons not to want him back. But she was tired of those reasons, tired of thinking she couldn’t, she shouldn’t.
So she didn’t. She focused on how painful those beautiful, beautiful shoes were. It kept her in the here and now.
Shoes aside, the evening had been delightful. Chadwick had introduced her as his assistant, true, but all the while he’d let one of his hands rest lightly on her lower back. She’d gotten a few odd looks, but no one had said anything. That probably had more to do with Chadwick’s reputation than anything else, but she wasn’t about to question it. Even without champagne, she’d been able to fall into small talk without too much panic.
She’d had a much nicer time than when she used to come with Neil. Then, she’d stood on the edge of the crowd, judiciously sipping her champagne and watching the crowd instead of interacting with it. Neil had always talked to people—always looking for another