Always the Best Man. Fiona Harper

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