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His Son, Her Secret
Sarah M. Anderson
Their families tore them apart. Can their baby bring them back together? For more than a year, Byron Beaumont has tried to get over Leona Harper. Not even living overseas could erase the memory of their affair…or her betrayal. Her family has been out to destroy his for decades, and despite Byron trusting her, making love to her, Leona kept her identity hidden. Now that Byron is back–as her new employer–he wants answers.But what he gets is another surprise. Leona has given birth to his son. He'll do what it takes to care for his family, even if it means spending days–and nights–wanting the one woman he can't have…


“I need to tell you…” Her words were still little more than a whisper.
“What do you need?”
Her eyes widened again as his face got within inches of hers, and she exhaled, something that sounded a hell of a lot like satisfaction. His gut twisted. Despite her lies and betrayal, the messy ending to their relationship and the long year on a different continent—despite it all—he wanted her.
“The job,” she said in a voice that didn’t even make it to a whisper. “I want the job, Byron.”
And she didn’t kiss him, didn’t tell him she was so sorry she’d picked her family over him. At no point did she apologize for lying to him.
“Right, right.”
She couldn’t be more clear. She was here for the job.
Not for him.
* * *
His Son, Her Secret is part of the Beaumont Heirs series: One Colorado family, limitless scandal!
His Son, Her Secret
Sarah M. Anderson


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Award-winning author SARAH M. ANDERSON may live east of the Mississippi River, but her heart lies out West on the Great Plains. With a lifelong love of horses and two history teachers for parents, she had plenty of encouragement to learn everything she could about the tribes of the Great Plains.
When she started writing, it wasn’t long before her characters found themselves out in South Dakota among the Lakota Sioux. She loves to put people from two different worlds into new situations and to see how their backgrounds and cultures take them someplace they never thought they’d go.
Sarah’s book A Man of Privilege won the 2012 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best Harlequin Desire. Her book Straddling the Line was named Best Harlequin Desire of 2013 by CataRomance, and Mystic Cowboy was a 2014 Booksellers’ Best Award finalist in the Single Title category as well as a finalist for the Gayle Wilson Award for Excellence.
When not helping out at her son’s school or walking her rescue dogs, Sarah spends her days having conversations with imaginary cowboys and American Indians, all of which is surprisingly well tolerated by her wonderful husband. Readers can find out more about Sarah’s love of cowboys and Indians at www.sarahmanderson.com (http://www.sarahmanderson.com).
To Joelle Charbonneau and Blythe Gifford, who took me under their wings when I was new and clueless, held my hands when I stumbled, and who even became friends with my mom. Thank you for being guides on my journey, ladies!
Contents
Cover (#u71c52472-960a-5a9d-ad05-9283a0232e6f)
Introduction (#u6699b1d8-83f2-5d7c-83d3-38772b54161e)
Title Page (#ufe330fc6-7389-557c-972f-189b19de41cd)
About the Author (#ud2af6150-28be-5a37-b89d-0e95366d4e61)
Dedication (#uca4b8d84-5185-5e7c-8275-a2b7ba475ff9)
One (#ulink_66d9dca0-a4c1-5d64-8440-667af540d128)
Two (#ulink_ac1ba4fb-1d08-5673-a6a4-9254782b6d1f)
Three (#ulink_99d06dd7-0509-5fb5-95e2-057af62cdea4)
Four (#ulink_7a959029-a9a1-58da-bc28-70b7cc27f2ce)
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Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#ulink_3388e201-4e9d-5f74-abea-df106fbc6836)
“This place is a dump,” Byron Beaumont announced. His words echoed off the stone walls, making the submerged space sound haunted.
“Don’t see it as it is,” his older brother Matthew said through the speaker in Byron’s phone. It was much easier for Matthew to call this one in, rather than make the long journey to Denver from California, where he was happily living in sin. “See it as what it will be.”
Byron did another slow turn, inspecting the extent of the neglect as he tried not to think about Matthew—or any of his older brothers—being happily engaged or married. The Beaumonts hadn’t been, until recently, the marrying kind.
Yet it hadn’t been so long ago that he’d thought he was the marrying kind. And then it had all blown up in his face. And while he’d been licking his wounds, his brothers—normally workaholics and playboys—had been pairing off with women who were, by all accounts, great for them.
Once again, Byron was the one who didn’t conform to Beaumont expectations.
Forcibly, he turned his attention back to the space before him. The vaulted ceiling was arched, but the parts that weren’t arched were quite low. Cobwebs dangled from everything, including the single bare lightbulb in the middle of the room, which cast deep shadows into the corners. The giant pillars supporting the arches were evenly spaced, taking up a huge amount of the floor. Inches of dust coated the low half-moon windows at eye level. What Byron could see of the outside looked to be weeds. And the whole space smelled of mold.
“And what will it be? Razed, I hope.”
“No,” Byron’s oldest half brother, Chadwick Beaumont, said. The word was crisp and authoritative, which was normal for Chadwick. However, the part where he lifted his daughter out of his wife’s arms and onto his shoulders so she could see better was not. “This is underneath the brewery. It was originally a warehouse but we think you can do something better with it.”
Byron snorted. Yeah, right.
Serena Beaumont, Chadwick’s wife, stepped next to Byron so that Matthew could see her on the phone. “Percheron Drafts has had a great launch, thanks to Matthew’s hard work. But we want this brewery to be more than just a craft beer.”
“We want to hit the old company where it counts,” Matthew said. “A large number of our former customers continue to be unhappy about how the Beaumont Brewery was sold away from our family. The bigger we can make Percheron Drafts, the better we can siphon off our old customers.”
“And to do that,” Serena went on in a sweet voice at direct odds with a discussion about corporate politics, “we need to offer our customers something they cannot get from Beaumont Brewery.”
“Phillip is working with our graphic designer on incorporating his team of Percherons into all of the Percheron Draft marketing, but we have to be sensitive to trademark issues,” Chadwick added.
“Exactly,” Matthew agreed. “So our distinctive element can’t be the horses, not yet.”
Byron rolled his eyes. He should have brought his twin sister, Frances, so he would have someone to back him up. He was being steamrollered into something that seemed doomed from the start.
“You three have got to be kidding me. You want me to open a restaurant in this dungeon?” He looked around at the dust and the mildew. “No. It’s not going to happen. This place is a dump. I can’t cook in this environment and there’s no way in hell I would expect anyone to eat here, either.” He eyed the baby gurgling on Chadwick’s shoulder. “In fact, I’m not sure any of us should be breathing this air without HazMat masks. When was the last time the doors were even opened?”
Matthew looked at Serena. “Did you show him the workroom?”
“No. I’ll do that now.” She walked toward a set of doors in the far back of the room. They were heavy wooden things on rusting hinges, wide enough a pair of Percheron horses could pull a wagon through them.
“I’ve got it, babe,” Chadwick said as Serena struggled to get the huge latch lifted. “Here, hold Catherine,” he said to Byron.
Suddenly, Byron had a baby in his arms. He almost dropped the phone as Catherine leaned back to look up at her uncle.
“Um, hey,” Byron said nervously. He didn’t know much of anything about babies in general or this baby in particular. All he knew was that she was Serena’s daughter from a previous relationship and Chadwick had formally adopted her.
Catherine’s face wrinkled in doubt at this new development. Byron didn’t even know how old the little girl was. Six months? A year? He had no idea. He couldn’t be sure he was even holding her right. However, he was becoming reasonably confident that this small human was about to start crying. Her face screwed up and she started to turn red.
“Um, Chadwick? Serena?”
Luckily, Chadwick got the doors open with a hideous squealing noise, which distracted the baby. Then Serena lifted Catherine out of Byron’s arms. “Thanks,” she said, as if Byron had done anything other than not drop the infant.
“You’re welcome.”
Matthew was laughing, Byron realized. “What?” he whispered at his brother.
“The look on your face...” Matthew appeared to be slapping his knee. “Man, have you ever even held a baby before?”
“I’m a chef—not a babysitter,” Byron hissed back. “Have you ever foamed truffle oil?”
Matthew held up his hands in surrender. “I give, I give. Besides, no one said that starting a restaurant would involve child care. You’re off the hook, baby-wise.”
“Byron?” Serena said. She waved him toward the doors. “Come see this.”
Unwillingly, Byron crossed the length of the dank room and walked up the sloping ramp to the workroom. What he saw almost took his breath away.
Instead of the dirt and decay that characterized the old warehouse, the workroom had been upgraded at some point in the past twenty years. Stainless-steel cabinets and countertops fit against the stone walls—but these walls had been painted white. The overhanging industrial lighting was harsh, but it kept the room from looking like a pit in hell. Some cobwebs hung here and there, but the contrast between this room and the other was stunning.
This, Byron thought, had potential.
“Now,” Matthew was saying as Byron looked at the copper pipes that led down into a sink that was almost three feet long, “as we understand it, the last people who used this brewery to brew beer upgraded the workroom. That’s where they experimented with ingredients in small batches.”
Byron walked over to the six-burner stove. It was a professional model. “It’s better,” he agreed. “But this isn’t equipped for restaurant service. I can’t cook on only six burners. It’s still a complete teardown. I’d still be starting from scratch.”
There was a pause, then Matthew said, “Isn’t that what you want?”
“What?”
“Yes, well,” Chadwick cleared his throat. “We thought that, with your being in Europe for over a year...”
“That you’d be more interested in a fresh start,” Serena finished diplomatically. “A place you could call your own. Where you call the shots.”
Byron stared at his family. “What are you talking about?” But the question was a dodge. He knew exactly what they were thinking.
That he’d had a job working for Rory McMaken in his flagship restaurant, Sauce, in Denver and that not only had Byron been thrown out of the place over what everyone thought were “creative differences” but that Byron had left the country and gone to France and then Spain because he couldn’t handle the flack McMaken had given him and the entire Beaumont family on his show on the Foodie TV network.
Too bad they didn’t know what had really happened.
Byron’s contact with his family had been intentionally limited over the past twelve months—his twin sister Frances notwithstanding. Nearly all of the family news had filtered down through Frances. That’s how Byron had learned that Chadwick had not only gotten divorced but had then also married his secretary and adopted her daughter. And that’s how Byron had learned Phillip was marrying his horse trainer. No doubt, Frances was the only reason anyone knew where Byron had been.
Still, Byron was touched by his family’s concern. He’d more or less gone off the grid to protect them from the fallout of his one great mistake—Leona Harper. Yet here they were, trying to convince him to return to Denver by giving him the blank slate he’d been trying to find.
Chadwick started to say something but paused and looked at his wife. Something unspoken passed between them. Just the sight of it stung Byron like lemon juice in a paper cut.
“You wouldn’t have to get independent financing,” Serena told Byron. “The up-front costs would be covered between the settlement you received from the sale of the Beaumont Brewery and the capital that Percheron Drafts can provide.”
“We bought the entire building outright,” Chadwick added. “Rent would be next to nothing compared to what it would be in downtown Denver. The restaurant would have to cover its own utilities and payroll, but that’s about it. You’d have near total financial freedom.”
“And,” Matthew chimed in, “you could do whatever you wanted. Whatever theme you wanted to build upon, whatever decorating scheme you wanted to use, whatever cuisine you wanted to serve—burgers and fries or foamed truffle oil or whatever. The only caveat would be that Percheron Drafts beer would be the primary focus of the beverage menu since the restaurant is in the basement of the brewery. Otherwise, you’d have carte blanche.”
Byron looked from Chadwick to Serena to Matthew’s face on the screen. “You guys really think this will sell beer?”
“I can give you a copy of the cost-benefit analysis I prepared,” Serena said. Chadwick beamed at her, which was odd. The brother Byron remembered didn’t beam a whole hell of a lot.
Byron could not believe he was considering this. He liked living in Madrid. His Spanish was improving and he liked working at El Gallio, the restaurant helmed by a chef who cared more about food and ingredients and people than his own brand name.
It’d been a year. A year of working his way up the food chain, from no-star restaurants to one-star Michelin establishments to El Gallio, a three-star restaurant—one of the highest-ranked places in the world. He had made a name for himself that had absolutely nothing to do with his father and the Beaumonts, and he was damned proud of that. Would he really give all that up to come home for good?
More than anything, he liked the near total anonymity of life in Europe. There, no one cared that he was a Beaumont or that he’d left the States under a swirling cloud of gossip. No one gave a damn what happened with the Beaumont Brewery or Percheron Drafts or what any of his siblings had done to make headlines that day.
No one thought about the long-running feud between the Beaumonts and the Harpers that had led to the forced sale of the Beaumont Brewery.
No one thought about Byron and Leona Harper.
And that was how he liked it.
Leona...
If he were going to move back home, he knew he’d have to confront her. They had unfinished business and not even a year in Europe could change that. He wanted to look her in the face and have her tell him why. That’s all he wanted. Why had she lied to him for almost a year about who she really was? Why had she picked her family over him? Why had she thrown away everything they’d planned—everything he’d wanted to give her?
In the course of the past year, Byron had worked and worked and worked to forget her. He had to accept the fact that he might not ever forget her or her betrayal of him—of them. Fine. That was part of life. Everyone got their heart ripped out of their chest and handed to them at least once.
He didn’t want her back. Why would he? So she and her father could try to destroy him all over again?
No, what he wanted was a little payback.
The question was how to go about it.
Then he remembered something. Before it’d all fallen so spectacularly apart, Leona had been in school for industrial design. They’d talked about the restaurant they’d open together, how she’d design it and he’d run it. A blank slate that was theirs and theirs alone.
It’d been a year. She might have a job or her own firm or whatever. If he hired her, she would work for him. She would have to do as he said. He could prove that she didn’t have any power over him—that she couldn’t hurt him. He was not the same naive boy who’d let love blind him while he worked for an egomaniac. He was a chef. He would have his own restaurant. He was his own boss. He was in charge.
He was a Beaumont, damn it. It was time to start acting like one.
“I can use whomever I want to do the interior design?”
“Of course,” Chadwick and Matthew said at the same time.
Byron looked at the workroom and then through the doors to the dungeon of the old warehouse. “I cannot believe I’m even considering this,” he muttered. He could go back to Spain, back to the new life he’d made for himself, free of his past.
Except...
He would never be free of his past, not really. And he was done hiding.
He looked at his brothers and Serena, each hopeful that he would come back into the family fold.
This was a mistake. But then, when it came to Leona, Byron would probably always make the worst choice.
“I’ll do it.”
* * *
“Leona?” May’s voice came through the speaker on her phone.
Leona hurriedly picked up before her boss, Marvin Lutefisk, head of Lutefisk Design, could hear the personal call. “I’m here. What’s up? Is everything okay?”
“Percy’s a little fussy. I think he might have another ear infection.”
Leona sighed. “Do we still have some drops from the last round?” She could hardly afford another hundred-dollar trip to the doctor, who would look at Percy’s ears for three seconds and write a prescription.
But the other option wasn’t much better. If Percy got three—now two—more ear infections, they would have to talk about putting tubes in his ears, and even that minor outpatient surgery was far beyond Leona’s budget.
“A little bit...” May sounded unconvincing.
“I’ll...get some more,” Leona announced. Maybe she could sweet-talk the nurses into a free sample?
Just like she’d done nearly every single day since Percy’s birth, Leona thought about how different things would be if Byron Beaumont were still in her life. It wouldn’t necessarily solve her health care issues, but her little sister May treated Leona as if she had the means to fix any problem, anytime.
Just once Leona wanted to lean on someone, instead of being the one who took all the weight.
But daydreaming about what might have been didn’t pay the bills, so she told May, “Listen, I’m still at work. If he gets too bad, call the pediatrician. I can take him in tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. You’ll be home for dinner, right? I have class tonight, don’t forget.”
“I won’t.” Just then, her boss walked past her cubicle. “Gotta go,” she whispered and hung up.
“Leona,” Marvin said in his nasal tone. Unconsciously, he reached up and patted his comb-over back into position. “Busy?”
Leona put on her best smile. “Just finishing up a client phone call, Mr. Lutefisk. What’s up?”
Marvin smiled encouragingly, his eyes beaming at her through thick lenses. He really wasn’t a bad boss—that she knew. Marvin was giving her a chance to be someone other than Leon Harper’s daughter, and that was all she could ask. That and the chance to get her foot in the door of industrial design. Leona had always dreamed of designing restaurants and bars—public spaces where form and function blended with a practical application of art and design. She hadn’t really planned on doing storefronts for malls and the like, but everyone had to start somewhere.
“We’ve had an inquiry,” Marvin said. “For a new brewpub on the south side of the city.” Marvin tilted his head to the side and gave her a look. “We don’t normally do this sort of thing here at Lutefisk Design but the caller asked for you specifically.”
A trill of excitement coursed through her. A restaurant? And they’d asked for her by name? This was good. Great, even. But Leona remembered who she was talking to. “Are you comfortable with me being the primary on this one? If you’d rather handle it yourself, I’d be happy to assist.”
It hurt to make the offer. If she was the primary designer instead of the assistant, she’d get a much bigger percentage of the commission and that could be more than enough to cover Percy’s medical costs. She could pay off some of May’s student loans and...
She couldn’t get ahead of herself. Marvin was very particular about the level of involvement his assistants engaged in.
“Well...” Marvin pushed his glasses up. “The caller was very specific. He requested you.”
“Really? I mean, that’s great,” Leona said, trying to keep her cool. How had this happened? Maybe that last job for an upscale boutique on the Sixteenth Street Mall? The owner had been thrilled with the changes Leona had made to Marvin’s plan. Maybe that’s where the reference came from?
“But he wants you to survey the site today. This afternoon. Do you have time?”
She almost said hell, yes! But she managed to slam the brakes on her mouth. Years of trying to keep her father happy when he was in one of his moods had trained her to say exactly what a man in a position of authority needed to hear. “I need to finish up the paperwork for that stationery store...”
Marvin waved this away. “That will keep. Go on—see if this is a job worth taking. Charlene has the address.”
“Thank you.” Leona gathered up her tablet computer—one of her true luxuries—and grabbed her purse. She got the address from Charlene, the receptionist, and hurried to the car.
A brewpub. One that was on the far south side of the city, she noted as she programmed the address into her Global Positioning System. There wasn’t any other information to go with the address—like which brewery this was for—but that was probably a good sign. Instead of doing an upgrading project, maybe this would be a brand-new venture. That would not only mean more billable hours but the chance to make this project the showcase she’d need when she started her own firm.
The GPS estimated the pub’s location was about forty minutes away. Leona called May and updated her on her whereabouts and then she hit the road.
Thirty-seven minutes later, Leona drove past a small sign that read Percheron Drafts as she turned into a driveway that led to a series of old brick buildings. She looked up at the tall smokestack in awe. White smoke puffed out lazily, but that was practically the only sign of life.
Percheron Drafts...why did that name sound familiar? She’d heard it somewhere, but she didn’t actually drink beer. She was going to have to fake it for this meeting. She’d have time to do the research tonight.
The GPS guided her underneath a walkway, around the back of the building and told her to park on a gravel lot that had weeds growing everywhere. Ahead she saw a ramp that led down to an open door.
Okay, she thought as she turned the car off and grabbed her things. So maybe the building was old, but this certainly wasn’t an already established restaurant. Heck, she didn’t even see another car parked here. Was this the right place?
She got out and put on her professional smile. Then—like something out of a dream—a man walked through the doors and up the ramp. The sunlight caught the red in his hair and he smiled at her.
She knew that walk, that hair. She knew that smile—lopsided and warm and happy to see her.
Oh, God.
Byron.
Percheron Drafts... It suddenly clicked. That was the name of the brewery the Beaumont family had started after their family business had been sold—and she only knew about that because it was her father who’d forced the sale.
Panic kicked in. He was coming toward her, his lean legs closing the distance rapidly. If he got too close, he’d see the baby seat in the back of her car.
Her head began to swim. She wasn’t ready for this. He’d walked out on her. He’d believed her father over her and simply disappeared—just like her father had said all Beaumont men did. Beaumonts took whatever woman they wanted and when they were done, they simply abandoned them—and kept the children.
She’d known she’d have to confront him eventually. But now? Right freaking now?
She wasn’t ready. She hadn’t lost all the baby weight and, as a result, she was wearing the only kind of business-casual attire she could afford—the kind from discount stores. She couldn’t even be sure that Percy hadn’t spit up on her blouse this morning.
When she’d imagined facing the man who’d broken her heart and abandoned her, she’d wanted to look her very best to make him physically hurt. She hadn’t wanted to look like a rumpled single mother struggling to get by.
Even if he was the reason she was exactly that.
But she couldn’t let him see into the back of the car. If he didn’t know about Percy, she wasn’t going to tell him until she’d had time to come up with a plan. Because what if he did the Beaumont thing and demanded her child? She could not lose her son. She couldn’t let Byron raise the boy to be yet another Beaumont in the line of Beaumont men. She had to protect her baby.
So, against her better judgment, she walked toward him.
Oh, this wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t. Byron’s hair had gotten a little longer and he wore it pulled back into a low ponytail, which took all of the natural curl out of it—except for one piece that had come free. His lanky frame had filled out a little, giving him a more muscular look that was positively sinful in the white button-up shirt he wore cuffed at the sleeves.
He looked good. Heck, he looked better than good. And she looked...dumpy. Damn it all.
They met in the middle of the parking lot, stopping less than two feet from each other. “Leona,” he said in his deep baritone voice as he looked at her. His eyes were a deeper blue now—or maybe that was just the bright sun. God, he was so handsome.
She would not be swayed by his good looks. Those looks lied, just like he did.
“Byron,” she replied. Because what else could she say here? Where have you been? I had your son after you left me? I don’t know if I want to kiss you or strangle you?
This was no big deal, she tried to tell herself. It was just the former love of her life, the father of her son—suddenly back after a year’s absence. And apparently hiring her for a job. A flash of anger gave her strength. If he was back, why hadn’t he just called her? Why did he have to hire her?
Unless...he hadn’t come back for her.
He’d left without her, after all, jetting off to Europe. That’d been as much information as Leona had been able to get out of Byron’s twin sister, Frances. Europe—as far away from Leona as he could get without leaving the planet. Or so it had felt.
And now he was back and hiring her. For a job she desperately needed. This was not him sweeping back into her life and making everything right. This was not him needing her.
So she did not flinch as he looked her up and down as if he expected her to fall into his arms and tell him how damned much she’d missed him. She would not give him the satisfaction. Yes, the past year had been the hardest year of her life. But she wasn’t the same silly little girl who believed love would somehow conquer all. The past year had shown her how tough she could be. It was time for Byron to realize the same thing.
But it was difficult to keep her head up as his gaze traveled over her. He’d always done that—looked at her as though she was the most beautiful woman on the planet. Even when they’d worked together at that restaurant and the cream of the high-society crop had come into the restaurant every single night—even when other women had thrown themselves at his Beaumont name—Byron had always had eyes only for her.
She shivered at the memory of the way he used to look at her—at the way he was looking at her right now.
“You cut your hair,” he noted.
Her mouth opened, the truth on the tip of her tongue—she’d cut it because Percy liked to yank it while he was nursing. She clamped down on that impulse. The words sat in the back of her throat, a lead weight that held her tongue still. She would give him absolutely nothing to use against her. She would not let him hurt her again.
“I like it,” he hurried to add when she couldn’t think of a single reasonable thing to say in response.
She blushed at the compliment. Her fingers itched to tuck the short bob behind her ears, but she held fast to the straps of her bag. She was not here for Byron, just like he hadn’t been there for her. She was here to do a job and that was final. “Do you really need an interior designer or did you call me away from my job just to note I’ve changed my style?” Since you left.
She didn’t say those last words out loud, but they seemed to hang in between them anyway.
Byron took another step toward her. He reached up. Leona held her breath as he trailed the very tips of his fingers over her cheek. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe she was really here, either.
Then he reached down and picked up her left hand. His thumb rubbed over her ring finger—her bare ring finger. “Leona...” he murmured, his voice husky with what she recognized as need. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.
Everything about her body tightened at the sound of her name from his mouth, his lips on her hand—tightened so much that she had to close her eyes because if she looked into the depths of Byron’s beautiful blue eyes for one second longer, she’d be lost all over again.
It’d always been this way. There’d been something about Byron Beaumont that had pulled her in from the very beginning—something that should have sent her running the other way.
After all, her father had been drumming his hatred of all things Beaumont into her head for as long as she could remember. She knew all about Hardwick Beaumont, her father’s nemesis, and his heirs. How the Beaumonts were dangerous, how they seduced young and innocent women and then cast them aside as if they were nothing.
Just as Leona had been seduced and cast aside.
So she did not give. She ignored her body’s reaction to Byron, ignored the old memories that the mere touch of his lips brought rushing back to her. She kept her eyes closed and her focus on the job.
The job she needed because she was raising Byron’s son on her own. A son he did not know about.
She needed to tell him.
But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until she figured out what he was doing here. Not until she knew where she stood with him. She was no longer young and innocent and she was not someone who would forget a year’s worth of heartache and loneliness with the whisper of her name, thank you very much.
God, what a mess.
A tense second passed between them and then Byron dropped her hand. She felt him step away from her and only then did she open her eyes.
He now stood several feet away, looking at her differently—harder, meaner almost.
Another flash of panic hit her—did he already know about Percy? Or was he just mad that she wasn’t falling at her feet in gratitude for being acknowledged?
“I need a designer,” he said quietly. He didn’t sound angry, which was at direct odds with the way he was looking at her. “I’m going to be opening up my own restaurant.”
“Here?”
“Here,” he agreed, sounding resigned to it. “It’s a massive job and I—” she saw him swallow “—I wanted to see if it was the kind of thing you were still interested it.”
“You’re going to stay in Denver?” The question came out with more of an edge than she meant it to, but that was the thing she needed to know. If he were going to stay in Denver, then...
Then he’d have to know about Percy. They’d have to figure something out, something involving child support and visitation and...
Well, not their relationship. There was no relationship. That part of her life was over now.
And if he were opening up his own restaurant—her mind spun around the facts. Her father, Leon Harper, would find out that Byron had come home.
Oh, God. Her father would get out his old axes and grind them all over again. Her father would shove his way back into her life, ignoring all the ways she had tried to extricate herself from her parents. Her father would do everything he could to destroy Byron—again.
Her father would do everything to punish her again.
“Yes,” Byron said, turning away from her and looking up at the old buildings. “I’ve come home.”
Two (#ulink_c3dae413-a850-5432-8042-76f760ea8b6f)
Byron walked into the darkened room that, somehow, would become a restaurant. Somehow. “Here we are. The dungeon.”
Behind him, he heard Leona cough lightly. “Is that the theme you’re working with?”
“No.”
What the hell was he doing? Touching her face? Kissing her hand? That was not part of his plan. His plan was to hire her, get his restaurant going and kick her right back out of his life—this time, on his terms. She hadn’t needed him. He didn’t need her. Except for design purposes.
But that’s not what had happened because something as simple as seeing Leona Harper again—and seeing that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring—had blown all to hell his simple plan to get simple answers.
There was nothing simple about Leona. A fact she’d made abundantly clear when she’d closed her eyes—when she’d refused to even look at him.
“Pity,” she sniffed. “You wouldn’t have to change a thing.”
He grinned in spite of himself. Leona had always been something of a contradiction. She was, in general, a quiet woman who avoided confrontation. But when she’d been alone with him, she’d let out the real her—snarky and sarcastic with a biting observation ready at all times. She’d made him laugh—him. He’d thought he was too jaded, too cynical to laugh anymore, to feel much of anything anymore. But he’d laughed with her. He’d had all these feelings with her. For her.
He’d loved her. Or thought he had. But maybe that’d all been part of the trick, a Harper trapping a Beaumont. She hadn’t told him who she was, after all, until it was too late.
“So if you’re not going with torture chamber,” she went on, “what do you want?”
“Whatever.”
“Be serious, Byron.” If he hadn’t been looking at her, he wouldn’t have seen the tiny stamp of her foot that set off eddies of dust.
He paused. “I am being serious. You can do whatever you want. I can cook what I want. The only caveat is that the beverage menu has to feature our beer. The restaurant can be whatever it wants.”
Clutching her tablet to her chest, she gave him a long look that he couldn’t quite make out in the dim light. “You have to have some idea of what you’re interested in,” she finally said in a soft voice.
“I do. I’ve always known what I wanted.” He turned away from her. This was a bad idea. But then again, it was Leona—she’d always been a bad idea. “But I’m used to not getting it.”
She gasped, but he kept walking back toward the soon-to-be-kitchen. He couldn’t let her get under his skin. He never should have asked her here. He was safer in Spain, where she was nothing but a memory—not a flesh and blood woman who would always push him past the point of reason.
The reasonable thing to do was to keep as much space between the Beaumonts and the Harpers as possible. That’s the way it’d always been, before he’d unwittingly crossed that line. That’s the way it should have stayed.
He dragged open the doors to the workroom and flipped on all the lights. “This needs to be upgraded considerably,” he said. He couldn’t fix the past, couldn’t undo his great mistake. But he could stop making it over again. He just had to focus on the job—it was the reason they were both here. He needed to find a way to be Byron Beaumont in a place where his last name permanently branded him, and he needed to make sure that Leona Harper knew she would never exert any power over him ever again.
She followed him into the cleaner space. “I see.” She took several pictures with her tablet. “Do you have a menu yet?”
“No. I only agreed to do this yesterday. I thought I’d be on my way back to Madrid by now.”
“Madrid? Is that where you went?”
Of course she wouldn’t know. She probably hadn’t bothered to look him up at all.
But there was something in the way she said it—as if she couldn’t believe that was the answer—that made him turn back to her. She stared at him with big eyes and this time, there was no hiding that look. She was stunned—confused? She was hurt.
Well, that made two of them “Yes. Well, I spent six months in France first. Then Spain.”
Her eyes cut down to his left hand—his ring finger. “Did you...”
He tensed. “No. I was working.”
She exhaled. “Ah.” But that was all she said. He was about to turn away when she added, “Where did you work?”
“George, you remember him?”
“Your father’s old chef?”
For some reason, the fact that she remembered who George was made Byron relax a little. It wasn’t like she’d forgotten him. Not entirely, anyway. “Yes. One of his old friends from Le Cordon Bleu gave me a job in Paris. Then I heard about an opening at El Gallio in Madrid and took the job.”
Her eyes widened again. “You were at El Gallio? That’s a three-star restaurant!”
He relaxed more. She remembered. Even though her reaction was probably all part of the same ruse to undermine the Beaumont family, he couldn’t help himself.
For months, he and Leona had talked about restaurants—how they’d love to travel and dine at the world’s best establishments and then open up their own. She’d design everything and Byron would handle the food, and it’d be so much better than working for Rory McMaken, the egotistical bastard.
Leona spoke, pulling him out of the past. “You’re leaving behind El Gallio to open your own restaurant here?”
“Crazy, right?” He looked around the workroom. “Don’t get me wrong. I loved Europe. No one there knew or cared that I was a Beaumont. I could just be Byron, a chef. That was...” Freeing.
He’d been free of the family drama, free of the long-standing feud between the Beaumonts and the Harpers.
“That must have been amazing,” she said in a wistful tone. Which was so at odds with how he remembered the way things had gone down that he turned back to her in surprise.
“Yeah. I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back to all of this. But this is an opportunity I can’t pass up. It’s a chance to be a part of the family business on my terms.”
“I see. So you’ve decided to be a Beaumont, then.” Her voice was quiet, as if he’d somehow confirmed her worst fears.
He would not let her get away with using guilt on him. Guilt? For what? He was the injured party here. She’d lied about who she was—not once, but for almost a year. And then she’d cast him aside the moment her father asked her to. Hell, for all he knew, that had always been the plan. It’d only been after he’d left the country that Leon Harper had managed to sell the Beaumont Brewery out from under the Beaumonts. Maybe he’d told Leona to split one of them off—divide and then conquer.
Right. If anyone should be feeling guilty here, it was her. He’d never lied about his last name or his family. He’d never made promises and then broken them. Thank God he hadn’t actually asked her to marry him before she betrayed him.
“I’ve always been a Beaumont,” he answered decisively. “And we are not to be trifled with.”
He shouldn’t have said that last bit, but he couldn’t help it. He was the boss here. She worked for him. Emotionally, he didn’t need her. If she was getting any ideas about turning the tables on him, she’d best forget them now.
She looked away.
“Anyway,” he went on, focusing on the job. His restaurant. “I’m starting from scratch and I wanted...” Unexpectedly, his words dried up. He wanted so much, but like he’d said, he’d gotten used to disappointment. “I know there was a time in our past when we talked about a restaurant.”
Even though she was studying the tips of her shoes very closely, he still saw her eyes close.
He remembered that look of defeat—he’d only seen it one other time—when her father, Leon Harper himself, had shown up at Sauce and gotten Byron fired and demanded that Leona come home with her parents right now or else. Leona had looked at the ground and closed her eyes and Byron had said “babe” and...
Well. And here they were.
“If you don’t want the job, that’s fine. I know that Harpers and Beaumonts don’t work well together and I wouldn’t want to make your father mad.” He didn’t quite manage to say father without sneering.
He watched her chest rise and fall with a deep breath. “I want...”
Her words were so quiet that he couldn’t hear her. He stepped in closer and took a deep breath.
Which was a mistake. The scent of Leona—sweet and soft, roses and vanilla—was all it took to transport him to another time and place, before he’d realized that she wasn’t just someone with the last name of Harper, but one of those Harpers.
He leaned forward, unable to stop himself. He’d never been able to stay away from her, not from the first moment she’d been hired at Sauce as a hostess. “What do you want, Leona?”
“I need to tell you...” Her words were still little more than a whisper.
He touched her then, which was another mistake. But she took what control he had and blew it to bits. He cupped her face in his hand and lifted her chin until he could look into her hazel eyes. “What do you need?”
Her eyes widened again as his face moved within inches of hers, and she exhaled, something that sounded a hell of a lot like satisfaction. His gut clenched. Despite her lies and betrayal, the messy ending to their relationship and the long year on a different continent—despite it all—he wanted her.
“The job,” she said in a voice that didn’t even make it to a whisper. “I need the job, Byron.”
She didn’t kiss him, didn’t tell him she was so sorry she’d picked her family over him. At no point did she apologize for lying to him. She just stood there.
“Right, right.” She couldn’t be clearer. She was here for the job.
Not for him.
* * *
Her heart pounded and she wasn’t sure she was still breathing.
Byron had dropped his hand and turned back to the stove, leaving her in a state of paralysis.
If he was going to stay in Denver, he had to know and the longer she didn’t tell him—well, that would just make everything worse.
Somehow. She wasn’t sure how things could get much worse, frankly. Byron hiring her to design a restaurant—and then switching between unbridled lust and a cold shoulder?
That thought made her angry. Why did he have to hire her to see her? He could have called. Sent a text.
The anger felt good. It gave her back some power. She was not a helpless girl at the mercies of the men in her life, not anymore. She’d gotten away from her father and had a son and done just fine without Byron. So what if all he had to do was look at her and her knees turned to jelly? Didn’t matter. He’d left her behind. She was only here for the paycheck. Not for him.
She could not tell him about Percy, not when she couldn’t be sure what version of Byron she would get. She’d spent the past year carving out a life that made her as happy as possible—a job she liked and a family she loved, with May and Percy. She’d spent a whole year free to make her own choices and live her own life. She’d stopped being Leon Harper’s wayward oldest daughter, and she’d stopped dreaming of being Byron Beaumont’s wife. She was just Leona Harper and that was a good thing.
Now she had to remember that.
“Well,” she started, then cleared her throat to get her voice working properly. “I guess what I need is a menu. It doesn’t have to be specific, but are you going to serve burgers and fries or haute cuisine or what? That will guide the rest of the design choices.”
“Something in the middle,” he replied quickly. “Accessible food and beer, but better than burgers and fries. You can get that anywhere. I want this to be a different kind of restaurant—not about me, but about the meal. The experience.” He looked out at the depressing room that she was somehow going to transform into a dining hall. “A different experience than this,” he added with a shake of his head.
“Okay, that’s a good start. What else?”
“Fusion,” he added. “I was cooking things in Europe that I didn’t cook here. Locally sourced ingredients, advanced techniques—the whole nine yards.”
She took notes on her tablet. “Any ideas for the actual menu items?”
“A few.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t, she looked up again. “Such as?”
He didn’t look at her. “Why don’t you come by the house tomorrow and I’ll make you a tasting menu? You can tell me what might work and what doesn’t.”
She should say no. She should insist that their interactions be limited to this dank building. “The house?”
“The Beaumont Mansion. I’m staying there until I get my own place.” He pivoted and fixed her with a look that she’d always been powerless to resist. “If you can tolerate being in the lair of the Beaumonts, that is.”
“I tolerate you, don’t I?” she snapped back. She would not allow him to make her the bad guy, and she would not let him paint her as the coward. He was the one who’d run off. She was the one who’d stayed and dealt with the fallout.
She didn’t know how she’d expected him to respond, but that lazy smile? That wasn’t it. “Shall we say six, then?”
Leona mentally ran through her calendar. May had class tonight—but tomorrow night she should be able to stay with Percy.
“Who else will be home?” Because no matter what had happened between Leona and Byron, that didn’t change the larger fact that the Beaumonts and the Harpers got on much worse than oil and water ever had.
He shrugged. “Chadwick and his family live there full-time, but they eat on their own schedule. Frances just moved back in, but she’s rarely home. A couple of my younger half siblings are still there—but again, everyone’s on their own schedule. Should be just us.”
For a brief, insane second, she entertained the notion of bringing Percy with her. But the moment the thought occurred to her, she dismissed it. The Beaumonts were notorious for keeping the children from broken relationships. That’s what her father had always told her—Hardwick Beaumont always got rid of the women and kept the babies, never letting the children see their mothers again. That’s what Byron had said happened to him and his siblings. It wasn’t until later in his life that he’d gotten to know his mother.
At the time, that story had broken her heart for him. He’d been a lost little boy in a cold, unloving house. But now she knew better. He hadn’t been looking for sympathy.
He’d been warning her. And she was more the fool for not realizing it until it was too late.
She was done being the fool. No, she would not bring Percy. Not until she had a better grasp on Byron’s reaction to the idea of having a five-month-old son. Not until she knew if he would decree that the boy would be better off a Beaumont instead of a Harper.
Byron had to know about his child eventually, but she could not lose her son.
“All right,” she finally said. “Dinner tomorrow night at six. I’ll draft a few ideas and you can provide feedback.” Her phone chimed—it was a text from May, reminding Leona about her class tonight. “Anything else?”
The question hung in the air like the cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Byron looked at her with such longing that she almost weakened.
Then the look shifted and anything warm or welcoming was gone and all that was left was an iciness she hadn’t seen before. It chilled her to the bone.
“No,” he said, his voice freezing. “There’s nothing else I need from you.”
That was an answer, all right.
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.
Leona took a picture of every dish and made notes as Byron explained what the dishes were. “I don’t know if I should have a hamburger and fries on the menu,” he told her as he spooned the hollandaise sauce onto the asparagus spears. “What do you think?”
“It’s a safe dish,” she replied. “If you can handle having it on the menu...”
Byron sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Food for the masses and all that.”
They all sat down. Leona looked at him. Was she blushing? “It’s been a long time since you cooked for me.”
Before Byron could come up with a response, George said, “Yeah, same here.” He took a bite of the duck confit. “I’ll give you this, boy. You’ve gotten better.”
“Oh?” Leona said.
“When he started in my kitchen,” George went on, “he could barely make cereal.”
“Hey! I was what—five?”
“Four,” George corrected him. He turned his attention back to Leona. “He wanted more cookies and I told him he had to work for them—he had to wash dishes.”
Leona beamed at George. Then she shot a reproving glance at Byron. “He never told me that.”
“Oh, he didn’t do it at first. But the boy always had a weak spot for my chocolate chip cookies. He came back a few weeks later, after...” George trailed off thoughtfully.
Byron knew what the older man was thinking about—that Byron’s parents had fought horribly at dinner, screaming obscenities and throwing dishes. A plate had nearly hit Chadwick in the head and Byron and Frances had ducked to avoid flying soup. He and Frances had been crying and their father had yelled at them.
Byron had run away from the noise. Frances had come with him and they’d wound up in the kitchen. It was the safest place he could think of, somewhere his father would never go. Frances had no interest in working for a cookie and a glass of warm milk, but Byron had needed...something. Anything that would take him away from the stress and drama, although that’s not how he’d thought of it at the time. No, at the time, he’d just wanted to feel like everything was going to be okay.
Washing the dishes required enough focus that it had distracted him from what he’d seen at dinner. And then he’d gotten a cookie and a pat on the shoulder and George had told him he’d done a good job and next time George would show him how to bake the cookies himself. And that had made everything okay.
“I washed the dishes,” he told Leona. “The cookies were worth it.”
“You did an absolutely lousy job, I might add,” George said with a chuckle.
Byron groaned. “I got better. Here, try the gazpacho.” He ladled a few spoonfuls into Leona’s bowl. “It’s not quite as good as it was in Spain—the peppers aren’t as fresh.”
George scoffed as Leona tasted the soup. “Boy, don’t tell them what they don’t know. She never had the stuff you were making in Madrid.”
“Mmm,” Leona said, licking her spoon. Byron found himself staring at her mouth as her tongue moved slowly over the surface of the spoon. She caught him looking and dropped her gaze. He swore she was blushing as she cleared her throat and said, “He’s right. As long as we can say ‘locally sourced ingredients’—preferably with the name of the farm where you get your vegetables—that’s what foodies value.”
“We can do that. There’s enough space around the brewery that I could also have some dirt hauled in and grow my own herbs and the like.”
Leona’s eyes lit up. “Would you? That’d be a great selling feature.”
Byron liked it when she looked at him like that, even though he knew damned well that he shouldn’t. But sitting here with her, talking about a restaurant they were going to open within months...
He’d missed her. He’d never stopped missing her. And as much as he knew he couldn’t let himself fall under her spell again—couldn’t risk getting his heart broken a second time—he just wanted to wrap his arm around her shoulders and hold her to him.
She would burn him. That he knew. That was the nature of the Harpers whenever they were around the Beaumonts.
But watching her savor the meal he’d cooked for her, talking and laughing with George...
He wanted to play in the flames again.
Four (#ulink_1627ea90-6dd1-5ccd-93d0-c441ad370711)
Everything was, unsurprisingly, delicious. Leona especially liked the croquetas—she’d never had them before. Yes, the evening was full of good food and comfortable conversation. It should have been relaxing—fun, even.
The only problem was, she still hadn’t told Byron about Percy. And, as George regaled her with story after story of Byron learning how to cook the hard way, she couldn’t figure out how to break the news to him without running the risk of losing Percy.
Byron served three desserts—an almond cake that was gluten-free, peaches soaked in wine and yogurt, and a flan flavored with vanilla and lavender. She looked at her notes. A vegetarian dish, gluten-free options—with the hamburger, he’d have a menu that met most dietary needs.
“You like peaches, right?” he said as he set half of a peach in front of her.
“I do,” she told him. Seemingly against her will, she looked up at him. Byron stood over her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. He remembered that peaches were her favorite. There’d been a time when he’d cooked for her, peach cobblers and grilled peaches and peach ice cream—anything he could come up with. Those had been things he’d made just for her.
“Thank you,” she told him, her voice soft.
“I hope the wine sauce is okay.” He didn’t move back. “I didn’t know...”
“It’s all right.” She used to drink wine, back when he’d make her dinner and pick out a bottle and they’d spend the evening savoring the food and the rest of the night savoring each other. But she hadn’t drunk a thing while pregnant and then she’d been breast-feeding and pumping and who had the money for alcohol anyway?
He stood there for a moment longer. Leona held her breath, unable to break the gaze. All of her self-preservation tactics—clinging to the memory of being cast aside by a Beaumont, just like her father had warned her, and the very real fear that Byron would take her son away from her—they all fell away as she looked up at him. For a clear, beautiful second, there was only Leona and Byron and everything was as it should be.
The second ended when the door to the kitchen flew open with a bang. Byron jumped back. “George!” a bright female voice said. “Have you seen— Oh, there you are.”
Leona looked over her shoulder and her heart sank. There stood Frances Beaumont in a stunning green dress and five-inch heels. “Byron, I have been texting you all...day...” Frances’s voice trailed off as she saw Leona. They’d met a few times before. Frances had liked her then. But that felt like a long time ago.
Byron cleared his throat. “Frances, you remember—”
“Leona.” Frances said the word as if it were something vile. Then she grabbed Byron by the arm and hauled him several feet away. “What is she doing here?” Frances added in a harsh whisper that everyone in the room had no trouble understanding.
Leona turned her gaze back to the luscious desserts. But her stomach felt as if a lead weight had settled into it.
“She’s helping with the restaurant,” Byron whispered back in a quieter voice.
“You’re trusting her? Are you insane?” This time, Frances made no effort to lower her voice.
Leona stood. She did not have to sit here and take this assault on her character. Byron was the one who’d abandoned her, not the other way around. If anything, she shouldn’t trust him. She didn’t.
“I’ll show myself out. George, it was a pleasure meeting you. Byron, I’ll look over my notes and come up with some suggestions.” She met Frances’s glare as she gathered her things. “Frances.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Byron offered, which made Frances hiss at him. But he ignored his twin and held the door for Leona.
“Good meeting you, too,” George called out after her. “Come back anytime.”
Which was followed by Frances gasping, “George! You’re not helping...”
And then Leona and Byron were down the hall, the sounds of the kitchen fading behind them. They walked in silence through the massive entry hall. The evening had been, up to this point, an unmitigated disaster. Byron’s cooking was amazing and, yes, George was just as sweet as she’d always pictured him.
But Byron had this habit of looking at her as if he wanted her, which didn’t mesh with the otherwise icy shoulder he’d given her. He confused her and after everything he’d put her through, that seemed like the final insult.
She could not let him get to her, just like she couldn’t let Frances’s undisguised hatred get to her. Byron had left. He’d done exactly what his father had done and simply walked away. He didn’t care for her—certainly not enough to fight for what they’d had.
She simply could not allow herself to care for him. It was not only dangerous to her heart, but also to Percy’s well-being. She had to protect her son.
Thus resolved, she expected to say goodbye to Byron at the front door and call it a day. But Byron opened the door and stepped outside with her, pulling it shut behind her.
She walked past him, shivering in the chilly autumn air. She would not lean into him and let his warmth surround her. She did not need him. She did not want him. She could not let him ruin everything she’d worked so hard for and that was that.
Once the door was shut, he took a step into her. He wasn’t touching her, not yet. “I’m sorry about Frances,” he said in a quiet voice. “She can be a little...protective.”
A part of Leona—the old part that cowered before her father—wanted to tell Byron it was all right and she’d smooth things over. But that part wasn’t going to save her son. So she didn’t. “Obviously.” He looked confused, as if he couldn’t guess that his sister would have been less than helpful in tracking Byron down. “I have no interest in reliving the past. That’s not why I’m here.”
She didn’t know what she expected him to do—but lifting his hand and cupping her cheek like she’d said something sweet wasn’t it. “Why are you here, then?”
“For the job.” To her horror, Leona felt herself leaning forward, closer to his chest, to his mouth. “Byron...”
But before the words could leave her lips, a noise that sounded like a herd of elephants came through the door. Byron grabbed her by the arm and led her away. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said.
As they walked, his hand slid down her arm until his fingers interlaced with hers. It wasn’t a seductive gesture, but it warmed her anyway. He’d always held her hand whenever they were alone, whether they were watching a movie or watching the sun set over the mountains. She leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked. If only things had been different. If only...
She jerked to a stop less than five feet from her car. And the telltale car seat in the back.
“What?” Byron asked.
“I just...” She fumbled around for something to say and came up with nothing.
So she did the only thing she could think of to distract him.
She kissed him.
It wasn’t supposed to be sexual, not for her. It was supposed to distract him while it bought her enough time to think of a better exit strategy.
But the feeling of Byron against her drove all rational thought from her mind. She melted into him. His hands settled on her waist and, as the kiss deepened, the pads of his fingertips began to dig into her hips. He pulled her into him. Her bag dropped to the ground as she looped her arms around his neck and held him tight.
She hadn’t allowed herself to think about this, about how he used to make her feel. She’d made herself focus on how much she hated him, hated how he’d abandoned her—she hadn’t allowed herself to remember the good parts.
Heat flooded her body and pooled low in her stomach as she opened her mouth for him. She wanted this, wanted him. She couldn’t help it. She’d never been able to stay away from him. Some things never changed.
“I missed you,” he whispered against her neck before he kissed the spot right under her ear.
Her knees wobbled. “Oh, Byron, I missed you, too. I—”
Suddenly, he pulled away from her so fast that she stumbled forward. His hand went around her waist to catch her, but his attention was focused on something behind her.
The car.
“What’s that?” he demanded, taking a step toward the backseat of the car.
“What?” Again, her voice was wobbly. Everything about her was wobbly because this was the official moment of reckoning.
“That’s a baby seat.” He let go of her. “You have a baby seat in the back of your car.” This statement seemed to force him back a couple of steps. He cast a critical eye over Leona.
She wanted to cower but she refused. She was done cowering before any hard gaze, whether it was her father’s or her former lover’s. So she lifted her chin and straightened her back and refused to buckle.
“You—you’ve changed.”
“Yes.”
“You had a baby?”
She had to swallow twice to get her throat to work. “I did.”
Byron’s mouth dropped open. He tried to shut it, but it didn’t work. “Whose?”
Leona couldn’t help it. She wasn’t cowering, by God, but she couldn’t stand here and watch, either. She closed her eyes. “Yours.”
“Mine?”
She opened her eyes to see that Byron was pacing away from her. Then he spun back. “I have a baby? And you didn’t tell me?”
“I was—I was going to.”
“When?” The word was a knife that sliced through the air and embedded itself midchest, right where her heart was. “And what? You had to kiss me? This I have to hear, Leona. I have to know the rationale behind this.” He crossed his arms and glared at her.
No cowering. Not allowed. “I— You— You left me. I can’t lose him.”
It was hard to tell in the dim light from a faraway lamppost, but she swore all the color drained out of Byron’s face. “Him?”
“Percy. I named him Percy.” She bent over and retrieved her tablet from her bag. After a few taps, she had the most recent picture of Percy up on the screen. The little boy was sitting on her lap, trying to eat a board book. May had taken the photo just a couple of weeks ago. “Percy,” she said again, holding the tablet out to Byron.
He stared at the computer, then at her. “I left? I left you pregnant?”
She nodded.
“And you didn’t think it was a good idea to let me know you were pregnant? That you had my son?” His voice was getting louder.
“You left,” she pleaded. Now that he knew, she had to make him see reason. Why hadn’t she assumed he’d be this mad at her? For a ridiculous second, she wanted to beg for forgiveness, say whatever it took to calm him down—whatever it took so that he wouldn’t take her son from her.
But she wouldn’t beg. Not anymore. She’d fight the good fight. “You were gone by the time I got away from my father and I was afraid that your family would take Percy away—”
Byron froze midturn. “Wait—what?”
“I got away from my father. I took my little sister with me. May. She’s watching Percy now.”
Byron moved quickly, grabbing her by both arms. “Your sister? Is watching my

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