Always the Best Man

by Fiona Harper

  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 marshmallow, 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 expecte
d.

  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.

  Damien couldn’t hide his slow smile. Now he understood just why Zoe enjoyed firing off her little verbal darts so much. There was a lovely glow of satisfaction to be had when one hit home.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You stuck-up…unbearable…’

  Now he was tempted to laugh, never having seen this woman without just the right sarcasm-laced word for any occasion. It was oddly gratifying to see her speechless, even for just a few seconds, because he was sure her talent wouldn’t desert her for too long.

  Unfortunately, his plan to silence her, to get her off his, backfired. It was then she decided to pull out the heavy artillery, get really personal.

  ‘What is it about Luke and Sara that gives the great Damien Stone that faraway look in his eyes, I wonder? Just what is it that turns him into a big-eyed puppy dog with his tongue lolling out?’

  Pins and needles tingled up Damien’s spine. He knew she was spouting nonsense, just hunting for ammunition, but if she kept talking—and Zoe St James would always keep talking—she might just stumble onto the truth. He had to get her out of here. Out of earshot of any of the other wedding guests and especially Luke and Sara.

  They weren’t far from one of the entrances to the marquee now and, with a bit of nimble footwork, he spun her in that direction, then hauled her through the muslin-draped doorway. Once they were out into the cool night air, he dropped all pretence of dancing—dropped her—except for one hand, which he kept firmly clasped in his as he dragged her towards the formal gardens, ignoring her squeals of protest.

  He marched down gravel paths edged with low box hedges towards the sound of running water. When they were far enough from the marquee not to be heard, or even to be stumbled upon, Damien put on the brakes and turned to face Zoe, throwing her hand back to her as if he’d been contaminated by its touch.

  ‘What exactly is your problem?’ he said, his voice thin from the effort of keeping a lid on his temper.

  She held her hand to her torso with the other one, rubbing it furiously. ‘Ow!’ Her mouth stayed open as she searched for more words. When they came they were worth the wait.

  ‘What’s my problem?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘This, from the guy who is so far up his own backside he can probably see his tonsils!’

  There it was. Zoe gold—although its properties were closer to those of petrol as far as Damien was concerned.

  ‘That’s enough.’ Far too much. She’d do well to heed the silky tone that had crept into his voice. When his employees heard it, they scarpered.

  But Zoe, as always, didn’t know when to stop, didn’t know when too much w
as too much. She just battled on, pointing out his flaws, circling round the undiscovered truth, but getting closer to it every second.

  He tried to shut her up by various methods: further warnings, ignoring her. He even tried to reason with her, but that runaway mouth just kept on jogging.

  ‘I don’t know what’s got you all churned up today,’ she said finally, her hands on her hips, her breath coming in short pants, which was emphasising the rise and fall of her breasts in a way Damien was trying very hard not to notice. ‘Maybe you’re just jealous because Luke has Sara and you’ve got no one. But until you can climb down off that self-made pedestal and act like a human being instead of something carved out of marble I doubt any woman would say yes to you anyway!’

  Oh, Damien was feeling very human at this moment, thank you very much. Nothing cold and dead about his racing pulse, or the jumpy feeling that reminded him of a pressure cooker just about to pop its lid. He needed to move, to shout, to run, to do something to release whatever was building inside of him. And that sensation seemed to grow with every syllable spilling from Zoe St James’s mouth.

  She opened it again, and Damien decided he couldn’t take another second. He had to shut that smart mouth up. And only one way came to mind.

  It was stupid. Reckless. But the cocktail of stress, disappointment and adrenalin egged him on until he had no other option but to slip his hand behind Zoe’s neck, drag her to him and kiss her.

  * * *

  Damien had marched her down a path that led to a large stone fountain with a wall surrounding it. Zoe grabbed onto it with one hand as the other made a mess of Damien’s shirt, bunching it up so hard she doubted the creases would ever be erased. That flimsy grip on the cotton and his hand at the back of her neck were the only things that were preventing her from taking a swim.

  Apart from his lips, of course.

  She should pull away and slap him, shouldn’t she? Who the hell did he think he was? But she didn’t pull away. She didn’t slap him. Because, unfortunately, Mr Perfect was living up to his name in the kissing department too.