The Best Man for the Job. Lucy King

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      TWO

      Three hours later, Celia had worked her way through one cup of tea, two glasses of champagne, a dozen of the most scrumptious mini sandwiches and petit fours she’d ever eaten and a hefty piece of wedding cake. She’d survived the photo session, listened to the short yet witty speeches, and had had conversations with everyone except Marcus and her father.

      The reception so far had been beautiful. The weather was behaving, the sky a cloudless blue, the sun beating down gently, a perfect example of one of those heavenly yet rare English summer days. Zoe’s parents’ garden, with its immaculate lawn, colourful and fragrant borders and sharply clipped hedges was an idyllic setting for a small, tasteful, traditional wedding celebration. The music coming from the string quartet sitting beneath the gazebo drifted languidly through the warm air and mingled with the happy hum of chatter, so enchanting and irresistible that every now and then couples came together and swayed along.

      She had to admit that, even to an unsentimental person such as herself, the romance of the afternoon was undeniable. She could feel it winding through her, softening the hard-boiled parts of her a little and making her feel uncharacteristically dreamy. Even her parents seemed to have been caught up in it, appearing to have reached a sort of unspoken truce and, although not talking, no longer shooting daggers at each other from opposite ends of the garden. Her brother looked happier than she’d ever seen him and his bride sparkled like the champagne that had been flowing so wonderfully freely.

      Yet as mellow as she was feeling and as much as she liked her brand-new sister-in-law, Celia couldn’t help wishing Zoe were more of a people person. If she were, there’d have been several hundred guests at the reception instead of the fifty or so that were milling around the garden.

      And OK, so as bridesmaid and sister of the groom she wouldn’t have been able to wriggle out of the photo session either way and she’d still have had to steel herself against the weight and strength of Marcus’ arm around her waist and the heat of his hand on her hip as they posed, but at least she’d have been able to ignore him after that.

      As it was, though, guests were thin on the ground and she couldn’t be more aware of him. Everywhere she looked there he was in her peripheral vision, smiling and chatting and generally making a mockery of her efforts to blank him from her head.

      Despite the fact that she’d positioned herself about as far from him as possible, for some reason, he was utterly impossible to ignore. Not that she hadn’t tried, because she had. A lot. In fact, she’d used up practically all of her mental and emotional energy trying, and as a result she hadn’t really been able to concentrate on anything. She kept losing track of conversations. Kept finding herself gravitating towards him. Every time she told herself to get a grip and hauled herself back on track his laugh would punctuate the air and she’d have to battle the urge to whip her head round to see what was amusing him.

      All afternoon the people she’d been talking to had looked at her closely and asked if she was all right before edging off presumably in search of less ditzy company, and she really couldn’t blame them.

      It was driving her nuts. She abhorred ditz. And she hated the way she was being so easily distracted now when she’d always prided herself on her single-mindedness and her ability to focus.

      Why was she having such trouble with the effect Marcus had on her today when she generally managed to keep it under control? Why couldn’t she blank him out as she usually did? Why did she keep trying to get a glimpse of him whenever she heard the sound of his voice, and then sighing wistfully when she did?

      What was wrong with her? What was this weird sort of ache in her chest? And more importantly right now, she thought, her attention switching abruptly from Marcus and the strange effect he was having on her equilibrium, how was she going to deflect her father, who’d clearly clocked the fact that she was on her own and was bearing down on her, no doubt intending to launch into his usual spiel about her career, her lack of a husband and the direct correlation between the two?

      As the pathetic—and pointless—need for his approval surged up inside her the way it always did and briefly smothered her confusion at the way her emotions were running riot this afternoon, Celia cast around for a conversation to join, a guest to corner, anything to avoid him and his own particular brand of paternalism, but she was on her own. The nearest little group contained Marcus, who unbeknownst to her had circulated into her vicinity and from the sounds of it was entertaining for Britain, and that made it a no-no.

      Or did it?

      As her brain raced through the very limited options open to her Celia made a snap decision. Oh, what the hell? He might not be her greatest fan but Marcus was within grabbing distance, and nothing could be worse than having to suffer her father’s prehistoric ideas and deep disappointment when it came to his one and only daughter.

      Aware that her father was fast approaching and there was no time to lose, Celia reached out and clamped her hand on Marcus’ arm. He went still, then turned, surprise flickering across his face. Ignoring the sizzle that shot through her from the contact, Celia looked up at him in what she hoped was a beseeching fashion and said softly, ‘Help me? Please?’

      * * *

      Well, well, well, thought Marcus, glancing down to where she was clutching his arm and then shifting his gaze to her face, which bore a sort of pleading expression he’d never have associated with her. Who’d have thought? Celia Forrester, a control freak extraordinaire, staunchly independent and so uptight she was in danger of shattering, a damsel in distress. Actually asking for help. His help. She must be desperate.

      Resisting the temptation to shake his СКАЧАТЬ