Always the Best Man

‘I haven’t got anything clever to say.’

People began to look at each other and smile. They knew this was just the start. It would be clever and funny and touching. It would.

He took a deep breath. ‘Just that Luke and Sara are truly the perfect couple.’

Zoe frowned. She’d been all revved up to smirk inwardly at his artfully crafted spiel, but his simple sincerity had stolen all her thunder.

‘And I can’t do anything more than say that Luke is the best friend a man could have, and remind him he is the luckiest man in the world to have found Sara, and wish them a lifetime of happiness together.’

He paused, raised his glass to the bride and groom.

Zoe held her champagne flute up, but her eyes were on the best man. Had that really been a catch in his voice when he’d said his best friend’s name?

‘To Luke and Sara,’ he said simply, and suddenly the whole marquee was on its feet, clapping and cheering and marvelling at how, once again, the best man had outdone himself.

Damien knocked back his fizz and sat down, exhaling heavily. If Zoe hadn’t known any better she’d have thought he was nervous. But that would have meant he was feeling an emotion other than smug superiority, which was clearly impossible.

She took a sip of her own drink and sat down beside him. Now, she’d never been one to want to cause Damien Stone’s head to swell any bigger, but for some reason she felt she needed to say something, to tell him how perfect his words had been.

‘That was—’

His head snapped round in surprise—as if he’d totally forgotten she existed and had been occupying the space beside him—and he fixed her with those cold blue eyes.

His voice was low and hoarse. ‘Just don’t, Zoe. Not right now.’

‘But I wasn’t going to—’

The glare he gave her made her shut her mouth abruptly. And if he hadn’t been concentrating on being just so fierce and condescending, he might have realised what a miraculous feat that had been.

And then, while all eyes were on the bride and groom, while the happiness seemed to be spilling out of the other guests and pooling around their feet, Damien rose stiffly from his chair and headed out into the twilight.

Zoe sat back in her gold-sprayed, velvet-seated chair and crossed her arms. Not even good enough to offer the precious Damien Stone a few words of congratulation. She had obviously sunk to a new low in his eyes. But Zoe didn’t let that cold feeling settle deep down inside like it wanted to. She couldn’t. She’d promised herself that never again would a man like that make her feel this way. And if crumbling in defeat wasn’t an option, she had no alternative but to go the other way. So, by his actions, the best man had decreed tonight would be all-out war, and the evening reception would be their battlefield.

Look out, Damien Stone, because all those snotty comments you’ve ever dished out are coming back to bite you on that finely toned rear end. Tonight, Karma is wearing a bridesmaid’s dress—and she’s in one hell of a mood.

‘Those ballroom dancing lessons really paid off in the end.’

Zoe smiled into the face of the man who had just twirled her into his arms. He really was looking particularly handsome today. And so he should.

‘I beg to differ, Luke. You’ve trodden on my foot twice already, and we both know why.’

He gazed above her shoulder, looking every inch the dashing groom. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

At that point Zoe did a little bit of toe-crunching of her own. ‘Really?’ she said innocently. ‘And there was me thinking all those last-minute work emergencies on a Thursday night were merely a ruse so you could cry off and go down the pub with your mates.’

Luke’s smile spread wider. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Still no idea. You must have the wrong person.’

The smile wavered momentarily, however, when he misjudged a step and almost sent the pair of them flying. Thankfully, Zoe rescued them with quick thinking and even quicker feet. There was a reason for that, too.

‘You owe me,’ she whispered in his ear as she clutched onto his sleeves. ‘You knew Sara wouldn’t want to go to those lessons on her own. You knew she’d drag me along as a substitute.’

Luke just beamed as if he was on a TV ballroom dancing contest, fixing his eyes beyond her. ‘And just look how well you can waltz now,’ he said. ‘You have me to thank for that.’

Zoe wanted to punch him. Or tickle him. She wasn’t sure which.

Luke saved himself by having the decency to look just a little repentant. ‘Okay, I do owe you. And I’ve just had an idea for a very fitting peace offering …’

He paused while he concentrated on changing direction so they didn’t plough into the four-tiered cake.

‘I know that all the wedding craziness has meant that you haven’t had the chance to have a proper holiday this year.’

He should know that, Zoe thought. She’d moaned long and hard about it often enough.

‘Well, Dream Weaver, thanks to the generosity of my new father-in-law, is now going to be sitting idle and unloved at her mooring for the next two weeks. Why don’t you make use of her?’

Zoe laughed so hard that the couple next to them lost their timing. ‘Don’t be daft, Luke! I don’t know the first thing about sailing.’

‘From what I remember, the few times you have made it on board, the highlights were sunbathing on the deck and sipping wine in the cockpit while the stars came out.’

Well, there was that. It had all been awfully civilised. And she could almost imagine herself using the twenty-year-old yacht as a base for a relaxing holiday. She could explore the surrounding countryside and the nearby village of Lower Hadwell, wander down narrow streets lined with ice cream-coloured houses. She started to dream of long pub lunches and enough time to read the stack of paperbacks that had been gathering dust on her bedside table.

She must have looked as if she were weakening because Luke added, ‘I can always arrange for my friend Matthew to take you out on a couple of day trips—up and down the river, or round to one of the little beaches near the estuary that can only be reached by boat.’

Zoe stopped turning and looked Luke straight in the eye. ‘Matthew? The Matthew who has the shaggy blond hair and the cute, tight little rounded—’

Luke burst out laughing.

She half-closed her eyelids. ‘I was going to say “nose”.’

‘Of course you were. But, yes, that Matthew.’

Well, that sounded like the perfect recipe for a last-minute, spontaneous holiday. Fit, toned surfer-dudes and throwing things into a suitcase were definitely her thing. She instantly forgave Luke for the further three times he would tread on her feet before the dance was over.

‘In that case,’ she said, dipping low as Luke very bravely swung her into a pose, ‘you might just have a deal.’

The music changed to a slow, sweeping tune, but Damien hardly noticed it. He was tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary exhausted. Which was odd, because if anyone should have built up a best man brand of stamina by now, it should have been him.

He checked his watch. Nine-thirty.

It couldn’t be long now before Sara and Luke left the grounds of this smart country house hotel to begin a new life together. And once the car had disappeared, even while the tin cans were still clattering down the drive, he planned to slip away.

He had a room booked at the hotel, but he wasn’t going to use it. He needed to go back to his flat, be by himself, not extend the aftermath of the wedding with nightcaps with the other guests or jolly communal breakfasts the next morning.

Just before he looked up from his watch he became aware of someone standing in front of him. A quick glance downwards revealed his worst fear—white satin and a pair of matching shoes.

‘Come on, you …’ Sara said in that gentle, clear voice of hers. Damien transferred his gaze to his brogues. She was too close. If he looked up now, really let her see into his eyes, she might guess.

Slim fingers tugged at his jacket sleeve. ‘We can’t have you moping about in the corner on your own. You’ve got your pick of the bridesmaids, you know. Once upon a time that would have excited you.’

He looked up without actually looking at her, and shook his head. Why settle for second best?

‘Well, you’ll have to make do with me, then. Dance with me, Damien?’

He pulled air in through his nostrils and pushed it out again through his teeth. He stood up, unable to refuse this bride anything. Besides, she would think it odd if he refused, would probably send Luke to wheedle the secret he could never tell out of him.

Sara grasped his hand and pulled him towards the dance floor. So much for slipping away.

When she stopped, turned and waited for him to take her in his arms he almost bolted, but instead he stoically took her hand in his and drew her close. Not too close, however.

Imagine it’s someone else, he told himself.

And it seemed to work, because they started to move their feet and he still felt relatively normal. There were no fireworks where they touched, no unexpected jolts or hot flushes. This was good. He had things under control.

‘You’ve been fabulous today,’ Sara said as he led her round the dance floor. ‘Perfect.’

Damien smiled. A smile of duty. ‘It was easy to do this for Luke,’ he said. His words were plain, slightly evasive, but not devoid of truth. It had been easy to decide to support his best friend all the way when Luke had announced—in his own words—that he was going to marry the most wonderful woman in the world. Damien couldn’t have done anything else. It wasn’t in his bones.

But where the spirit was willing, the flesh had been weak. He hadn’t been able to eradicate the growing feelings for the woman he was now holding in his arms. He’d tried. God, he’d tried.

Sara attempted to chat as they danced, but her efforts clanged off him and fell to the floor between their feet. He’d always been able to jest and banter with Sara before now, but after the emotional marathon he’d run today he found himself searching frantically for something to say.

Conversation would be good, Damien! Conversation would distract him from the feel of her waist beneath his fingers, the light touch of her hand on his shoulder, the rose-scented perfume that was flooding his nostrils and drowning his lungs.

He looked down, breaking eye contact. ‘Your ring is beautiful,’ he said.

Sara lifted her hand off his shoulder to inspect it, twisting her hand one way then the other. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’

Damien looked at the elegant curve of white gold studded with diamonds that was wrapped around Sara’s fourth finger. It suited her perfectly.

She smiled wide and replaced her hand on his shoulder. ‘Zoe really outdid herself this time.’

‘Zoe made that?’

He must have blurted that out in a rather uncharacteristic fashion because Sara burst out laughing and nodded. Damien looked again at the shiny, pale ring against the charcoal of his morning suit jacket, not quite able to get his head round what Sara had just told him.

He knew Sara and her girlfriends went wild for Zoe’s jewellery but, from what he remembered of her pieces, they were chunky, asymmetric things, involving not just stones and settings, but shells or wooden beads or feathers. Sometimes all three. To be honest, he didn’t get it. Must be a girl thing. He had always thought the simple chain and diamond pendant that Sara always wore was much more classy.

He felt a tap on his right shoulder. ‘I think you owe me a dance,’ a deep voice said. He twisted his head to find Luke grinning at his new bride, Zoe in his arms. Sara let her hands slide from Damien’s shoulder and back as Luke moved towards them.

Let go, Damien told himself. It’s time to let go …

It felt as if he had to peel himself from her.

‘Not her,’ Luke said, nodding towards his wife. ‘I meant you, my fine figure of a man.’

They all laughed at the joke, the way Luke held his arms aloft in invitation to Damien, before using them to scoop Sara closer so he could nuzzle into her neck. And off they went like that, joined from forehead to toe.

That left Zoe and Damien without partners and staring at each other.

He knew what the polite thing to do was. Problem was that, right at this moment, he wasn’t feeling particularly polite. He hesitated a fraction of a second too long, though, and one of Zoe’s mobile eyebrows twitched in recognition of his predicament. A wry smile pressed her lips together. Not an expression of humour, but of challenge.

Damien recovered quickly and held out his arms, just as Luke had done a moment earlier, as if that tiny transaction had not just occurred between him and the maid of honour. Pretend it’s all fine. Bury the uncomfortable feeling. That was what normally worked.

Zoe stepped into his hold, but the naughty twinkle in her eye told him her memory would not be so easy to erase. It also told him she would make him pay. Thankfully, the song was almost over.

But, as they started to move, the band segued into another tune, something in a four-four time with a bit of a Latin beat. He could hardly pull away now, thank her politely and head for the fresh night air outside the marquee, could he?

Damien growled inwardly. Now he had a whole song to get through. With a woman who—for no apparent reason—had not only decided she didn’t like him, but had made it her mission in life to wind him up.

What a perfect way to end the evening.

Pompous ass, Zoe thought to herself, grinding her teeth gently as she held her smile in place. She’d show him.

You’d think, on a day like today, when they were both here to support their best friends, he could have let up a little. But, no, Mr Holier-than-thou Stone had to ramp up the superiority factor even further.

Well, thanks to all those ballroom dancing lessons Luke had skipped out on, Zoe knew how to rumba just fine. At least on the dance floor she’d show him who was top dog.

Despite the urge to clench all her muscles ready for a killer right hook, she made herself breathe out, concentrated on relaxing into the rhythm so her hips and waist twisted and flowed. The bridesmaid’s dress was perfect for it. Sara had chosen well. Satin, the colour of old gold, skimmed her hips and flared from her knees in a bias-cut skirt, and it moved sensuously with every step.

They danced in silence, but after a particularly tricky bit of footwork she glanced up at Damien to find him staring down hard at her.

‘I thought the man was supposed to lead,’ he said, his voice expressionless.

Zoe shrugged. ‘This is a rumba. I’m just dancing the steps. Not my problem if it’s beyond you.’

His grip on her hand tightened and he pulled himself up straight, bringing their bodies closer together. Zoe feigned nonchalance.

‘Whoever said it was beyond me?’

Damien continued to stare at her, a slightly devilish smile kinking the side of his mouth, and his feet began to move in a pattern that had become horribly familiar to Zoe over the last couple of months. Rumba steps. Oh, hell. Of course Mr Perfect would be able to do this. Just another superpower to add to his vast collection.

At first they moved mechanically, stiffly, but as the song continued they both seemed to melt into the rhythm. None of those peacock-like, ostentatious moves from a ballroom competition for Damien Stone. His movements were slow, measured, restrained yet fluid—a style born more of the streets of Havana than from Gertrude Glitz’s Ballroom Academy. Zoe adjusted her moves to match, no flinging arms or swinging feet; just the feeling of the teasing, back and forth rhythm snaking up from her core and moving her limbs.

She’d been so lost in the sways and pauses, the feeling that her muscles were turning to marsh-mallow, that it took a few moments to realise their gazes were still locked. His smile had gone now, replaced by a look of concentration that was at once unnerving and—dare she admit it?—sexy.

She swallowed. Her mouth had suddenly gone very, very dry.

They were closer now too, and she wasn’t quite sure how they’d got that way, their torsos a hair’s breadth from touching.

The bridesmaid’s dress, which had been a little on the snug side up top already—thanks to a failed pre-wedding diet—now seemed to compress her ribs, making it hard to do anything but grab oxygen in short bursts.

No, no, no.

She was not going to forget just how up his own … backside … Damien Stone was just because he knew how to rumba, just because the slow swaying, the leashed feeling of power in his movements, made her think about other superpowers he might have.

Men like him were trouble. They said they liked girls like her. They might even believe it when they promised that quirkiness and a unique take on life were enchanting, but sooner or later they changed their minds.

She couldn’t let this lazy rhythm lull her into a stupor and forget all of that. In fact, she needed to do the opposite. Men like Damien Stone needed to be reminded that, actually, they weren’t God’s gift, and that maybe they should climb down from their impossibly high horses now and again and remember that they were just like everyone else: flawed, clueless … human. That was all she was asking for. Surely that wasn’t too much?

He must have a weakness, this man. His own personal brand of kryptonite. She just had to find out what that was—and then use it against him.

CHAPTER THREE

DAMIEN felt the muscles of Zoe’s torso tense quite clearly, even though his fingertips were only lightly resting on her shoulder blade, and it pulled him out of whatever delightful bubble he’d lost himself in. For a moment he’d been totally focused on the dancing, neither regretting the past—of what might have been had he met Sara first—or yearning for a future that would never be his. How odd, that it was with this woman he’d found a sense of calm in this nightmare of a day.

No more, though. The unusual softness that had been in Zoe’s eyes was gone, replaced with the more familiar hard, cheeky, taunting one, and he mentally kicked himself for forgetting he was dancing with an unexploded bomb.

‘I’m impressed,’ she said, but the look in her eyes told him this compliment had a sting in its tail. ‘I didn’t think a man like you would be any good at something like this.’

Ouch. There it was. But gentler and more skilful than he’d expected.

A man like him. What was so wrong with that?

He found he couldn’t let her remark go unchallenged. Dancing had been a good momentary distraction, but now she’d ruined that he’d resort to a bit of one-upmanship with Zoe, if that was what she wanted.

‘A man like what?’ he said through his teeth, still smiling, as he flicked his wrist and spun her out to the side.

She didn’t miss a step, her hips moving like molasses, accentuated by the clinging fabric of her bridesmaid’s dress.

‘Oh, you know …’ Her voice was light and breezy. ‘Uptight. Buttoned-up.’

He ignored the comment, even though he noticed the movements of his torso became less fluid with each step, despite his efforts to the contrary. He bunched his shoulders, one after the other, and let them drop again. ‘I’m not uptight.’

Zoe didn’t answer—not with words—but her smile hitched to one side, giving her an impish air.

Oh, no? the smile said.

Damien shook his head, narrowing his eyes. And he made his lower half move more freely, just to prove her wrong. It wasn’t quite the same as when he’d been truly relaxed a few moments before, but it was better than nothing, and he threw in a few dips and turns, just to keep her from noticing the difference.

She kept up, of course, adding her own brand of spice to each shift of weight, each wiggle. Grudgingly, he gave her silent credit.

But Damien didn’t want to notice just how easy it was to dance with Zoe St James, didn’t want to admit they complemented each other in any way at all, despite the growing sense of heat travelling up his body or the skipping of his pulse in his veins, so he tore his gaze away from hers, looked beyond her shoulder.

And instantly regretted it.

Without wanting to, he sought out the bride and groom on the crowded dance floor. They’d finished with any pretence of doing proper steps now and just clung to each other, her head resting on his shoulder, eyes closed in a state of bliss. A horrible emptiness settled on Damien.

Since his partner was probably the lesser of two evils, he switched his gaze to her and found her studying him. Without letting him lead, she released his hand, stepped out, free arm raised, and then moved back in again, coming close. Much too close.

Sara would never have danced with him like this, not even if they’d been a couple. And suddenly he was angry with Zoe for causing him to make comparisons, for making him notice who she wasn’t, because that ache was growing now, filling his chest, catching his breath.

No, this wasn’t Sara. She would never be Sara. And, on some entirely primal—and completely unreasonable—level, he wanted to make her pay for that.

He caught her in a ballroom hold, using slightly more pressure than normal, and saw her eyes widen in response. Surprise, however, was quickly doused by defiance.

Damien turned, letting her have the unhindered view of the happy couple, but unfortunately, the nature of the dance meant that every few bars he was faced with the sight of them again. And he couldn’t help torturing himself by looking, by wondering what if …?

When he looked at his partner again she blinked slowly as a mischievous smile played on her lips. ‘I’d thank you for the pleasure of dancing with you, but it would be a lie,’ she said.

Damien knew he shouldn’t rise to the bait, but his defences had been eroded by the acid of this happy day. ‘Believe me,’ he replied, ‘the feeling is entirely mutual.’

Zoe smirked, and Damien’s blood rose a few degrees in temperature. She wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this. He wanted her off his back. Avoidance had failed. Charm had failed. The only artillery he had left in his current state of mind was the blunt truth.

‘Look, I don’t like you and you don’t like me, but let’s just get through this dance—for Luke and Sara’s sake—then we can go our separate ways.’

And then, because looking at Zoe made him feel clammy and out of control, his gaze slid inevitably back to Sara.

Zoe twisted her head to follow his line of sight and then whispered in his ear, ‘I’ve seen you watching them.’

That got his attention. That got his focus one hundred per cent back on his partner. An icy electric shock arced from his chest down to his stomach. She hadn’t guessed, had she? Because, if Zoe knew his secret, there was no doubt in his mind that she would broadcast it far and wide.

‘I’m happy for them,’ he mumbled, and his feet suddenly felt like bricks, causing him to miss a step.

Zoe’s smirk grew, enveloping her in an aura of smugness. ‘It’s more than that,’ she said and then her eyes widened a little—a penny dropping into place somewhere in the back of her head. ‘There’s something about what they’ve got, about that—’ she pulled her hand from his and waved it in the direction of the bride and groom ‘—you can’t keep your eyes off.’

Damien held his breath while Zoe began to laugh.

‘Who’d have thought it? Damien Stone, not living up to his name, actually having an emotion other than pride for once.’

Pride? What was she talking about? He was a stand-up guy, someone to depend on in a crisis. What was proud about that? And how dare Zoe St James judge him?

‘Well, at least I have some pride,’ he countered. ‘Having no sense of shame isn’t considered an asset by most people.’

Her mouth dropped open and a little gasp slipped through her lips.