she always wore when she was dressed to the nines. To know he could still make a woman smile.
He’d done it to make her happy. That was what made him happy.
She shot him a sidelong glance that didn’t convey annoyance so much as knowing—like that was exactly what she’d expected him to say. “You are an impossibly stubborn man when you want to be, Chadwick Beaumont.”
“It has been noted.”
“What do you want?”
Her.
He’d wanted her for years. But because he was not Hardwick Beaumont, he’d never once pursued her.
Except now he was. He was walking a fine line between acceptable actions and immoral, unethical behavior.
What he really wanted, more than anything, was to step over that line entirely.
She looked up at him through her thick lashes, waiting for an answer. When he didn’t give her one, she sighed. “The Beaumonts are an intelligent lot, you know. They’ll learn how to survive. You don’t have to protect them. Don’t work for them. They won’t ever appreciate it because they didn’t earn it themselves. Work for you.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “Do what makes you happy. Do what you want.”
She did realize what she was telling him, didn’t she? She had to—her fingers wrapped around his, her palm pressed against his cheek, her dark brown eyes looking into his with a kind of peace that he couldn’t remember ever feeling.
What he wanted was to leave this event behind, drive her home, and make love to her all night long. She had to know that was all he wanted—however not-divorced he was, pregnant she was, or employed she was by him.
Was she giving him permission? He would not trap his assistant into any sexual relationship. That wasn’t him.
God, he wanted her permission. Needed it. Always had.
“Serena—”
“Here we are.” Matthew strode into the gallery leading Miriam Young, the director of the Rocky Mountain Food Bank, and a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses. He gave Serena a look that was impossible to miss. “How is everything?”
She withdrew her hand from his cheek. “Fine,” she said, with one of those beautiful smiles.
Matthew made the introductions and Serena politely declined the champagne. Chadwick only half paid attention. Her words echoed around his head like a loose bowling ball in the trunk of a car.
Don’t work for them. Work for you.
Do what makes you happy.
She was right. It was high time he did what he wanted—above and beyond one afternoon.
It was time to seduce his assistant.
* * *
Standing in four-inch heels for two hours turned out to be more difficult than Serena had anticipated. She resorted to shifting from foot to foot as she and Chadwick made small talk with the likes of old-money billionaires, new-money billionaires, governors, senators and foundation heads. Most of the men were in tuxes like Chadwick’s, and most of the women were in gowns. So she blended in well enough.
Chadwick had recovered from the incident with Phillip nicely. She’d like to think that had something to do with their conversation in the gallery. With the way she’d told him to do what he wanted and the way he’d looked at her like the only thing he wanted to do was her.
She knew there was a list of reasons not to want him back. But she was tired of those reasons, tired of thinking she couldn’t, she shouldn’t.
So she didn’t. She focused on how painful those beautiful, beautiful shoes were. It kept her in the here and now.
Shoes aside, the evening had been delightful. Chadwick had introduced her as his assistant, true, but all the while he’d let one of his hands rest lightly on her lower back. She’d gotten a few odd looks, but no one had said anything. That probably had more to do with Chadwick’s reputation than anything else, but she wasn’t about to question it. Even without champagne, she’d been able to fall into small talk without too much panic.
She’d had a much nicer time than when she used to come with Neil. Then, she’d stood on the edge of the crowd, judiciously sipping her champagne and watching the crowd instead of interacting with it. Neil had always talked to people—always looking for another sponsor for his golf game—but she’d never felt like she was a part of the party.
Chadwick had made her a part of it this time. She wasn’t sure she’d ever truly feel like she fit in with the high roller crowd, but she hadn’t felt like an interloper. That counted for a great deal.
The evening was winding down. The crowd was trailing out. She hadn’t seen Phillip leave, but he was nowhere to be seen. Frances had bailed almost an hour before. Matthew was the only other Beaumont still there, and he was deep in discussion with the caterers.
Chadwick shook hands with the head of the Centura Hospital System and turned to her. “Your feet hurt.”
She didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the shoes, but she wasn’t sure her toes would ever be the same. “Maybe just a little.”
He gave her a smile that packed plenty of heat. But it wasn’t indiscriminately flirtatious, like his brother’s. All night long, that goodness had been directed at only one woman.
Her.
He slid a hand around her waist and began guiding her toward the door. “I’ll drive you home.”
She grinned at this statement. “Don’t worry. I didn’t snag a ride with anyone else.”
“Good.”
The valet brought up Chadwick’s Porsche, but he insisted on holding the door for her. Then he was in the car and they were driving at a higher-than-average speed, zipping down the highway like he had someplace to be.
Or like he couldn’t wait to get her home.
The ride was quick, but silent. What was going to happen next? More importantly, what did she want to happen next? And—most importantly of all—what would she let happen?
Because she wanted this perfect evening to end perfectly. She wanted to have one night with him, to touch the body she’d only gotten a glimpse of, to feel beautiful and desirable in his arms. She didn’t want to think about pregnancies or exes or jobs. It was Saturday night and she was dressed to the nines. On Monday, maybe they could go back to normal. She’d put on her suit and follow the rules and try not to think about the way Chadwick’s touch made her feel things she’d convinced herself she didn’t need.
Soon enough, he’d pulled up outside her apartment. His Porsche stuck out like a sore thumb in the parking lot full of minivans and late-model sedans. She started to open her door, but he put a hand on her arm. “Let me.”
Then he hopped out, opened her door and held his hand out for her. She let him help her out of the deep seats of his car.
Then they stood there.
