Unwrapping the Best Man Page 2

  Philip sends me a questioning look, his hesitation clear. He wants to know if he’s stepped in, if I’m real competition.

  My lips quirk up. I should make it clear I’m not. But it seems my body’s less eager to let her go and I want to make him nervous. I tower over him three or four inches at least, and I train daily; I know I’d make light work of him. He knows it too, judging by the way he wriggles his cravat and clears his throat. Good.

  But then Cait hooks her arm into his and moves out of my hold.

  I watch Philip take my place, watch his hands fall to her hips and I clench my jaw tight. I don’t do jealousy, nothing close. It was carved into me from the ripe old age of sixteen not to bother with the idiotic sentiment. But as I burn a hole into the dancefloor beneath their feet, I acknowledge I feel far more than I should. I also know it has nothing to do with Philip’s shady past and everything to do with my feelings for her.

  Hell, even with Philip’s past, he’s better for her than me.

  I spin away and head to the bar.

  You’re dark and twisted. She’s light and kind. You don’t belong together.

  Maybe she and Philip...

  My fists ball at my sides.

  Over my dead body.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DANCING WITH PHILIP is a blur. I almost feel sorry for him. If not for his questionable past, I likely would do.

  But I can’t stay on task, I can’t focus on him when my mind and eyes constantly wander to Jackson, standing on the sidelines. His presence, dark, brooding, calls to me even though I should know better.

  A cheer ripples through the guests and wakes my mind from the stupor that is all Jackson.

  Philip and I stop dancing, as do many others, all craning their necks to see what the commotion is, and then I spy the cause. My lips lift, my heart too. There’s Ash and Coco making for the exit as the guests around them cheer and toast. A blushing bride swept up in the arms of her husband, their eyes for one another alone, their grins so full of love, of passion.

  Philip gently nudges me. ‘No need to guess where they’re heading, hey?’

  I shake my head as I watch them and give a cheer of my own, but I feel it catch, feel a hollowness in my chest, the same empty weight that gripped me during the ceremony. My happiness for them is dampened by a sudden pang of...envy? A wistful longing for something I hadn’t known was missing.

  Yet the only man I can imagine wanting it with is the one man who’s put himself so out of reach...until now, until the glimpse of what I saw in his face as I walked down the aisle this morning.

  And, as I did then, I force my smile to widen, my thoughts to quit and I throw my focus into the moment. The celebration. Having fun. It’s what I’m good at—fun. I’m the life and soul. I don’t let things cut too deep. Jackson included.

  The band starts up again, a quick number I’m more than happy to get lost in. I throw my focus back into Philip, pull him along with me. Dance. Have fun. Dance. It’s a mantra in my head, but the more I try and force it, the less it works. The less I’m able to push Jackson out.

  His eyes are on me, on us, I know it without looking. I dance faster, I laugh as Philip does the same, I feed off his obvious enjoyment, the mantra building to a crescendo in my head as I twirl—and then I feel it. Nothing.

  He’s gone.

  I come to a halt, my eyes landing on a couple who have taken his place.

  I turn on the spot, scanning the crowd, trying not to look bothered, but my stilted movements tell Philip exactly what’s amiss. He tries to gather me up in the dance, gain my attention but I shake my head. I can’t see Jackson anywhere.

  For a brief second I wonder if he’s left the castle altogether, such is the sense of loss, and then I realise how foolish that is. We’re miles from the nearest village; we might as well be in the middle of nowhere when it comes to sourcing alternative rooms for the night. The small number of holiday cottages and B&Bs in the area are already full to the brim with wedding guests. There is nowhere else for him to go.

  No, Jackson, just like me and the rest of the bridal party, have been given rooms in the newly renovated east wing of the castle and, if I remember rightly, he’s only two doors down from me.

  Two doors...hardly a walk at all.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Philip asks, vying for my attention.

  I give him a weak smile, part gratitude, part apology. ‘I’m good, thanks though.’

  ‘You’re good, but you have somewhere else you’d rather be.’ He gives me a grin to soften his words and rakes a hand through his blow-dried hair that’s just too perfect for me to find attractive. I prefer it darker, longer, untamed... ‘Prefer a bit of rough, hey?’

  I laugh. I can’t believe he’s vocalised my exact thoughts and I’m too stunned to try for a lie. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘And I’d say I couldn’t blame you. Ash and Coco certainly like the guy.’ He scans the crowd now too, looking for the topic of our conversation. ‘I struggle to see the appeal myself. He looks like he could kill by look alone.’

  I laugh even harder. ‘True.’

  He gives a mock shudder. ‘Putting that quality aside though, he quite obviously has a thing for you, so I guess the feeling is mutual.’

  I still, my eyes narrowing on him. ‘You think?’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Yes, no, yes—Hell, I don’t know.’ I smooth an unsteady hand over my hair. I don’t like being unsure. I pride myself on being able to read people. I run a PR firm, for Pete’s sake, a very successful PR firm; I know people. But Jackson...

  I feel my head shake. Why does he do this to me?

  You know why... You like that he puts you on edge. You like the challenge. You like him...and you want a whole lot more.

  And if Philip, a total outsider whose opinion isn’t tainted by his own feelings, thinks it’s mutual, then I’m not imagining it.

  I just need Jackson to get over whatever’s stopping him.

  Maybe it’s some weird big brother stance. He’s been my agony aunt more times than I can count. Not that he looks the part, but he is. He listens. He’s let me drown my sorrows at the bar, rant and rave about my over-protective family, celebrated my latest PR win, teased me over my outfits, my cheek, my flirtatious exploits.

  But never has his facade cracked. Never has he hinted that he wants the same.

  Until today...and it’s an opportunity I can’t let slip away.

  ‘Sorry, Philip, I just need to...’

  I’m already walking in the direction of the exit and working out where to try first.

  Where would I go if I were sexually frustrated to the extreme?

  I smile. The idea of him being so hot for me that he’s had to take himself off is an aphrodisiac in itself.

  If it were me, I’d go outside for air, to cool down. But then I’d be no more satisfied. The bedroom, however—there I’d be able to tend to my needs privately. The image of Jackson taking himself in hand has my smile widening, my lower body pulsating with carnal heat, and I realise, regardless of which way he’s gone, I’m the one needing air now. Because when I find him I want to be in control of this.

  I want to be able to walk away with my head held high if he rejects me again.

  And if he surrenders himself to it... Oh, yes, I want him to be the one who closes the deal. Who kisses me and seals our fate. I will seduce to a point, but I need to know both his body and mind are in the driving seat. I have no interest in regrets that come later, in backing him into a corner and having his body do all the talking.

  I want him to want me, unreservedly.

  I break out into the grand entrance hall and slow my stride, not wanting to draw attention or appear too eager in case he’s there.

  Calm, collected, in control, I scan the vast room. A few guests stand before the fire burning in the he
arth sipping drinks and a couple are canoodling up against one of the ornate pillars supporting the imperial staircase above. Another couple are leaning precariously close to a freestanding floral arrangement that has three lit candles at its heart. I consider interrupting their full-on snog-fest before the lady’s hair catches fire, but I doubt they’d even hear me.

  Wedding fever, it seems, is contagious. Maybe I’ve caught it too and that’s why I’m so on heat. Yeah, right. I want to laugh at the very idea as I scan the twin staircases and what I can see of the landing above. I know I’m like this because of the change in Jackson, the change that tells me I’m this close to getting what I’ve wanted for so long.

  If only I can find him...

  Rooms, or outside? My gut says the latter. I cross the entrance hall, my heels click-clacking against the gleaming parquet floor and drawing the eye of the doorman standing beside the impressive doorway.

  ‘Ma’am.’ He gives me a smile and I contemplate asking if he’s seen Jackson, but when I run through my description of him in my head it’s enough to keep me tongue-tied.

  I’ll just go outside and look for myself.

  I return his smile. ‘It’s rather warm in here. I think I need some air.’

  ‘Do you have a coat I can get for you?’

  ‘No need.’

  It’s August and not exactly balmy this far north, not when you’re used to the city heat, but either Jackson isn’t out there, in which case I’ll be back soon, or he is, and I won’t be needing a coat to warm me.

  He gives me a nod as he pulls open the door and the cool night air greets me, sweeping over my skin and causing goose bumps to instantly prickle. I breathe it in, feel it soothe and calm. The air is so different here, so clear and crisp. I realise the doorman is waiting for me to move off before closing the door and I’m letting all the chill in by standing there. I shoot him another smile and promptly move off, my eyes sweeping over the grounds.

  It really is beautiful, an idyllic retreat surrounded by nothing but rolling hillside strewn with heather that now gives off a dusky purple hew in the moonlight. The moat that runs around the four-turreted castle glistens black, white and grey. The clear sky above twinkles with a zillion stars that you wouldn’t be able to see in London. And straight ahead the stone-built bridge joining the castle to the mainland sparkles with fairy lights, the same fairy lights that have been used in the potted plants that mark out the driveway and were brought in especially for the wedding. There’s no way their delicate foliage would survive long in a Scottish summer, let alone winter.

  And, in truth, I’m not sure I would either in nothing but this bridesmaid dress.

  I shiver. But it’s not just the cold. It’s an awareness of him. He’s here, I know he is.

  I don’t realise I’ve stopped walking until I sense movement to my left and that’s when I see him. I can only make out his silhouette leaning against the trunk of a very old tree, but I know it’s him. No one else has the same imposing frame, the same assured stance. He rakes a hand through the wildness of his hair and stares out at the water. Pensive. Reflective.

  Have I driven him here? Or is there something else that’s sent him seeking the quiet solitude? Either way, I now feel like I’m trespassing, intruding.

  I go to turn back and stumble on the gravel beneath my heel. ‘Oopsie.’

  I clamp my hand over my mouth.

  Oh, God, did I really say that out loud?

  ‘Caitlin?’

  Busted.

  Too late to go back now.

  I straighten and turn towards him, tentative, sheepish. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘No?’ Even across the distance I can imagine the amused spark in his eye, the one-sided slant to his lips that triggers a ripple of warmth through my lower belly. ‘Then what exactly are you doing?’

  ‘I... I thought I’d get some air.’ I raise my chin, shake out my hair—a force of habit since it’s pinned back—and close the distance between us. My smile is small, my pulse racing with every step. How can one man be this good-looking? This distracting? This overpowering?

  I’m grateful for the chilling wind now as it suddenly picks up around us, blowing strands free from the twisted knot at my nape and staving off the inner heat.

  ‘You know the saying,’ I continue. ‘Great minds think alike.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to put on a coat?’

  I take a leisurely tour of his body, his loosely knotted cravat, the navy waistcoat and Argyll jacket that strain over his frame and yet fit him perfectly. My journey slows as I take in the black sporran hanging low over his front, concealing, disguising...the navy and green tartan of his kilt that coordinates with his cravat and ends above the knee. Slower still, I take in the exposed knees, the black socks with the sheathed knife, and swallow before meeting his eye again.

  ‘I think we’re fairly even on the clothing stakes.’ I’m proud of how steady I sound.

  He laughs, the surprising roar gruff and seductive as his smile spreads, the shake of his head sending a lock of hair curling over his forehead. ‘Fair point. So, you bored of Lauren already?’

  I pause before him, close enough that if I were to reach out I could touch him, and I flutter my fingers against my hips. Oh, how I want to touch him.

  ‘Bored, no.’ I toy with what to say next. I don’t want to push him away, scare him off like I sensed I did in the ballroom, but... His scent travels on the breeze, flooding me with another rush of warmth, another hit of what I so desperately want, and I forget caution. ‘He’s not the man I’d rather be with.’

  He pushes off the tree. ‘And I shouldn’t be the one you do.’

  Damn it. He goes to move past me and I reach out, my hand gentle on his arm, the heat of his body seeping into my palm as he pauses, eyeing my hand. I can feel the ongoing debate in the tension under my fingers, see it in the pulse ticking away in his jaw, but I can’t stop this any more than I can stop my eyes from feasting on him.

  ‘I’m twenty-six, Jackson. I think I can decide that for myself.’

  His eyes lift to mine, and I see it all. The darkness, the same torment I witnessed on the dancefloor...

  ‘What is it, Jackson?’ I squeeze his arm softly. ‘Just tell me.’

  He’s quiet, still, and I frown as I lose myself in his eyes, desperate to understand. I’ve never seen Jackson pensive, troubled, torn between taking what he wants and...well, walking away. He’s all fun and games in the club, his club. He teases, he provokes, but there he has his rules.

  Is he hiding behind them? Are they some kind of crutch for whatever this is?

  Regardless, I hate the idea that I’ve done this to him and I’m damned if I’ll leave him hanging with it now.

  ‘If you don’t want me, you only have to say the word and I’ll leave you alone, I promise. My ego can take it.’ I add the last for good measure, hoping to tease out a smile at least and reassure him all is okay between us. That we’ll always have this, our friendship.

  He takes a breath and looks away from me, his laugh small, more of a sigh.

  ‘If only it were that simple.’

  He lifts my hand from his arm but doesn’t release it.

  ‘I don’t want to want you, Caitlin...’ I can hear the vehemence in his tone, see it in his eyes as they come back to me hard and soft all at once. ‘I want you far enough away from me that you are safe.’

  My laugh is startled, unnaturally high, but his choice of words is extreme, ridiculous even. I’ve never felt safer than I do when he is near.

  ‘In case you’ve forgotten, you saved me the very first night we met.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘No, that was a man taking advantage and one word from you and I was released... Granted, it was your club and granted, I did land in your lap, but you see, you’re like my knight in shinin
g armour. How can I possibly be anything but safe with you?’

  He’s silent again and his hesitation is driving me crazy. Crazier than six years of living with this undercurrent. His eyes blaze into mine and a sudden shiver ripples through me in time with the breeze.

  ‘You’re cold.’ Before I can deny it, he’s releasing me and shrugging off his jacket, flicking it out to wrap it around my shoulders. I’m cocooned in his residual warmth, his scent, his... Oh, God, my lashes flutter closed and my nostrils flare as I breathe him in. When I open them again he’s there, so close.

  So fucking close.

  ‘Cait...’

  It’s a groan and his eyes fall to my lips, burn into them. Yes, kiss me. I’m pleading, begging, my lips parting, ready, so ready. I slowly run my teeth over my lower lip and he snaps, his growl fierce, a split second before his mouth claims mine.

  Yes, God, yes.

  It’s desperate, urgent, his tongue delving deep as his grip tightens over my upper arms, holding the jacket in place, or holding me closer, or trying to fight it. I don’t know but I’m dizzy. Dizzy on an explosion of sensation that starts with the taste of whisky, the roughness of his tongue as it grazes mine, and ends with the delicious tension coiling through my body. The pooling heat and the pulsing ache between my legs demand satisfaction.

  He spins me against the tree, another growl low in his throat, and I feel his frustration, his anger at himself as he tears his mouth away. I suck in a breath and open my eyes to look up into his. They’re still tormented, plagued by a fire that’s not all desire, and I want it to be. I want the pain, the battle, the barrier—whatever it is, gone.

  ‘What are you doing to me?’ His breath rasps over my lips as he strains ever closer, but not close enough.

  He shakes his head and presses his forehead to mine, his ragged breath bursting over my front, down the valley between my breasts, teasing at the goose bumps still alive. He squeezes his eyes shut and the second he opens them again I sense the shift, his surrender and resignation, but it doesn’t make me as relieved as it should.