The Beaumont Brothers. Sarah M. Anderson

wouldn’t manipulate him like that. And he wouldn’t do that to her.

      “So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “tell me about it.”

      She nodded. Her face was still pale, but she understood what he was saying. She understood him. “Which part?”

      “All of it.”

      So she did.

       Eight

      Serena clung to Chadwick’s arm as they swept up the red-carpeted stairs, past the paparazzi and into the Denver Art Museum. Part of her clinginess was because of the heels. Chadwick took huge, masterful strides that she was struggling to keep up with.

      But another part of it was how unsettled she was feeling. She’d told him about her childhood. About the one time she and her mom had lived in a women-only shelter for three days because her dad didn’t want them to have to sleep on the streets in the winter—but her mom had missed him so much that she’d bundled Serena up and they’d gone looking for him. She’d told him about Missy Gurgin in fourth grade making fun of Serena for wearing her old clothes, about the midnight moves to stay ahead of the due rent, about eating dinner that her mom had scavenged from leftovers at the diner.

      Things she’d never told anyone. Not even Neil knew about all of that.

      In turn, he’d told her about the way his father had controlled his entire life, about punishments that went way beyond cruel. He’d talked in a dispassionate tone, like they were discussing the weather and not the abuse of a child too young to defend himself, but she could hear the pain beneath the surface. He could act like it was all water under the bridge, but she knew better. All the money in the world hadn’t protected Chadwick.

      She put her hand over her stomach. No one would ever treat her child like that. And she would do everything in her power to keep her baby from ever being cold and hungry—or wondering where her next meal was coming from.

      They walked into the Art Museum. Serena tried to find the calm in her mind. God knew she needed it. She pushed aside the horror of what Chadwick had told her, the embarrassment of sharing her story with him.

      This was more familiar territory. She’d come to the Art Museum for this gala for the previous seven years. She knew where the galleries were, where the food was. She’d helped arrange that. She knew how to hold her champagne glass—oh, wait. No champagne for her tonight.

      Okay, no need to panic. She was still perfectly at ease. She was only wearing a wildly expensive dress, four-inch heels and a fortune in jewels. Not to mention she was pregnant, on a date with her boss and....

      Yeah, champagne would be great right about now.

      Chadwick leaned over and whispered, “Are you breathing?” in her ear.

      She did as instructed, the grin on her face making it easier. “Yes.”

      He squeezed her hand against his arm, which she found exceptionally reassuring. “Good. Keep it that way.”

      It was almost ten o’clock. Once they’d started sharing stories at dinner, it had been hard to stop. Serena was both mortified that she’d told any of that to Chadwick and, somehow, relieved. She’d buried those secrets deep, but they hadn’t been dead. They’d lived on, terrorizing her like a monster under the bed.

      At some point during dinner, she’d relaxed. The meal had been fabulous—the food was a little out there, but good. She’d been able to just enjoy being with Chadwick.

      Now they were arriving at the gala slightly later than was fashionable. People were noticing as Chadwick swept her into the main hall. She could see heads tilting as people craned their necks for a better view, could hear the whispers starting.

      Oh, this was not a good idea.

      She’d loved her black dress because it looked good—but it had also blended, something Mario had forbidden. Now that she was here and standing out in the crowd in a bold blue, she wished she’d gone with basic black. People were staring.

      A woman wearing a fire engine red gown that matched her fire engine red hair separated from the crowd just as Serena and Chadwick hit the middle of the room. She fought the urge to excuse herself and bolt for the ladies room. Queens amongst women did not hide in the bathroom, and that was that.

      “There you are,” the woman said, leaning to kiss Chadwick on the cheek. “I thought maybe you weren’t coming, and Matthew and I would have to deal with Phillip all by ourselves.”

      Serena exhaled in relief. She should have recognized Frances Beaumont, Chadwick’s half sister. She was well liked at the Beaumont Brewery, a fact that had a great deal to do with Donut Friday. Once a month, she personally delivered a donut to every single employee. Apparently, she’d been doing it since she was a little girl. As a result, Serena had heard more than a few of the workers refer to her as “our Frannie.”

      Frances was the kind of woman people described as “droll” without really knowing what that meant. But her razor-sharp wit was balanced with a good nature and an easy laugh.

      Unlike everyone else at the brewery, though, Chadwick didn’t seem to relax around his half sister. He stood ramrod straight, as if he were hoping to pass inspection. “We were held up. How’s Byron?”

      Frances waved her hand dismissively as Serena wondered, Byron?

      “Still licking his wounds in Europe. I believe he’s in Spain.” Frances sighed, as if this revelation pained her, but she said nothing else.

      Chadwick nodded, apparently agreeing to drop the topic of Byron. “Frannie, you remember Serena Chase, my assistant?”

      Frances looked her up and down. “Of course I remember Serena, Chadwick.” She leaned over and carefully pulled Serena into a light hug. “Fabulous dress. Where did you get it?”

      “Neiman’s.” Breathing in, breathing out.

      Frances gave her a warm smile. “Mario, am I right?”

      “You have a good eye.”

      “Of course, darling.” She drawled out this last word until it was almost three whole syllables. “It’s a job requirement when you’re an antiquities dealer.”

      “Your dress is stunning.” Serena couldn’t help but wonder how much it cost. Was she looking at several thousand dollars of red velvet and rubies? The one good thing was that, standing next to Frances Beaumont in that dress, no one was noticing Serena Chase.

      Chadwick cleared his throat. She glanced up to find him smiling down at her. Well, no one but him would notice her, anyway.

      He turned his attention back to his sister. “You said Phillip is already drunk?”

      Frances batted away this question with manicured nails that perfectly matched the color of her dress. “Oh, not yet. But I’m sure before the evening is through he’ll have charmed the spirits right out of three or four bottles of the good stuff.” She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s just that charming, you know.”

      Chadwick rolled his eyes. “I know.”

      Serena giggled, feeling relieved. Frances wasn’t treating her like a bastard at a family picnic. Maybe she could do this.

      Then Frances got serious, her smile dropping away. “Chadwick, have you thought more about putting up some money for my auction site?”

      Chadwick made a huffing noise of disapproval, which caused a shadow to fall over Frances’s face. Serena heard herself ask, “What auction site?”

      “Oh!” Frances turned the full power of her smile on Serena. “As an antiquities dealer, I work with a lot of people in this room who’d prefer not to pay the full commission to Christie’s auction house in New York, but who would never stoop to the level of eBay.”

      Ouch.