Always the Best Man

by Fiona Harper

  Once in the cockpit, she shuffled over to one of the benches and turned as if to sit down and huddle in the corner. Before she could do so, he grabbed hold of her and positioned her on the other side of the tiller. ‘Here, hold this,’ he said, and shoved it into her hands. ‘I just need to check on something.’

  Zoe let out a strangled noise which could have been a scream, and the boat lurched as she lost control for a moment. Damien, however, had learned his lesson from the first day on board Weaver with Zoe, and was hanging on to one of the shrouds that ran from the deck to support the mast.

  She needed something to do, something to keep her mind off feeling so queasy—and he could use the help when it was blowy like this.

  ‘Hold it steady,’ he shouted back, meeting her wide eyes with his own focused gaze and noting the thin line of her mouth.

  ‘But I don’t know what I’m doing,’ she shouted back. The last word was muffled somewhat when a clump of ginger curls landed in her mouth.

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ he said. ‘Just hold her steady. See that radio mast up on the cliffs?’

  She spat her hair out of her mouth and nodded gravely.

  ‘Just keep aiming for that. I’ll be back with you in a second.’

  He did what he needed to do but, once back in the cockpit, he stayed just far enough away to prevent Zoe handing the tiller back to him. She was looking better already. He just had to keep her concentrating on something other than her head and her stomach.

  ‘Now you’re here, I could do with some help. I want to change the direction of the boat. If we keep going on this course we won’t end up where we want to.’

  Zoe squinted at him. ‘Can’t we just point the boat in the direction we want to go?’

  Damien opened his mouth to give a mini-lecture on the subject, but then had second thoughts. He jumped down beside Zoe. ‘Try it. Move the tiller in the opposite direction to where you want to go: left to turn right, or right to turn left.’ He pointed to the south-west, where the little harbour town of Mevagissey awaited them. Tentatively, she gave the polished wooden tiller a push and was rewarded with a slight change of course. When she was happy with that, she tried again, bolder this time, and Dream Weaver turned into the wind.

  Immediately the mainsail deflated like a let-down party balloon and the jib flapped wildly. The yacht began to slow, no longer pushing through the waves.

  ‘Oh…’ said Zoe, suddenly looking very worried. ‘What did I do?’

  Damien smiled. ‘Don’t worry. That always happens when you turn the boat into the wind. The sails can’t catch any of it. So when our destination is the same direction as the wind, we have to tack—or make a zigzagging path—sailing with the wind on one side and then the other.’

  Zoe looked up at the flapping mainsail. ‘Oh, I get it. So I just need to push this thing a bit—’

  ‘Hold on.’ Damien reached out and grabbed the tiller, steadying it with his hand. ‘See this sail at the front? It’s called the jib. If we’re going to tack now we have to loosen the ropes that hold it in—the sheets…’ he noted Zoe’s raised eyebrows ‘…I’ll explain later. We have to loosen the sheet on one side and tighten it on the other, so the jib can move over to the other side of the boat. You can help me winch.’

  Zoe’s cheeks were flushed pink now and the dullness had gone out of her eyes. ‘Okay,’ she said, smiling slightly. ‘Holding ropes…I can do that.’

  ‘Just do what I say and you’ll be fine.’

  She let out a dry laugh. ‘Ah, so that’s what this is all about! I bet you can sail this boat with just your little finger. This is your excuse to order me around.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he replied.

  But she paid attention and followed instructions all afternoon as they criss-crossed the bay. At one point he handed the tiller back to her, pointing out the compass heading she needed to stick to, and she actually grinned at him.

  ‘How do you know all of this stuff, exactly what to do?’ she asked. ‘Are there hard and fast rules, tables and numbers to learn?’

  ‘Partly,’ he said, leaning back against the cabin wall and watching her handling the tiller with confidence now. ‘But you never know exactly what’s going to happen until you get out on the water. No two sailing days are identical, and that’s half the fun of it—pitting yourself against the wind and the waves, making it to your destination despite the obstacles, knowing that you were ultimately in control of these unpredictable forces, making them work for you rather than against you.’

  Zoe frowned a little, but one side of her mouth curled up. ‘Who are you and what have you done with the real Damien Stone?’

  He stopped smiling. What did she mean by that?

  ‘Oh, come on…’ Zoe said, chuckling slightly. ‘You? Going with the flow, dealing with the unpredictable? Doesn’t really sound like you, does it?’

  ‘Then you don’t know me very well,’ he said, and looked out over the grey waves. ‘When you’re sailing you have to be flexible, and I can be as flexible as the next guy.’

  Zoe’s guffaw had him snapping his head back round to look at her. ‘If the next guy is a tin soldier, maybe…’

  Damien stood up straight. ‘I think you’re making a rather sweeping statement.’

  She sighed. ‘Damien, I have never met anyone as structured as you. You have a plan for everything.’

  ‘Not everything,’ he mumbled. Not really. He hadn’t planned to come on this holiday with Zoe St James, had he?

  She did that thing with her eyebrows again. ‘Oh, no? So what time are we supposed to be sailing into Mevagissey harbour?’

  He shuffled a little, then took the tiller back from her. ‘Three-thirty…if the wind stays like this.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Zoe said softly, and then she walked to the edge of the cockpit, rested her hands on the side of the boat and stared out towards the cliff. ‘But what if we decided we wanted to take a detour?’

  Damien pressed his lips together. Detour? What sort of detour? There was nowhere else to go.

  Zoe was smiling at him. He didn’t like that smile.

  ‘There’s a beautiful beach over there—totally deserted. Can we go and have a look?’

  Everything inside Damien stiffened, and he knew that Zoe saw every muscle fibre snap to attention. He could tell it from the way that annoying little smile grew even more asymmetrical.

  ‘You can’t cope with it, can you?’ she said, her voice almost a whisper, her eyes sparkling. ‘Admit it.’

  He was admitting nothing. He’d spoken the truth earlier on. Sailing required a man to be flexible, yes, but a sailor was always in control of the decisions—when to sail, when to stay in port, which sails to use, what compass heading to go on. And if he wanted to he could choose to go and visit a beach he’d never even noticed before, even if he’d been sailing these waters for more than ten years. Just because he’d got into the habit of focusing on that mast on the headland, it didn’t mean he couldn’t do things differently this time.

  He pulled the tiller towards him and let Dream Weaver’s sails out as the boat turned and the wind came full-on from the port side. And, with one last longing look at that spike of metal on the hill and with the sensation of a ticking stopwatch inside his chest, Damien pulled hard on the tiller and headed off to the strip of yellow where sea met cliff.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THEY eventually made it to the harbour village of Mevagissey, so pretty it featured on many a ‘Greetings from Cornwall’ postcard. The old fishing port filled a sheltered valley and was further protected by a sturdy harbour wall. The houses had spread beyond the narrow streets and up the surrounding hillside so they seemed to perch on top of each other, all vying for the best view of the bay.

  ‘The joys of sailing, huh?’ Zoe said. Her fuchsia leopard-print rain mac was plastered to her head and was making her feel very sweaty, which was no mean feat, considering it had condescended to put up with ten minutes of rain and spray before giving
up and letting any moisture that landed on it in.

  Damien was tying a rope round a cleat on the quay. He jumped back on board Dream Weaver in one smooth motion. ‘If I remember rightly, it was your idea to take a “detour”. We might have been here by the time the weather hit otherwise.’

  Yes, there was that. But she wasn’t going to tell him that sticking to the plan might have been a good idea after all. That would undo all the good work she’d done that afternoon.

  And what a detour it had been! Something new to experience, all right, but not exactly what Zoe had been expecting. Oh, the beach had been fun—while the weather had lasted. They’d dropped anchor a short way away and had taken the dinghy to the shore. Then they’d walked along a virgin beach that may not have seen another human footprint in months, thanks to the remote location. Even Damien had looked as if he was enjoying himself—which had been part of her plan. Mr Live-by-the-timetable needed to learn how to loosen up a little, stop and smell the roses, and Zoe had decided that she was the one to teach him. It was a fair exchange for teaching her how to sail.

  But the pearly bright sky had changed within ten minutes of landing. It was as if that dark cloud she’d seen that morning had been stalking them, staying out of sight until it had its chance to pounce.

  Damien had told her repeatedly that it wasn’t a gale and they were perfectly safe, but she felt as if, just as he’d said in his rather impressive speech, they’d pitted themselves against wind and waves on the journey into Mevagissey. Pity that the final score had been elements one, humans zero. She didn’t think she remembered ever being so wet and cold.

  She would have added miserable to the list, but she had a horrible feeling she’d almost enjoyed helping Damien sail Dream Weaver to her destination. Despite the hair plastered to her face and a coat with a hood that was so useless it didn’t matter if it was up or down, an adrenalin surge had warmed her insides. Or maybe that had been the quiet look of approval on Damien’s face every time he’d caught her eye.

  Blast that rain cloud. She’d have been safer if she could have kept out of his way and sunbathed as normal.

  And blast Damien Stone for being right again. Not following the rules—the handed-down wisdom of generations—would have been disastrous in all that wind and rain, she could see that now. Not the time for reacting from her gut, but for thinking ahead, doing as she was told. None of her friends would have believed their eyes if they’d seen her. She’d moaned long and hard about the weather conditions to compensate, though. Now that was more like the Zoe St James everyone knew and loved.

  ‘Well, Master and Commander of the ocean,’ she said in a droll tone, casting a look in Damien’s direction. ‘I’m off to get warm and dry and clean.’ And then she hauled her aching limbs down the stairway and into her cabin.

  She bundled herself into the tiny little shower-slash-bathroom and scrubbed and soaped until her body was no longer tired and achy, until she smelled of something other than damp clothes and salt. By the time she got dressed again she started to feel more human, which meant she was more likely to act like it. Always a good thing.

  Zoe emerged from her cabin just as Damien was pulling on a clean sweatshirt. The sight of a lightly tanned and muscled back sent all the words she’d had ready to say flittering out of her head. He must have heard her because he turned round suddenly and looked at her.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. Obviously one word—a very basic one—had decided not to desert her. She was very grateful to it. Then another one came back to roost. ‘Sorry,’ she added.

  His eyebrows raised. And was that the start of a smile she could see at the corners of his mouth? She couldn’t tell.

  ‘For moaning on and on about the weather,’ she added. ‘I get a little tetchy when I’m soaked to the skin.’

  He blinked and his face remained totally deadpan. ‘You do surprise me.’

  Zoe felt a little bubble of laughter rise up in her throat. She hiccuped and let it out. ‘Never been known to suffer in silence, me,’ she said, smiling a little. ‘But with four older brothers who liked to use me for wrestling practice, there’s a reason for that.’

  Damien nodded and shrugged. ‘I’m an only child, so I wouldn’t know about wrestling or brothers. I’ll take your word for it.’

  Ah, of course he was. She could see it now—that telltale air of entitlement and confidence that could only come from being the apple of Mummy and Daddy’s eye. Unlike Zoe, who had been an unplanned late addition to her clan of sport-loving, high-achieving brothers. Her mother always used to joke that she hadn’t known what to do with a girl after all those boys, and Zoe reckoned it had showed. She’d been the tag-along kid, always trailing after her brothers to their different sports matches, always standing in their much larger shadows.

  ‘I can teach you a few good headlocks if you want.’

  She’d started talking in a jaunty voice, just making a joke to cover things over the way she always did, but by the end of the sentence her mind had flipped away from wrestling matches on the living room carpet to having her arms wound round Damien, exploring that fine back she’d just had a glimpse of, and in her daydream they definitely weren’t wrestling. Her voice trailed away and she realised the extra layer of clothes she’d put on had been one too many.

  Damien didn’t have much to say to that either, so they just stared at each other for a few seconds until he moved towards her, making her jump.

  He cleared his throat. ‘We need to find you something more practical to wear than that…pink thing.’

  Zoe glanced through the high, narrow windows of the cabin at the gloomy sky. It was only late afternoon and on a sunny day it would have been light for hours longer, but today it seemed as if twilight had already cocooned them.

  ‘I could buy something tomorrow, but it doesn’t look as if it’s going to let up this evening.’ She sighed. ‘I’m probably going to get drenched all over again on the way to dinner.’

  Damien did his own reconnaissance of the sky, frowned, then looked back at her. ‘Maybe not,’ he said mysteriously, then moved past her to open the cupboard opposite the bathroom. Zoe scampered out of his way, noting that as he’d got close her internal thermostat had risen another couple of notches.

  No, she told herself. Not a good idea. He’s not for the likes of you.

  Damien returned only moments later with a bright yellow jacket on a hanger.

  ‘I remembered Luke and Sara had some spare oilskins in the locker,’ he said and handed her the hanger.

  Zoe slid the waxy rubber duck-coloured coat on. The arm length was fine, but over the bust? Not even close, matey. She blushed hard and shrugged it off quickly.

  What had she been thinking? Of course she wouldn’t fit into Sara’s coat. She never tried on her friend’s clothes any more, remembering the few times she had and knowing that the results in the mirror would mock her. Not a natural clothes horse, was Zoe, because she wasn’t as slender as Sara. But then there were a lot of ways she wasn’t like Sara. Not as pretty. Not as clever. Not as popular. The list was practically endless.

  And now Damien had seen her in Sara’s jacket, he wouldn’t be able to help making the comparison, just like everybody else did. She looked at the floor as she handed the jacket back to him.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m that hungry, anyway,’ she mumbled. ‘Maybe a bowl of cereal would do.’

  * * *

  He really should look at her face, not where his gaze had slid and snagged when she’d tried to pull the coat tight across her chest. Heat flooded his torso and it took him a couple of seconds to register what she’d said, but the words finally filtered through. Move your eyes now, Damien, before she looks up and catches you staring where you shouldn’t.

  He managed it just in time. A split second later Zoe’s focus flicked from the wooden floor to his face and then back again.

  She had no idea, did she? Absolutely no idea that she’d brought him to a gibbering standstill, that she’d drained all his willpow
er away, making him question whether following through on the unacknowledged attraction between them would really be as catastrophic as he’d first thought. She wasn’t his type at all.

  His body begged to disagree.

  He told his body to shut up.

  Damien was used to taking control of every urge that was counterproductive to his grand life goals, and he squashed this one down alongside all the others. Pity he didn’t notice that, just like an overstuffed ship’s locker, there was hardly any more room in that place where he stuffed all those whims and desires and dreams he didn’t like. Things were starting to bulge out. One day soon the lid might just pop off, exhausted from keeping all those pesky things at bay.

  ‘What if I went out and brought back some takeaway?’

  There was another one of those rogue urges now. It slid free and hit him between the eyes just as Zoe looked up at him from under her lashes and bit her lip.

  Kiss it, the urge said. Taste that lip—bite it, even.

  ‘You’d do that for me?’ she said quietly.

  He nodded emphatically. Air. Space. Those were things he needed in large quantities at present. And a cold shower, courtesy of the English summer, probably wouldn’t hurt.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said, backing away, pretending he was reaching for his jacket. ‘Fish and chips? Pizza?’

  He saw the gratitude in her eyes, and a third jolt hit him.

  No. That shouldn’t have happened. This was only supposed to be a physical attraction. It wasn’t supposed to happen when she looked all soft and vulnerable and un-Zoe-like for a few seconds.

  But he needn’t have worried. She offered him a reprieve. Seconds later the softness left her, replaced by an over-bright smile and animated hand gestures as she talked.

  ‘You’re forgetting there’s one more coat in the cupboard,’ she said, grinning at him. ‘One that shouldn’t find my physique so much of a challenge.’ And before he could stop her she pushed her way into the little upright locker and had re-emerged with Luke’s oilskin. She threw it on and zipped it up, battling with sleeves that were easily four inches too long, and finished it off by buttoning her hood up under her chin. Not a flattering look for anyone.