Always the Best Man

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 was 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.

It started out hot and hard and … hot some more, but after a while it changed, slowed. The kiss became more about tasting and exploring than competing and raging. Zoe stopped gripping onto the fountain and placed that hand on his chest too, snaked it round his neck, matching him, as his long fingers uncurled and began to explore the fine hair that curled into ringlets at the base of her skull.

Damn her impulsive nature. It was entirely responsible for starting all of this. First of all, it had got hold of her mouth and had run away with it, then it had poked a stick at a caged tiger to see what it would do. And now it knew just what the tiger was capable of, it wasn’t particularly inclined to stop!

This was Damien Stone, remember? Pull away.

He’s not attracted to you. He doesn’t even like you. And it shouldn’t matter just how good he tastes or exactly what he’s doing with his lips. Save yourself the humiliation and end this. And if you want to salvage some of that non-existent pride of yours, you need to end this first.

But Zoe had never been one for listening to advice. Especially her own.

And the kiss, although it was still slowing in tempo, was building in intensity. In fact, she thought the tops of her ears might have just caught fire. What was more, she really didn’t care.

Damien had been kissing her for quite some time now, and he certainly seemed to be enjoying himself just as much as she was, seemed to be immersed in the moment. Of course she could be wrong. This could just be him on autopilot. But, crikey, if all this slow expertise was what he managed when he was only halfway invested, imagine what the full blast would be like! Forget the tips of her ears—she’d have to throw her entire body in the fountain.

She let go of his shirt, now creased beyond all hope, and explored his torso, running her fingers between jacket and shirt, letting her palms slide across his back.

Perhaps he did find her attractive after all. Maybe all that pent-up aggression and haughtiness had just been the Stone version of pigtail-pulling. She knew she shouldn’t let it, but that thought burrowed deep inside her and started to glow. She couldn’t stop it, not when she’d spent a lifetime being invisible to most men like him, men who were way out of her league. She sighed as Damien’s lips left her mouth and headed towards her ear.

It was then they both heard footsteps on the gravel path. They both froze, not even coherent enough to pull hands and lips away from each other, ending up stuck together like a parody of Rodin’s famous statue.

‘Damien, there you are. Sara was looking for you a moment ago and, oh … um … sorry.’

It was Luke’s voice. Zoe tried to shrink herself sideways. Not easy when you were as generously proportioned as she was. But at present Damien was shielding her from Luke’s view, and for some reason he didn’t want Luke to find out who he was with, and that was fine by her. She didn’t want this moment of temporary insanity being reported round the wedding reception any more than he did.

But trust Damien to choose this moment to stop doing the perfect thing. He found the strength to move, stepped back and stared at her. The heat rushed from the top of her ears straight into her cheeks.

‘Oh! Zoe …!’ Luke was frowning and smiling at the same time, although the smile was starting to win. ‘Sorry … Just didn’t think you two … Like I said, I’ll come back—’ he grinned ‘—later.’

Footsteps on gravel again, getting quieter. And then it was just a trickle of the fountain, the rasp of their breath and the noise of the party from the marquee, otherworldly and muffled.

Neither of them spoke. Not with words. But Damien’s face began to get very eloquent, and the emotions on display were not what a girl wanted to see after a kiss like that.

Shock. Confusion. Even a little bit of guilt, if she wasn’t mistaken, although she couldn’t guess why. His mouth pulled down and she felt as if he’d taken a huge step backwards, even though he hadn’t actually moved. It was that last emotion that really put the cherry on top.

Disgust.

That was when she slapped him.

Damien was still rubbing his cheek as he ran back over the lawn towards the marquee. He wasn’t sure if he’d deserved that slap or not. Surely, the time for hand to face contact would have been when he’d lurched towards her, not five minutes later when her arm had been hooked around his back, pulling her closer to him, and his teeth had been at her earlobe?

But, then again, maybe he should have saved her the bother and slapped himself first. What had he thought he was doing? Really? Zoe St James?

He shook his head, trying to put it down to some kind of mental breakdown, brought about by weeks of stress and then having to endure the worst day of his life, but his attempt at reasoning with himself kept getting side-tracked by thoughts of Zoe’s supple lips, memories of how complete and unfettered her response had been. She certainly knew how to more than talk with that runaway mouth of hers, he thought wryly.

Okay, so he was attracted to her. They had chemistry. Weird things like that happened all the time. It was all down to pheromones and brain chemistry and strange evolutionary throwbacks.

But a girl like Zoe St James wasn’t part of the picture he’d painted of his future, the one he’d been slowly piecing together like a jigsaw for the last decade. It didn’t matter if they had enough chemistry together to power the New Year’s fireworks in London—she just wasn’t part of the plan. And Damien Stone always stuck to the plan.

‘Luke!’

He caught his friend just as he was about to go back inside. Slightly breathless now, he pressed a hand to his chest. ‘You said you wanted a word with me?’

Luke shook his head. ‘I said Sara wanted a word with you.’

Sara.

A wave of guilt washed over Damien. He felt as if he’d been unfaithful, which was ridiculous.

Luke was grinning at him, waggling his eyebrows.

‘Shut up,’ Damien said.

Luke just grinned harder. ‘Well, I can’t say I wasn’t surprised. I mean … Zoe … But it’s good to see you being less of a hermit where women are concerned. You’ve been working too hard for far too long.’

Luke was wrong. It wasn’t work that was the problem. Yes, Damien put in long hours occasionally, but Luke was under the impression that things were worse than they really were, because that was the excuse Damien trotted out when spending an evening with Sara and Luke at his house would be just too cosy to bear.

He pulled a face. Just when had he become this person? A person who skulked around hiding from everyone, lied to his friends and, yes, launched himself on unsuspecting women, even if the woman in question had deserved a bit of a comeuppance?

‘So …’ Luke clapped him on the back then gave him a one-armed hug ‘…are you going to see her again while we’re away on honeymoon?’

Damien shook his head. He’d rather set himself on fire.

But there was something in what Luke had said. He’d spent too long pining for a woman who wasn’t his, too long shutting himself off from all the other possibilities out there. Okay, Sara fitted perfectly in that ten-year plan of his—owning his business, buying a decent house, wife, kids—but that didn’t mean no one else could ever fit that gap. He needed to readjust, and he could do it. He could.

It was time to move on.

What a pity he hadn’t quite been able to let go of the idea of Sara before now. Maybe if he’d done it sooner, he would have been here with someone today and, instead of struggling on his own, feeling like a volcano that was trying to stop itself erupting. He might have enjoyed himself.

He tried to imagine what it would be like …

A faceless girl. Brunette—not blonde, like Sara—in a stylish dress. A woman who reached for his hand during the service, squeezed it as the vows were said.

But it didn’t work. The fantasy morphed into a picture of him out by the fountain, taking Zoe by the hand, leading her back into the hotel, a slow, knowing smile on both their faces …

No.

Get a grip, Damien.

Luke’s right. It’s been too long. Those pent-up hormones are driving you screwy.

‘Relax, mate!’ His friend’s hand was still on his shoulder and it began to knead the tense muscle there rather painfully. ‘You know what you need?’

‘A stiff gin and Angelina Jolie’s phone number?’

Luke laughed. ‘Nope. You need a holiday.’

Damien shook his head. The last thing he needed was endless days on his own, nothing to do, too much time to think. No, work was the answer. Work was always the answer.

And coming up with a new plan. A better one. An achievable one.

That thought stopped him in his tracks.

He’d fallen into the same trap as his father had, hadn’t he? And he hadn’t even realised it. If anyone should understand how much damage yearning for the impossible did, it was Damien Stone.

‘So where’s Sara, then? I thought you said she was looking for me?’

Luke nodded towards the inside of the marquee. ‘Talking to her father at the table in the corner.’ His smile became sappy. ‘You can’t miss her—just look for the most beautiful girl in the room.’

This morning a comment like that would have been a slap in the face, but Damien let it bounce off him. Time for a new plan, remember? And this time he wasn’t going to let himself get derailed.

He would walk over to Sara and her father. He would listen to what she had to say, and then he would say goodbye.

To Sara. And the idea of Sara.

CHAPTER FOUR

NOT many drivers were on the road at one in the morning to witness the sight of a bridesmaid shooting down the motorway in her car, foot to the floor, flowers in her hair. Zoe wouldn’t have noticed them if they had. Her efficient little runabout didn’t go much above seventy, but pressing the pedal all the way down gave her a small sense of satisfaction, something to counteract the growing sense of shame.

She’d never been so humiliated.

The look on his face …

As if he’d just committed some heinous crime. Even the thought of fit, blond Matthew as her own private deckhand for the next two weeks didn’t cheer her up. Maybe she’d send him away and stay moored in the marina for the holiday, hiding out in the cabin and saving the other holidaymakers from her obviously disgusting presence.

But if there was one thing Zoe liked to do it was change her mind, and she did just that when she saw the bleary-eyed Matthew waiting for her in Dream Weaver’s cockpit.

Her wheel-along case had been making a terrible racket on the pontoons and must have woken him up. Along with the rest of the residents in the tiny marina halfway up the River Dart. She checked her watch—four-fifteen! Eek!—then tried to haul her case over the edge of the boat, but it was obvious her lightning-speed packing method—just throw everything she owned in—made that impossible. Matthew very gallantly hopped out of the boat and dealt with her luggage, giving her ample time to admire his fine physique.

‘Sorry,’ she said blithely, skipping on board and showing none of her guilt. ‘I got here as fast as I could, but my car is a bit past it.’

Matthew shrugged and handed her the keys. He even smiled. ‘No problem. Luke said he’d let me take Dream Weaver to France and back later in the summer if I helped you out. So for the next two weeks I’m all yours. Ready to fulfil your every whim.’

For the first time in six hours Zoe smiled. Now that was the kind of response a girl liked to hear.

Matthew looked her up and down and laughed softly. ‘Not sure about your sailing clothes, though.’

Zoe looked down, and then she laughed as well. ‘Well, I suppose satin and trainers aren’t the usual attire, but don’t worry—’ she patted her hundred litre case ‘—I’ve got more appropriate stuff in here.’

Matthew laughed even harder. ‘I’ll bet!’

He ran a hand through his delightfully tousled hair. ‘Do you want to go out tomorrow? Maybe round to a beach?’

Zoe patted her suitcase again. ‘Swimming cozzie is packed,’ she said, and noticed a glitter of interest at that fact in the skipper’s eyes. ‘Why not?’

He checked his watch and frowned. ‘What time do you want to get started?’

She waved a helpless hand. ‘Oh … whenever. I like to go with the flow.’

Matthew nodded and grinned. Zoe grinned back. Kindred spirits. Oh, this holiday might just be what she needed after all. A summer fling, maybe, to restore her confidence in life, love and men in general.

However, thinking of men in general led to thinking of one man in particular. Her ears burned with shame while other places burned with something else entirely.

We’re not thinking about him, she told herself. He’s two hundred miles away, polishing his halo, probably, and the next two weeks is all about forgetting him and that … unfortunate … kiss ever existed.

Matthew handed over the key to Dream Weaver, a small square-ended piece of metal with a squash ball-sized piece of cork on a key ring, and then clambered off the boat and on to the pontoon.

‘See you in the morning,’ he said with a relaxed wave.

‘Not too early, though,’ Zoe added quickly.

Matthew nodded, one night owl to another. See? Kindred spirits.

Once she was alone again Zoe realised she was actually quite tired. She headed below decks. However, she’d forgotten that there weren’t proper stairs leading down into the cabin, but what was more like two wooden boxes stacked on top of each other, with an extra little foot platform bolted onto the top one for those with shorter legs. She managed to manhandle the giant case down into the cabin without smashing it on the floor, then wrestled it past the seating area, past the tiny toilet she’d forgotten how to work, and into the two-man cabin at the front of the boat.

She plopped the case on one side of the V-shaped bunk and took a long hard look at the two narrow berths, separate at the head end, but joined together near the feet. Not a lot of room, and Zoe liked to sprawl. It was also a long way down to the hard wooden floor if she rolled out of bed during the night.

But then she remembered there was an extra section of wood that fitted between the two berths, making them one giant triangle, and a matching wedge of mattress to complete the jigsaw, and she went in search of it.

Once that was sorted, she rummaged through her case for her PJs, leaving her underwear and clothes where they fell, then squeezed herself into the tiny bathroom to get ready for bed. Thankfully, the instructions for the toilet were written on a plaque on the wall—but it still took her three attempts before she got it to work properly.

Within twenty minutes of getting on board, she was climbing into the soft cotton-lined sleeping bag that had been left out for her. Probably by Matthew. She smiled as she closed her eyes and stretched her mouth wide in a silent yawn.

Oh, yes. This holiday was going to be just what she needed.

Dawn was just breaking as Damien hauled his soft sailing bag, compactly filled with everything he would need for the next week or two, down the steep jetty that led to the pontoons of Lower Hadwell’s marina.

After weeks of being cooped up in a city office, or in the dust and noise of a construction site, it was blissful to feel the cold dawn breeze on his face, smell the salt and seaweed in the air. Even better would be the bacon sandwich he planned to make himself on board before setting off. Two weeks on board Luke’s beloved boat, no one to please but himself.

It was the perfect plan. He’d be busy the whole time and he wouldn’t have to talk to a soul if he didn’t want to. And by the time he got back to his office in London he’d have made progress in wiping his best friend’s wife from his mind—at least in any capacity other than ‘family friend’.

He’d also do his best to forget that it had been Sara’s idea to use the boat now it was free. She’d square it with Luke in the morning, she’d said. But he knew his friend wouldn’t mind. He’d taken Dream Weaver out many times before when he’d needed a bit of space and solitude.

The boat was quiet when he arrived but, strangely, unlocked. He found the key on the table in the middle of the seating area in the main cabin and threw his sailing bag down on one of the long benches that doubled as a berth. Probably that flaky Matthew who kept an eye on Weaver when Luke wasn’t around. He’d have to have a word with him about that when he got back.

But for now …

Well, Damien was standing on a boat with the key in his hand and a whole river, then the Devon and Cornwall coast waiting to be explored. Why wait? He could sort out the bacon sandwich later. What he really wanted to taste right now was salt on his tongue. He couldn’t wait for that moment of perfect silence when he got out to sea, winched up the sails and cut the engine.

Not wasting a second, he ran upstairs into the cockpit, turned the engine on and set about casting off.

A distant rumble lulled Zoe as she dozed, and the gentle side-to-side movement of the boat rocked her back into a deep slumber. When she woke the sun was high in the sky, streaming through the glass hatch in the roof, and her face was squashed against the wall of the cabin. She was also pinned beneath her bright pink case.

Huh?

While she’d slept somebody had messed with the earth’s gravity. Instead of everything heading straight down, the world was tilted at forty-five degrees. It was also very bumpy, and every few seconds her cabin would bounce off something and a hollow noise echoed round the boat’s hull.

Was there a storm? The weather forecast had been good. Well, at least she’d imagined it was good because it had been bright and sunny for the last week, and Zoe wasn’t the type to check that kind of thing religiously. If at all.

Large drops of water sprayed onto the hatch as the boat did its biggest lurch yet. Definitely a storm, then. But a strange kind of storm because, apart from those dull echoes from the underside of the boat, it was completely quiet. And why was the sun still shining?

She rubbed her eyes, got out of bed and braced a hand against the wall to stop herself from falling over. Her brain struggled to make sense of the mismatched information being sent to it. She hadn’t drunk much last night, so this couldn’t be the hangover of all hangovers. What the heck was going on?

As she lurched her way through the cabin she glanced out of one of the tiny lozenge-shaped portholes and finally the jigsaw pieces began to come together. There was blue. Lots of it. Above and below the horizon. And cliffs. Last time she’d checked Lower Hadwell had been all about green hills covered in woods and sheep-filled fields. Not a cliff to be seen. Which left only one conclusion to stumble onto.

They were at sea. Almost. Right at the mouth of the estuary.

Matthew must be much more of a morning person than she gave him credit for. How disappointing. And she’d at least have expected him to discuss with her which beach she’d like to go to. Behaviour like this reminded her of someone she’d much rather push to the recesses of her mind and slap the label What were you thinking? on.