A Beaumont Christmas Wedding

“I bought my ranch eleven years ago.” She focused her attention on her food. “After I left Hollywood.”

So she really was Whitney Wildz. But...eleven years? That didn’t seem right. It couldn’t have been more than two years since the last headline.

“Where is your ranch?”

If Matthew had known who she really was, he would have done more digging. Be Prepared wasn’t just a good Boy Scout motto—it was vital to succeeding in public relations.

One thing was abundantly clear. Matthew was not prepared for Whitney, whatever her last name was.

“Not too far from Bakersfield. It’s very...quiet there.”

Then she gazed up at him again. The look in her eyes stunned him—desperate for approval. He knew that look—he saw it in the mirror every morning.

Why would she want his approval? She was Whitney Wildz, for crying out loud. She’d always done what she wanted, when she wanted—consequences be damned.

Except...nothing about her said she was out of control—except for the way she’d fallen into his arms.

His first instinct had been to hold her—to protect her. To claim her as his. What if...?

No.

There was no “what if” about this. His first duty was to his family—to making sure this wedding went off without a hitch. To making sure everyone knew that the Beaumonts were still in a position of power. To making sure he proved himself worthy of his father’s legacy.

At the very least, he could be a gentleman about it.

“That’s beautiful country,” he said. Compliments were an important part of setting a woman at ease. If he were smart, he would have remembered that in the first place. “Your ranch must be lovely.”

A touch of color brightened her cheeks. His stomach tensed. She was beautiful, he realized. Not the punk-rock hot she’d been back when he’d watched her show, but something delicate and ethereal.

Mine.

The word kept popping up in his head, completely unbidden. Which was ridiculous because the only thing Whitney was to him was a roadblock.

Phillip kicked him again. Stop staring, he mouthed at Matthew.

Matthew shook his head. He hadn’t realized he was staring.

“Matthew, maybe we should discuss some of the wedding plans?” Jo said it nicely enough but there was no mistaking that question for an order.

“Of course,” he agreed. The wedding. He needed to stay on track here. “We have an appointment with the seamstress tomorrow at ten. Jo, it’s your final fitting. Whitney, we ordered your dress according to the measurements you sent in, but we’ve blocked out some additional time in case it requires additional fittings.”

“That sounds fine,” she said in a voice that almost sounded casual.

“Saturday night is the bachelorette party. I have a list of places that would be an appropriate location for you to choose from.”

“I see,” she said. She brushed her hand through her hair.

He fought the urge to do the same.

What was wrong with him? Seriously—what was wrong with him? He went from attracted to her to furious at everyone in the room and now he wanted to, what—stroke her hair? Claim her? Jesus, these were exactly the sort of impulses he’d always figured had ruled Phillip. The ones that had ruled their father. See a beautiful woman, act on the urge to sweep her off her feet. To hell with anything else.

Matthew needed to regain control of the situation—of himself—and fast.

“We’ll need to get the shoes and jewelry squared away. We need to get you in to the stylist before then to decide how to deal with your hair, so we’ll do that after the dress fitting.” He waited, but she didn’t say anything.

So he went on. “The rehearsal dinner is Tuesday night. Then the wedding is Christmas Eve, of course.” A week and a half—that didn’t leave him much time to deal with the disruption of Whitney Wildz. “The ladies will get manicures that morning before they get their hair done. Then we’ll start with the photographs.”

Whitney cleared her throat—but she still didn’t meet his gaze. “Who else is in the wedding party?”

He wanted her to look at him—he wanted to get lost in her eyes. “Our older brother Chadwick will be walking with his wife, Serena. Frances and Byron will be walking together—they’re twins, five years younger than I am.” For a second, Matthew had almost said we—as in he and Phillip. Because he and Phillip were only six months apart.

But he didn’t want to bring his father’s infidelity into this conversation, because that meant Whitney would know that he was the second choice, the child his father had never really loved. Or even acknowledged, for that matter. So he said I.

“That just leaves the two of us,” he added, suddenly very interested in his plate. How was he going to keep this primal urge to haul her off under control if they were paired up for the wedding?

He could not let her distract him from his goals, no matter how much he wanted to. He had to pull this off—to prove that he was a legitimate Beaumont. Ravishing the maid of honor did not fall anywhere on his to-do list.

“Ah.” He looked up when he heard her chair scrape against the floor. She stood and, without looking at him, said, “I’m a little tired from the drive. If you’ll excuse me.” Jo started to stand, but Whitney waved her off. “I think I can find my way.”

Then she was gone, walking in a way that he could only describe as graceful. She didn’t stumble and she didn’t fall. She walked in a straight line for the stairs.

Several moments passed after she disappeared up the stairs. No one seemed willing to break the tense silence. Finally, Matthew couldn’t take it anymore.

“What the hell? Why is Whitney Wildz your maid of honor and why didn’t either of you see fit to tell me in advance? Jesus, if I’d known, I would have done things differently. Do you have any idea what the press will do when they find out?”

It was easier to focus on how this was going to screw up the wedding than on how his desire was on the verge of driving him mad.

“Gosh, I don’t know. You think they’ll make a big deal out of stuff that happened years ago and make Whitney feel like crap?” Phillip shot back. “You’re right. That would really suck.”

“Hey—this is not my fault. You guys sprung this on me.”

“I believe,” Jo said in a voice so icy it brought the temperature of the room down several degrees, “I told you I was asking Whitney Maddox to be my maid of honor. Whitney Wildz is a fictional character in a show that was canceled almost thirteen years ago. If you can’t tell the difference between a real woman and a fictional teenager, then that’s your problem, not hers.”

“It is my problem,” he got out through gritted teeth. “You can’t tell me that’s all in the past. What about the headlines?”

Phillip rolled his eyes. “Because everything the press prints is one hundred percent accurate, huh? I thought you, of all people, would know how the headlines can be manipulated.”

“She’s a normal person,” Jo said. Instead of icy, though, she was almost pleading. “I retrained one of her horses and we got to spend time together last winter. She’s a little bit of a klutz when she gets nervous but that’s it. She’s going to be fine.”

“If you can treat her like a normal person,” Phillip added. “Man—I thought you were this expert at reading people and telling them what they wanted to hear. What happened? Hit your head this morning or something?”

Matthew sat there, feeling stupid. Hell, he wasn’t just feeling stupid—he was stupid. His first instinct had been to protect her. He should have stuck with it. He could do that without giving in to his desire to claim her, right?

Right. He was in control of his emotions. He could keep up a wall between the rest of the world and himself. He was good at it.

Then he made the mistake of glancing at that silly donkey, who gave him a baleful look of reproach. Great. Even the donkey was mad at him.

“I should apologize to her.”