His Son, Her Secret

But not the one she wanted to hear.

Three (#ulink_83e1c72e-c2fa-50ae-b9af-75f12caeb05b)

“Your sauce is going to burn.”

This simple observation from George made Byron jump. “Damn.” He hurried over to reduce the heat under the saucepan, mentally kicking himself for making a rookie mistake.

George Jackson chuckled from his perch on a stool—the same place he’d been sitting for the past thirty-five years. Mothers and stepmothers came and went, more children showed up—being a Beaumont meant living in a constant state of uncertainty. Except for the kitchen. Except for George. Sure, his brown skin was more wrinkled and, yes, more of his hair was white than not. But otherwise, he was the same man—one of the very few, black or white, who didn’t take crap from any Beaumont. Not even Hardwick. Maybe that’s why Hardwick had kept George around and why Chadwick had kept him on after Hardwick’s death. George was constant and honest.

Like right now. “Boy, you’re a wreck.”

“I’m fine,” Byron lied. Which was pointless because George knew him far too well to buy that line.

George shook his head. “Why are you trying so hard to impress this girl? I thought she was the whole reason you left town.”

“I’m not,” Byron said, stirring the scalded sauce. “We’re working together. She’s designing the restaurant. I’m preparing food that might be on the menu in said restaurant. That’s not trying to impress her.”

George chuckled again. “Yeah, sure it’s not. You Beaumont men are all alike,” he added under his breath.

“I am absolutely not like my father and you know it,” Byron shot off, checking the roast in the oven. “I’ve never married anyone, much less a string of people, and I certainly don’t have any kids running around.”

George snorted at this. “Be that as it may, you’re exactly like your old man. Even like Chadwick, sitting up there with his second wife. None of you all could be honest with yourselves when it came to women.” He seemed to reconsider this statement. “Well, maybe not Chadwick this time. Miss Serena is different. Hope your brother doesn’t screw it up. But my point is, you all are fools.”

“Thanks, George,” Byron replied sarcastically. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

From a long way away, the doorbell rang. “Watch the sauce,” Byron said as he hurried out of the kitchen.

The Beaumont Mansion was a huge building that had been built by his grandfather, John Beaumont, after prohibition and after World War II, when beer had been legal and soldiers had come home to drink it. The Beaumont Brewery had barely managed to stay afloat for twenty years, and then suddenly John had been making money faster than he could count it. He’d built several new buildings on the brewery campus as well as the mansion, a 15,000 square-foot pile of brick designed to show up the older mansions of the silver barons. The mansion had turrets and stained glass and gargoyles, for God’s sake. Nothing was ever over-the-top to a Beaumont, apparently.

Byron had always hated this house, the way it made people act. The house was toxic with the ghosts of John and Hardwick. This was not a house that had known happiness. He couldn’t understand why Chadwick insisted on raising his family here.

Byron hadn’t even bothered to unpack the rest of his stuff because he wasn’t going to be here long enough to settle in. He’d get a nice apartment with a good kitchen close to the Percheron Drafts brewery and that’d be fine. In the meantime, he’d spend as much time in the one room that had always been free from drama and grief—the kitchen.

He almost ran into Chadwick, who was coming downstairs to answer the door. “I’ve got it,” Byron said, sidestepping his oldest brother.

Chadwick made no move to go back upstairs. “Expecting company?”

“It’s the interior designer,” Byron replied, happy to have that truth to hide behind. “I’ve prepared a sampling of dishes for her so we can build the theme of the restaurant around them.”

“Ah, good.” Chadwick looked at him, that stern look that always made Byron feel as though he wasn’t measuring up. “Anything else I should know?”

Byron froze and the doorbell rang again. “George is making apple cobbler for dessert tonight,” he said.

Then—weirdly—Chadwick smiled. It wasn’t something Byron remembered happening when they were growing up. Back then, Chadwick had been imposing and their father’s clear favorite, and Byron had been the irritating little brother who liked to play in the kitchen.

“If you need another opinion, let me know,” Chadwick said, turning to head back upstairs. But that was all. No judgments, no cutting words—not even a dismissive glance.

“Yeah, will do,” Byron said, waiting until Chadwick had disappeared before he opened the door.

There stood Leona. Something in his chest eased. It wasn’t as if she was dressed to kill—in fact, she looked quite businesslike with a coordinating skirt and jacket. For the first time, he realized how much she’d changed in the past year—something that went much deeper than just her hair. Maybe, an insidious voice in his head whispered, she’s moved on and you haven’t.

Perhaps that was true. But there was no missing the fact that he was glad to see her. He should hate her and all the Harpers. Not a one of them were to be trusted.

He needed to remember that. “Hi. Come in.”

She paused. Despite their year-long relationship, he’d never once brought her back to the mansion nor had she ever asked to visit. That had been part of what had attracted him to her—she had no interest in the trappings of Beaumont wealth and fame.

He hadn’t realized her disinterest was because she had her own money. Maybe George had been right. Byron was a fool.

“Thank you.” She stepped into the house and he closed the door behind her. “Oh,” she said, staring up at the vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers. “This is lovely.”

“Not my style,” he admitted. “This way.”

He led her down the wide hallway that bisected the first floor, past the formal dining room, the receiving room, the men’s parlor, the women’s parlor and the library. Finally, they reached the hallway that led around the back of the dining room and down the six steps to the kitchen.

The whole time, they walked silently. Byron didn’t know much about the Harper house—it wasn’t as if Leon Harper would invite him over—but he was sure this level of wealth wasn’t unfamiliar to Leona and he had no desire to rehash old memories of his parents slamming doors after yet another disastrous meal.

Byron opened the door to the kitchen. “Here we are,” he said, holding the door for Leona.

She stepped into the warm room. Early-evening sunlight glinted through the windows set above the countertop. The room had an impressive view of the Rocky Mountains. The light reflected off the rows of copper pots and pans that hung from racks, bathing the room in comfortable warmth.

Leona gasped. “This is beautiful.” She looked at him, her eyes full of understanding, and in that moment, he nearly forgot how she’d lied and broken his heart. This was his Leona, the one he’d shared his deepest thoughts and feelings with. “Oh, Byron...”

“And George,” George said, straightening from where he’d bent over to check the oven.

“Oh!” Leona took a step back in surprise and ran right into Byron. Instinctively, his arm went around her waist, steadying her—and pulling her into his chest. Heat—and maybe something more—flowed between them and he suddenly had to fight the urge to press his lips against the base of her neck, in the spot where she’d always loved to be kissed.

She pulled away from him. “George! I’ve heard so much about you! It’s wonderful to finally meet you in person.”

Then, to Byron’s surprise—and George’s, given his expression—Leona walked right up to the older man and hugged him.

“Yeah,” George said in shock, shooting Byron a look. “I’ve heard—well,” he quickly corrected when Byron shook his head. “It’s good to finally meet you, too.”

Byron exhaled in relief. George was the only person who knew the entire story about Leona—he hadn’t even told Frances the whole thing. God only knew what the older man might have said to Leona.

“George is advising on the menu,” Byron told her when she finally released George from the hug. “He’ll be dining with us tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.” For some reason, Leona looked...disappointed?

Had she been thinking this would be an intimate dinner for two? She wasn’t dressed for it—she looked as though she’d come directly from work. There would be no hot dates. Not now, not at any time in the future. If that’s what she was angling for, she was in for a surprise.

A timer went off and Byron pushed that thought from his mind. He had food to prepare, after all. “This is going to be a tapas-style meal—all small plates,” he explained, directing Leona to a stool across from George’s normal perch. “Chadwick has all the current Percheron Drafts in stock so we can pair them up.” He opened up one of the three refrigerators in the room, the one with all the beverages. “Which would you like to start with?”

Leona blinked at him. “I don’t drink.”

He stared at her. This was a new development. They’d always shared wine with a meal. Odd. “All right,” he said slowly, snagging a White Horse Pale Ale for himself. “Then I’ll get you some water.”

Then he got to work. He plated the braised lamb shoulder, the croquetas de jamón serrano, the coq au vin, the ratatouille, the herb-crusted swordfish and the duck confit. He ladled the vichyssoise soup into a small bowl, and did the same with the bowl of Castilian roasted garlic soup and the gazpacho. George sliced the French bread and the homemade root vegetable chips fried in truffle oil.