Always the Best Man. Fiona Harper
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