A Beaumont Christmas Wedding

“It won’t be a problem,” Jo said in a reassuring voice. “And you’re right—the day will be very big!”

They laughed. It felt good to laugh with Jo again. She hadn’t had to stay a whole two months with Whitney last year—Sterling hadn’t been that difficult to handle—but the two of them had gotten along because they understood that the past was just that. So Jo had stayed through the slow part of the year and taught Whitney some of her training techniques. It’d been a good two months. For the first time in her adult life, Whitney hadn’t felt quite so...alone.

And now she’d get that feeling again for two weeks.

“And you’re happy?” That was the important question.

Jo’s features softened. “I am. He’s a good man who had an interesting life—to say the least. He’s learned how to deal with his family with all that charm. He wasn’t hitting on you—that’s just how he copes with situations that make him nervous.”

“Really? He must have an, um, unusual family.”

Jo laughed again. “I’ll just say this—they’re a lot to handle, but on the whole, they’re not bad people. Like Matthew. He can be a little controlling, but he really does want what’s best for the family and for us.” She stood. “I’ll let you get freshened up. Matthew should be here in a few.”

“Sounds good.”

Jo shut the door on her way out, leaving Whitney alone with her thoughts. She was glad she’d come.

This was what she wanted—to feel normal. To be normal. To be able to walk into a room and not be concerned with what people thought they knew about her. Instead, to have people, like Phillip, take her at face value and make her feel welcome.

And he had a brother who was coming to dinner.

What did Matthew Beaumont look like? More to the point, what did he act like? Brothers could like a lot of the same things, right?

What if Matthew Beaumont looked at her the way his brother did, without caring about who she’d been in the past? What if he talked to her about horses instead of headlines? What if—? What if he wasn’t involved with anyone?

Whitney didn’t hook up. That part of her life was dead and buried. But...a little Christmas romance between the maid of honor and the best man wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it? It could be fun.

She hurried to the bathroom, daring to hope that this Matthew Beaumont was single. He was coming to dinner tonight and it sounded as if he would be involved with a lot of the planned activities. She was here for two weeks. Perhaps the built-in time limit was a good thing. That way, if things didn’t go well, she had an out—she could go home.

Although...it had been eleven years since she’d attempted anything involving the opposite sex. Making a pass at the best man might not be the smartest thing she could do.

She washed her face. A potential flirtation with Matthew Beaumont called for eyeliner, at the very least. Whitney made up her face and decided to put on a fresh top. She dug out the black silk before putting it aside. Jo was in jeans and flannel, after all. This was not a fancy dinner. Whitney decided to go with the red V-neck cashmere sweater—soft but not ostentatious. The kind of top that maybe a single, handsome man would accidentally brush with his fingers. Perfect.

Would Matthew be blond, like Phillip? Would he have the same smile, the same blue eyes? She was brushing out her short hair when, from deep inside the house, a bell chimed.

She slicked on a little lip gloss and headed out. She tried to retrace her steps, but she got confused. The house had a bunch of hallways that went in different directions. She tried one set of stairs but found a door that was locked at the bottom. That wasn’t right—Jo hadn’t led her through a door. She backtracked, trying not to panic. Hopefully, everyone wasn’t downstairs waiting on her.

She found another stairwell, but it didn’t seem any more familiar than the first one had. It ended in a darkened room. Whitney decided to go back rather than stumble around in the dark. God, she shouldn’t have spent so much time getting ready. She should have gone back down with Jo. Or gotten written directions. Getting lost was embarrassing.

She found her room again, which had to count for something. She went the opposite direction and was relieved when she passed the master suite. Finally. She picked up the pace. Maybe she wasn’t too late.

She could hear voices now—Jo’s and Phillip’s and another voice, deep and strong. Matthew.

She hurried down the steps, then remembered she was trying to make a good impression. It wouldn’t do to come rushing in like a tardy teenager. She needed to slow down to make a proper entrance.

She slammed on the brakes in the middle of a step near the bottom and stumbled. Hard. She tripped down the last two steps and all but fell into the living room. She was going down, damn it! She braced for the impact.

It didn’t come. Instead of hitting the floor or running into a piece of furniture, she fell into a pair of strong arms and against a firm, warm chest.

“Oof,” the voice that went with that chest said.

Whitney looked up into a pair of eyes that were a deep blue. He smiled down at her and this time, she didn’t feel as if she were going to forget her own name. She felt as if she’d never forget this moment.

“I’ve got you.”

Not blond, she realized. Auburn hair. A deep red that seemed just right on him. And he did have her. His arms were around her waist and he was lifting her up. She felt secure. The feeling was wonderful.

Then, without warning, everything changed. His warm smile froze as his eyes went hard. The strong arms became iron bars around her and the next thing she knew, she was being pushed not up but away.

Matthew Beaumont set her back on her feet and stepped clear of her. With a glare that could only be described as ferocious, he turned to Phillip and Jo.

“What,” he said in the meanest voice Whitney had heard in a long time, “is Whitney Wildz doing here?”

Two (#ulink_c52fdf81-3bfa-52bf-b2eb-c0cab8073c01)

Matthew waited for an answer. It’d better be a damn good one, too. What possible explanation could there be for former teen star Whitney Wildz to be in Phillip’s house?

“Matthew,” Jo said in an icy tone, “I’d like you to meet my maid of honor, Whitney Maddox.”

“Try to stop being an ass,” Phillip said under his breath.

“Whitney,” Jo went on, as if Phillip hadn’t spoke, “this is Matthew Beaumont, Phillip’s brother and best man.”

“Maddox?” He turned back to the woman who looked as though she’d been stepped on by a Percheron. At least they could all agree her first name was Whitney. Maybe there was a mistake? But no. There was no missing that white streak in her hair or those huge pale eyes set against her alabaster skin. “You’re Whitney Wildz. I’d recognize you anywhere.”

Her eyes closed and her head jerked to the side as if he’d slapped her.

Someone grabbed him. “Try harder,” Phillip growled in his ear. Then, louder, Phillip said, “Dinner’s ready. Whitney, is iced tea all right?”

Whitney Wildz—Matthew had no doubt that was who she was—opened her eyes. A wave of pain washed over him when she looked up at him. Then she drew herself up.

“Thank you,” she said in that breathy way of hers. Then she stepped around him.

Memories came back to him. He’d watched her show, Growing Up Wildz, all the time with his younger siblings Frances and Byron. Because Matthew was a good brother—the best—he’d watched it with them. He’d even scored VIP tickets to the Growing Up Wildz concert tour when it came through Denver and taken the twins, since their father couldn’t be bothered to remember that it was their fifteenth birthday. Matthew was a good brother just taking care of his siblings. That was what he told everyone else.

But that wasn’t, strictly, the truth.

He’d watched it for Whitney.

And now Whitney was here.

This was bad. This was quite possibly the worst thing that could have happened to this wedding—to him. It would have been easier if Phillip were screwing her. That sort of thing was easy to hush up—God knew Matthew had enough practice covering for his father’s indiscretions.

But to have Whitney Wildz herself standing up at the altar, in front of the press and the photographers—not to mention the guests?

He tried to remember the last time she’d been in the news. She’d stumbled her way up on stage and then tripped into the podium, knocking it off the dais and into a table. The debate hadn’t been about if she’d been on something, just what—drugs? Alcohol? Both?

And then tonight she’d basically fallen down the stairs and into his arms. He hadn’t minded catching a beautiful woman at the time. The force of her fall had pressed her body against his and what had happened to him was some sort of primal response that had taken control of his body before he’d realized it.