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Always the Best Man
Fiona Harper
Standing at the altar, Damien’s breathless as the woman he loves walks towards him—to marry another man.Knowing bridesmaid Zoe’s watching him makes it harder still. The opposite of the bride, Zoe’s too loud, too vibrant, too…everything! Zoe can’t resist provoking him - just once she’d like to see ‘Mr Perfect’ lose his cool. She can tell there are fireworks smoldering behind those pale blue eyes.But before the wedding night is over their unexpected connection will threaten to undermine everything they both believe about themselves and each other…




Praise for Fiona Harper
‘Classic Fiona—funny with fantastic characters.
I was charmed from the first page.’
—www.goodreads.com on
Invitation to the Boss’s Ball
‘It’s the subtle shadings of characterisation
that make the story work, as
well as the sensitive handling of key plot points.’
—RT Book Reviews
‘Fiona Harper’s Christmas Wishes, Mistletoe Kisses pairs a simple plot with complex characters to marvellous effect. It’s both moving and amusing.’ —RT Book Reviews

About the Author
About Fiona Harper
As a child, FIONA HARPER was constantly teased for either having her nose in a book, or living in a dream world. Things haven’t changed much since then, but at least in writing she’s found a use for her runaway imagination. After studying dance at university, Fiona worked as a dancer, teacher and choreographer, before trading in that career for video-editing and production. When she became a mother she cut back on her working hours to spend time with her children, and when her littlest one started pre-school she found a few spare moments to rediscover an old but not forgotten love—writing.
Fiona lives in London, but her other favourite places to be are the Highlands of Scotland, and the Kent countryside on a summer’s afternoon. She loves cooking good food and anything cinnamon-flavoured. Of course she still can’t keep away from a good book or a good movie—especially romances—but only if she’s stocked up with tissues, because she knows she will need them by the end, be it happy or sad. Her favourite things in the world are her wonderful husband, who has learned to decipher her incoherent ramblings, and her two daughters.

Always the Best Man
Fiona Harper



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

AlsobyFiona Harper
Dancing with Danger
Swept Off Her Stilettos
Three Weddings and a Baby
Christmas Wishes, Mistletoe Kisses
Blind-Date Baby
Invitation to the Boss’s Ball
Housekeeper’s Happy-Ever-After
The Bridesmaid’s Secret
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Dad, who likes sailing much better
than he likes reading romance. x

CHAPTER ONE
IF DAMIEN STONE had been a woman, he’d have become a bit of a standing joke by now. Three times a bridesmaid was unlucky, apparently. Double that number would have knelled the bells of matrimonial doom. Clucking aunts would have reminded him of that at every opportunity, told him to get a move on before he was left on the shelf.
But no one had ever made the mistake of thinking Damien was a girl, and he hadn’t been a bridesmaid once, thankfully. Nobody seemed to mind he’d been a best man so many times. If anything, other men clapped him on the back and congratulated him for such an accomplishment. No, Damien didn’t think there was anything unlucky about it.
It meant his friends respected him, thought him a stalwart ally. It took a certain kind of person to stand beside a friend at the front of a church, as that man prepared to utter the most life-altering words of his existence. Someone who was reliable, who knew how to get things done. Someone with a little dignity. He supposed he should be flattered.
But more than that, he was thankful—because he was going to need to draw on all of that experience if he was going to survive this day.
Six times now he’d worn a buttonhole as he stood beside a good friend. Six times he’d stood at the front of a pretty stone church in the hush just before the bride made her entrance. But never before had his palms been so sweaty or his heart run around inside his ribcage like a wind-up toy gone mad.
However, never before had the woman of his dreams been standing at the doors of the church, about to make her way down the aisle towards him.
He turned and looked at Luke, his best friend, and Luke gave him a fortifying smile and clapped him on the back. Damien swallowed. He was glad it was Luke standing here beside him. He didn’t think he could have made it through the day if it had been anyone else.
He tried to smile, but a nerve in his cheek made his lip twitch. Humour flashed in Luke’s eyes and Damien thought his friend was about to make one of his usual wry remarks, but just at that moment there was a ripple of movement behind them. Row upon row of heads turned towards the back of the church, like some nuptial Mexican wave, and the organ began to play.
He couldn’t look back at first, had to prepare himself for what he was about to see. This was it. No turning back after this. The future would be set in stone.
It was only when Luke nudged him in the ribs that he sucked in a stealthy breath through his nostrils then looked over his shoulder.
She was perfect.
He didn’t really look at the dress. Just her.
But then Sara Mortimer always had been pretty wonderful in his eyes. He’d thought so from the day he’d seen her across the room at a crowded bar, laughing with Luke, and had felt as if he’d been hit by a truck. Side on.
After today the rest of the world would be left in no doubt about her perfection, either. The white satin dress was pure class, and her soft blonde hair had been caught up in a twist of some kind behind her head. She wore a veil and a simple tiara and held a bunch of lilies, tied together with a thick white ribbon.
Sara was poised and elegant, intelligent, kind. He couldn’t find one fault with her—apart from her taste in men, maybe.
He let go of the breath he’d been holding and grabbed another while he had the chance.
It seemed to take ages for the bridesmaids to waft past in a cloud of dull gold. Well, most of them wafted. The maid of honour had too much of a wiggle in her step to do anything as graceful as waft.
It wasn’t just Sara’s taste in men that let her down, then. Damien had never really understood why Sara was friends with Zoe. Another one of the bride’s glowing qualities to add to his list, he supposed.
Where Sara was slender and cool and sophisticated, Zoe was too … everything. Not in the same class—and that didn’t refer to her parents’ wage brackets. Damien wasn’t a snob. No, Zoe was too loud, too uninhibited. Too busting out of her bodice, if his eyes served him right. Was it even legal to have that much cleavage in a bridesmaid’s dress?
For some bizarre reason, just her presence jarred his senses and irritated him. Or was that just the eye-watering perfume? She caught him looking at her and her expression took on a saucy glimmer. She knew she got under his skin. Couldn’t she have left it alone for just one day? And today of all days? He was sure she did … whatever she did … on purpose, just to goad him.
And now Sara was almost at the front and he’d been distracted, which only served to exasperate him further.
Thankfully, at that moment the last of the bridesmaids peeled away, leaving him with a vision of only Sara. He forgot instantly about bulging necklines, saucy glimmers and ginger curls popping out of their grips. In comparison, Sara was like a cool stream on a hot summer’s day. As she approached, she even gave him the smallest and softest of smiles. Sadly, he didn’t manage to return it; that nerve in his cheek had gone into overdrive. For a moment, though, their eyes connected and something flashed between them. Something bittersweet he was sure would haunt him on restless nights for years to come.
Because then Sara’s gaze was on the man standing next to him, and her father placed her hand in Luke’s and stepped away. Now it was Damien’s turn to be forgotten, to be totally pushed out of someone else’s mind by another.
The bride and groom stepped forward, eagerly looking at the minister. All eyes were on Sara and Luke, the happy couple, but all Damien could do was close his lids for a second, let his fingers close around the ring in his pocket.
Luke’s ring. For Sara.
No, if it had been anyone else, he couldn’t have made it through today. He couldn’t have stood there and watched Sara marry anyone but Luke. He equally couldn’t have refused when Luke had asked him to be his best man. Luke would have wanted to know why, and if there was one thing Damien was determined about it was that neither Luke nor Sarah would ever find out about his feelings for her, how they’d grown in strength, side by side with Luke’s, as he’d fallen for his best friend’s girlfriend.
He’d hidden those feelings successfully for the last eighteen months and he wasn’t going to slip up now. No, Luke would never know. Even if it killed Damien to make sure of that.
Today of all days, Damien Stone needed to be the perfect best man.
As the congregation mumbled their way through ‘Love Divine, All Loves Excelling’, almost completely drowned out by the rabidly enthusiastic organist, Sara’s cousin Tilly poked Zoe in the ribs with the stalky end of her bouquet.
Okay, maybe ‘poked in the ribs’ was a bit of an exaggeration. There was a bit too much squish where floristry met torso to accurately describe it as contact with bone. Zoe tried to ignore her, but Tilly leaned forward and whispered behind her lilies.
‘Best man’s hot,’ she said, sneaking a glance across the aisle. ‘Lucky you. As chief bridesmaid, you get first dibs.’
Zoe couldn’t help glancing across at the man in question. How did he do that? Manage to look all grave and heartfelt as he sang, while other people just buried their noses behind their Order of Service and hit a few right notes in the chorus?
‘If you like that sort of thing,’ she mumbled back to Tilly.
If you liked tall, dark and handsome. If you liked long legs and good bone structure and that irritating sense of aloofness. Even now, with his mouth wide open, singing one of the long notes of the hymn, he looked good. Untouchable. And Zoe had never been interested in anything that was too good to be touched, one step removed from life, as if it was something behind glass on display in a museum. Life was for getting your hands dirty, for jumping in one hundred per cent.
‘What?’ hissed Tilly, forgetting to shield her mouth with her bouquet. She earned herself a stern look from the mother of the bride. A woman who managed to scare the pants off the normally irrepressible Zoe St James. If, as the old wives’ tale threatened, Sara was going to age into a gorgon like that, she’d have to find herself a new best friend once she hit forty.
‘Are you blind?’ Tilly added, ignoring her aunt’s stare. Obviously the black sheep of the Mortimer family—which, funnily enough, put her a few notches higher in Zoe’s opinion.
Zoe just rolled her eyes and shook her head ever so slightly. It was still enough motion, however, to send yet another curly tendril tumbling over her face. She was about to blow it out of her way when she caught the Gorgon’s eye, and resorted to delicately tucking it behind her ear while the other woman’s eyes narrowed.
She looked away, and her gaze was drawn inexplicably to the subject of their discussion.
No, not blind. Just not stupid.
She knew he couldn’t stand the sight of her. Oh, he tried to hide it, and he actually did it rather well, but she’d been on the receiving end of similar treatment ever since she’d been old enough to open her mouth to recognise disapproval when she saw it.
Disdain. That was the word.
And that disdainful glimmer in Mr Perfect’s eye when he glanced her way just made her want to deliberately provoke him. And Zoe wasn’t one for resisting an urge whenever it hit. Life was too short. Just once she’d like to see him lose his cool, to see fire in those pale blue eyes instead of ice. In the past she’d got close a few times, but close wasn’t good enough. What Zoe really wanted to see was the whole firework display.
Not today, unfortunately. She wouldn’t do anything to upset Sara, and the poor deluded girl thought Mr Damien Stone was wonderful. Not as wonderful as the lovely Luke, obviously, but Zoe reckoned he came a close second in Sara’s eyes. She turned to Tilly and made a silent gagging motion, to show just what she thought of her fellow bridesmaid’s suggestion.
Whoops! The Gorgon was staring at them openly now, her mouth thinning. And Zoe really didn’t want to see tiny snakes popping up all over her head and burrowing their way up through the stiff and elaborate dove-grey hat. She turned to face the happy couple again, clutched her bouquet and started singing sweetly.
Mr Perfect must’ve caught the sudden motion out of the corner of his eye, because his head turned slightly and he glanced across. Zoe ignored him. Ignored the flicker she saw in those eyes before it was quickly hidden again. She put on her best angelic face and sang loudly, all the while warmed by the imagination that she could hear Damien Stone’s blood hissing faintly as it boiled in his veins.
Oh, how she wanted to see that firework display.
But not tonight, Zoe. Keep a lid on it. Sara and Luke had decided they didn’t want fireworks at the end of the reception, saying that everyone did it now and it seemed a bit of a cliché, so she guessed they wouldn’t welcome a similar display of the interpersonal kind. Damien Stone’s fuse would have to go unlit—for now.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t mess with his head a little, did it?
‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’
Damien stared at his half-finished individual pavlova for a second. He remembered taking a bite, but he didn’t remember pushing it around his plate so much it had disintegrated into Eton Mess. He flexed his shoulder muscles slightly. His morning suit jacket felt as if it were shrinking.
‘What’s wrong with yours?’
He turned to look at the maid of honour sitting next to him at the top table. Ridiculous seating plan. He’d never been sat next to the maid of honour before, not in six other weddings.
‘Nothing,’ she replied sweetly. Too sweetly. ‘It was stupendous … but rather small. That’s why I want yours if you’re not going to do it justice.’
Damien glowered at his plate briefly, as if the ravaged dessert somehow held some of the blame in this situation, and then shoved the plate in her direction, nobly resisting the urge to say anything about overfilled bodices.
‘Knock yourself out.’
‘Thanks.’
She dug in straight away, he noticed. Somehow that irritated him. He focused on a rather ugly pink hat somewhere else in the massive marquee and tried to will the minutes to go faster. Only a short time now and his official duties would be over. Soon he’d be able to slink off and find a good single malt to lubricate his petrified facial muscles. They’d set into a stupefied smile earlier in the day. Right about the time Sara had said, ‘I do.’
Always the best man …
It was starting to sound like a joke to Damien now—and not a very funny one. While he enjoyed helping his friends out in this way, he was beginning to feel like the odd one out. So many of his friends were all settled down and happy now, just as he wanted to be. Damien felt as if he was the unlucky jockey in a horse race, whose starting gate had failed to open while all the other riders were racing away from him. And now his best friend had snapped up the one woman Damien had considered a viable candidate for being Mrs Stone, it was even more disheartening.
‘Mmm. You don’t know what you’re missing,’ Zoe murmured next to him.
Damien braced his aching shoulders to stop them sagging. Unfortunately, he knew exactly what he was losing out on today. How could he not when she was sitting only three places away? He made the mistake of glancing to his right, the opposite direction from the pavlova-devouring machine on his left.
He must have momentarily forgotten the granite smile, because he snagged Sara’s attention for a second. She made the most adorable face, asking him what was wrong by pulling her lips down and creasing her forehead into a little frown.
He shook his head, shrugged one shoulder and resurrected the ghoulish grin he’d been fooling everybody with all day. Blast that Zoe. Her dessert stealing had made him lose focus. Why couldn’t he have been seated next to Sara’s mum? He could have distracted himself from this train wreck of an afternoon by charming her socks off.
Sara noted his changed expression and gave him a soft smile before turning her attention back to her new husband.
Damien wanted to sigh, but his ribs were too tight under his skin to allow his lungs to expand that fully, so he made up for it by huffing out an exasperated little snort through his nose.
‘Calm down, tiger.’ The words were slightly muffled through a layer of whipped cream and raspberry coulis. ‘There’s still a bit left if you’re regretting your generosity.’
He turned to look at Zoe as she nudged the almost empty plate his way. A lump of soggy meringue with a single berry on top was all that remained. Her mouth was pressed together in a knowing little smile and her eyes glittered with unsaid words.
Regretting your generosity to me, they seemed to be saying.
He shook his head, not trusting his tongue to remain civil.
‘Sure?’ she asked, as she began to move her spoon into position to capture the last morsel. ‘I’m sure I could pilfer one for you from somewhere, or sweet-talk one of the waiters …’
‘I’m sure you could,’ Damien replied dryly.
That saucy glint again. Now his suit was three sizes too small instead of two. And all that shrinkage was making him feel hot and jittery.
‘Oh, well,’ she said and popped the now full spoon into her mouth, turning it upside down at the last moment so she could suck every square millimetre of the silver clean. She closed her eyes and murmured her appreciation deep down in her throat.
Damien experienced a quick, hot jolt of something unexpected. Something he didn’t really want to identify. Especially when it was prompted by Zoe St James’s mobile lips sliding along a spoon.
Thankfully, Sara’s father chose that moment to stand up and clink his dessert fork against his glass. All heads turned towards the top table and Damien instantly sat up straighter and put his game face back on.
In fact, he was so busy making sure he wasn’t giving off any unwanted non-verbal cues to more than a hundred guests that he didn’t even hear the opening sentences of Colin’s speech. He couldn’t let anything slip. Not a facial twitch, not a glance in the wrong direction. No one must guess that he was anything less than the perfect best man. But all the while the guilt, the frustration, the slow, glowing flicker of rage kept building inside him until he wished he had a giant version of the metal cages that went round champagne corks. If he wasn’t very much mistaken, his head was about to explode from his shoulders, and that wouldn’t do before the toasts were over.
More words. They floated past like yachts in a stiff breeze. Words he’d heard a hundred times before at occasions like this. Until the end of the speech, that was …
‘So …’ Colin Mortimer beamed at his wife and then his daughter ‘… Brenda and I decided we wanted to do something special for our little girl.’ He paused for dramatic effect as his only daughter smiled back up at him. ‘We know you’d planned a simple honeymoon sailing Luke’s pride and joy down the south coast, but we decided we’d like to upgrade you a little …’
Damien sat up straighter. Uh-oh. Luke had planned the perfect honeymoon for himself and Sara, one Damien would have given his right arm to have. A fortnight on Dream Weaver with no one but Sara? It sounded like heaven. Oh, Luke would smile and thank his new father-in-law if he produced tickets for an all-inclusive break in some slick hotel, but his dream holiday would be ruined.
Always the one to take charge, to make sure all the details were ironed out and perfect, Damien started composing a speech in his head, one he’d have with Colin afterwards, to try and help Luke back graciously out of this latest development.
The father of the bride handed Luke a wallet. ‘Two plane tickets to the Virgin Islands—’
Damien began rehearsing that little speech in earnest.
‘—and the use of a luxury yacht for three weeks!’
There was a collective gasp from the guests and then people started to clap and cheer. Damien was frozen. For some reason he couldn’t move. Hell, he couldn’t even think straight.
Sara was hugging her father and Luke was pumping his hand enthusiastically.
No wonder. Luke had dreamed of sailing those turquoise Caribbean waters since he and Damien had both been racing little Laser dinghies together at summer sailing school. However, since Sara had put her foot down about a transatlantic crossing for a honeymoon, Luke had had to settle for West Country cruising instead.
Why hadn’t Damien thought of doing this for them? He should have done. After all, it was sailing that had bonded him and Luke as friends all those years ago.
You know why.
Damien closed his eyes. Yes, he did know. He’d let his guilt at having feelings for his best friend’s woman cloud everything.
And the jealousy too. Don’t forget the jealousy.
No. I tried so hard not to let that happen. I don’t want anything but the best for them. At least, I don’t want to want anything but the best for them.
But he had been jealous. As much as he’d tried to outrun it, he had.
And it made him lower than pond life. Which was why, when one hundred and fifteen guests rose and joined Colin Mortimer in toasting the happy couple, Damien began to shake. Not on the surface—he was too well-practised at being the textbook best man for that—but deep down in his gut. He was almost surprised the untouched champagne glass in his hand didn’t rattle.
And then the father of the bride turned to him, a beneficent smile on his face, nodded and sat down.
Damien rose, his legs propelling him upwards suddenly so he hit his thighs against the table top and made the silverware jiggle.
His turn now. His turn to spout and toast—and lie. He swallowed, knowing he was about to open his mouth and prove himself the biggest hypocrite in the world.

CHAPTER TWO
THE whole room went quiet. Zoe felt a familiar and almost irresistible urge to blurt something shocking out, just to inject some life into the dead and faultless silence. Instead she rested one elbow on the table and twisted her head round to hear His Highness say something pompous.
Only he didn’t say anything. Pompous or otherwise. He just stood there, staring at everyone. The only movement was a Jurassic Park-type mini-tremor in his glass of champagne.
He opened his mouth. A few wedding guests leaned forward. Damien Stone was famous for his best man speeches. People joked about crashing weddings just to hear them. He closed his lips again.
The silence began to get awkward. Children began to fidget.
Damien Stone cleared his throat.
Zoe seriously considered jumping up and shouting, Knickers!
But just in the nick of time a noise came from the back of his mouth, so quiet she was probably the only person who heard it. But she saw him tense, push the sound forward until it grew and words followed it.
‘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.
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.
The breeze hit her full in the face and tugged at her hair as she emerged from the cabin. The cockpit was empty, and no one was at the large wooden tiller at the back end. She could hear the mainsail rustling frantically above her head as it flapped in the wind. She stepped out into the cockpit properly, stood on one of the non-slip benches and looked further down the boat.
There, clipping a sail onto the wire that ran from the front of the boat to the top of the mast, was a hunched figure. Zoe called and waved at Matthew, but the wind stole her words. She yelled louder.
And then she had another one of those worst hangover ever moments, because when the hunched man stood up and turned around his face was different and his hair was all wrong. In fact, it looked a lot like …
But it couldn’t be!
Before she could tell her brain to start making sense, another large wave hit the boat—which she now realised had been responsible for the hollow bumping she’d heard in her cabin—and Zoe, who had not been on a yacht enough times before to know it was a good idea to hang onto something at all times, tumbled back into the cockpit.
Had that been the only thing that had happened, things would have been fine, apart from a few bruises and a general sense of embarrassment. But Zoe fell against the tiller when she landed and grabbed onto it for support, causing the boat, which had been facing the wind, to swing round sharply. The mainsail filled and Dream Weaver pitched sideways.
Zoe righted herself just in time to see the shocked face of the man at the other end of the boat. Definitely not Matthew.
Definitely her worst nightmare.
Definitely losing his balance from the unexpected lurch of the deck. In slow motion, he grabbed for the wire he’d been clipping the sail onto but missed. For a couple of seconds he seemed to hover in mid-air, but then there was a splash and a yell, and Zoe’s worst nightmare had fallen overboard.

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