by Heidi Rice
The maid of honor’s to-do list for handling the best man:
#1 Charm him.
#2 Find out everything about him from friends and family.
#3 Size definitely matters: especially when it comes to the ego. Tread carefully if he has a big one….
Sabrina Millard has a plan and a list for everything, including her role as maid of honor at her BFF’s wedding. The best man is a whole different matter. She knows Connor McCoy is trouble—she once had a disastrous encounter with him years ago. Now that he’s supersexy and supersuccessful, it’s even worse. Especially as he’s just proved who’s in charge by shattering her legendary control…under the table at the rehearsal dinner!
Connor’s having fun seducing prim Sabrina. Which is so wrong—she’s the ultimate good girl, while his past is…complicated. Only Sabrina has him breaking all his own rules….
Sexy, contemporary romance stories for today’s fun, fearless female.
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Harlequin
www.Harlequin.com
To Miss Abby Green for being a fabulous cheerleader and an invaluable arbitrator of “How kinky is too kinky?” while I wrote this book
Dear Reader,
I pitched this book to my editor before I actually had much of an idea for the characters. Then had a mild panic attack when she said ‘Go for it’. So I was mighty pleased when supersexy (and supernaughty) Best Man Connor McCoy strolled into my head. Of course, my Maid of Honor extraordinaire Sabrina Millard was a lot less pleased. In fact, she was rather pissed with me. She had her best friend’s wedding to plan. The last thing she needed was a Best Man to handle who was far too hot for a normally good girl like her.
Luckily Sabrina rose to the challenge...and discovered her inner bad girl, with a little help from Connor.
I hope you get as much of a kick out of reading about their wild ride to romance as I did writing it.
I love to hear from readers (especially if they like my books). You can contact me on [email protected].
Heidi
Heidi Rice
10 Ways to Handle the Best Man
Sexy, contemporary romance stories for today’s fun, fearless female.
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Harlequin
www.Harlequin.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
1) Schmooze Him, Don’t Lose Him: Start your charm offensive early, and don’t give your best man too much wiggle room.
‘I didn’t say I can’t dance—I said I won’t dance.’
Sabrina Millard resisted the urge to roll her eyeballs at the man sitting opposite her in the crowded Soho pub, while silently cursing her BFF, Libby, and Libby’s fiancé, Jamie.
Wow, Libs, thanks so much for saddling me with the best man from hell to handle.
As a maid of honour with enough experience to write a book about the pitfalls of the role, Sabrina knew handling the best man vied for the top spot in ‘Wedding Crap the Maid of Honour Has to Deal With’ right alongside:
1. Wearing an exceptionally unflattering dress (puffball sleeves optional)—so as not to upstage the bride.
2. Making sure the bride doesn’t have a nervous breakdown or develop an eating disorder before her big day.
3. Getting hit on by tipsy groomsmen—who assume that if you are single and a member of the bridal party, you’ll put up with getting shagged senseless against a wall by any eligible bachelor within a ten-mile radius.
Luckily, as the company manager at The Phoenix, a non-profit theatre on London’s South Bank, Sabrina happened to be exceptionally talented at planning events while coping with colossal egos, making her confident she could even whip Jamie’s half-brother Connor McCoy—the Creature from the Testosterone Lagoon—into shape.
But even with her excellent man-handling strategies, Sabrina was struggling to suppress a scowl after only fifteen minutes in McCoy’s company. That he kept challenging every single thing she said with that surly, I-couldn’t-give-a-shit look in his pale blue eyes was not helping with her scowl control.
‘Yes, well, I’m afraid as the best man you’re going to have to dance,’ she said, subtly alerting him to the fact he wasn’t the most knowledgeable person on the subject of wedding etiquette.
If Libby hadn’t already clued her in about the commitment-phobic dating habits of her beloved’s older brother, Sabrina could have guessed from the way his smouldering gaze had checked out every woman in the place in the ten minutes since he’d arrived. Every woman that was, except her.
Not that she cared about his lack of interest per se. All right, so Connor McCoy was undeniably hot, she’d give him that. The combination of cool azure eyes, dark brows, jet-black hair long enough to curl around his ears and sharp angular cheekbones made him arresting—not to mention the cloud of testosterone that hovered in the air around him and had been a siren call to every other woman in The Pillars of Hercules pub on Greek Street. But luckily, she’d never been susceptible to alpha-jerk types who spent a small fortune on their gym membership—if the overdeveloped biceps stretching the sleeves of his black T-shirt were anything to go by.
Not that she’d noticed those hard, round orbs of muscle much—that flexed and bulged every time he raised his beer bottle to his lips. But when a girl hadn’t had a meaningful relationship with anything other than her vibrator since last July, well, upper body strength like that was kind of hard to ignore entirely.
She drew her gaze away from his distracting biceps and concentrated on getting her point across—firmly and succinctly—again.
‘Libby wants us to join the floor together after her and Jamie finish their first dance. So really, whether you want to dance or not is a moot point.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll talk to Jamie, tell him to scratch that part.’
‘No, you will not,’ she replied, somewhat less subtly. ‘This is Libby’s big day, and the first dance is an important tradition at weddings in the UK—’
‘Hey, they have the same dumb deal in the US,’ he interrupted, the cynical edge to his voice making his thoughts on marriage abundantly clear. ‘So what? If my brother wants to make a jackass of himself, he can—he’s the one getting married. I’m just the best man, which makes me a jackass-free zone.’
‘That’s were you’re wrong,’ Sabrina replied, making her thoughts on his crappy attitude abundantly clear. ‘Because in this instance, the first dance tradition also includes the maid of honour and the best man introducing the other couples to the dance floor.’ He swore under his breath, but she soldiered on. ‘Libby and Jamie are practicing a whole routine for “Ooh Baby Baby”.’ She swallowed to stop her gag reflex from engaging, the way she had when Libby had informed her of the music choice with a breathless huff of pleasure the week before. Far be it from her—or Mr Testosterone—to rain on Libby’s schmaltz-fest. ‘All they require us to do is join them for the slow-dance when the DJ fades into the next song.’
‘A slow-dance?’ he spluttered, his eyes going a little squinty around the edges. ‘Right, no fucking way am I doing that.’
‘What is your problem?’ Sabrina felt her forehead tighten as the scowl won out. Forget subtle, the guy was obviously far too closely related to Cro-Magnon man to even process subtlety. ‘This isn’t actually about you. It’s about Libby and Jamie. All you have to do is sway in time to the music for one song. If you’re so worried about making a tit of yourself, I can lead,’ she added, knowing the suggestion was liable to trip his I’m-the-one-with-a-di
ck-here switch, but unable to stop herself in the face of so much provocation.
‘I know how to slow-dance, sweetheart’ came the predictably testosterone-laced response. He rested a muscled forearm on the pub’s tiny table, perilously close to her own arm, invading her personal space and making her far too aware of the dimple in his chin and the flecks of silver in the piercing blue of his irises. ‘My point is I’m not slow-dancing with you.’
Sabrina set her margarita on the table, sucked in a calming breath to stop herself from hyperventilating—which unfortunately filled her lungs with the enticing scent of his sandlewood soap—and struggled to get a stranglehold on her patience.
‘Okay, I’m starting to sense a certain amount of hostility towards me personally.’ She forced her voice out of the shrill register. ‘And I’m not sure where it’s coming from?’ she continued. ‘As I’ve never met you before,’ she lied, hoping he didn’t notice the small quiver in her voice.
Unfortunately, she had met Connor McCoy once before, but she was fairly confident he’d forgotten about it.
She’d always been smart, focused, ambitious and goal-orientated, and she wasn’t afraid to show it. Slightly more regular sex would be nice, but she didn’t need a man to complete her life—which she knew made her completely invisible to men like Connor McCoy, who thrived on female attention.
For once, she was grateful for her invisibility, when he sent her a blank look and didn’t call her on the lie.
* * *
Connor McCoy stared at the woman opposite him and knew exactly where his hostility was coming from. But he’d rather shoot himself in the nuts than admit it, especially to her.
Why the hell wouldn’t she let this drop? He’d agreed to wear a monkey suit. He’d agreed to stand at the front of the church like a prize douchebag and witness something he’d always thought was overrated. And he’d agreed to give a speech even though he didn’t know what the hell to say…. But there was no way he was taking this uptight British chick in his arms, on or off a dance floor.
He’d met Libby’s best friend, Sabrina Millard, before. For approximately ten minutes, five years ago. But the memory remained burned into his brain like battery acid.
It had been the end of the spring semester, and he’d been in the UK on business. He’d agreed to pick up Jamie and his stuff from the coed dorm in Manchester University that his brother had been sharing with his pretty English girlfriend, Libby, and Sabrina, because he hadn’t seen the kid in years. While Jamie and Libby had been saying a lengthy goodbye involving a lot of tongue on the sidewalk, Sabrina had insisted on directing him on how to pack Jamie’s stuff into the admittedly space-challenged muscle car he’d rented at Manchester airport. She’d issued instructions as if she were the Queen of England and he one of her lowly footmen, while wearing a shorty red dress over combat boots that should have made her look like a lesbian stormtrooper. But hadn’t.
He’d been avoiding meeting up with her again, ever since Jamie had told him she was the maid of honour. For the simple reason that the woman’s outspoken, pushy personality grated on his last nerve—and turned him on to the point of madness.
Sabrina had a definite touch of the dominatrix about her—that made him want to dominate her right back. The way that Mary Poppins accent went from clipped to throaty and her magnificent cleavage swelled to mind-boggling proportions when she went into full Mein Führer mode had called to his inner caveman—and kicked off a hot, sweet ache in his crotch that had his palm itching to spank her generous butt.
The male libido was a strange and beautiful thing, so he wasn’t much surprised about being aroused by a woman he couldn’t stand. He’d never wanted to have a conversation with Pamela Anderson, but it hadn’t stopped him jerking off over her poster as a kid. But as he didn’t much care for vanilla sex—and he’d bet his left nut Sabrina had never had a single sex-for-the-hell-of-it experience in her whole, well-ordered life—nailing Sabrina was definitely out.
Which would make slow-dancing with the woman at his brother’s wedding yet more aggravation he didn’t need. If he got that close to her, there was a real risk of him sporting wood. She’d notice and she’d say something—because women like Sabrina weren’t the type to let sleeping hard-ons lie—and if that happened, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to resist the urge to show her who was boss.
There’d be a scene at Jamie’s wedding—a scene that Jamie’s mom, Elizabeth, and their father, Daniel, would feed off like zombies feasting on a rotting corpse. Not that he gave a shit what either of them thought of him anymore. But it would remind him way too forcefully of being that scared, screwed-up fourteen-year-old runaway who had arrived on their doorstep with a birth certificate in his hand and some dumb notion in his head about hunting up the father he had never met.
Connor clenched his fingers into a fist to quell the persistent itch in his palm.
‘Unnecessary hostility…?’ he scoffed, because letting Sabrina get away with busting his balls went against his natural instincts. ‘So now this is all about you? Maybe I just don’t want to make a jackass of myself—for my brother’s benefit.’
‘Fine, well, I’m glad it’s not me.’ She let out a lengthy sigh—the long-suffering kind that his stepmother had become a master of. ‘But I really don’t see why you assume that your brother is doing this to humiliate you. Honestly, it’s not like that. The first dance is all Libby’s idea. And believe me, when it comes to being part of the wedding party you just have to park your ego at the door and do what has to be done for the people you love.’
Her voice had softened and her mossy-green eyes had gone a little glassy—making it obvious her speech was heartfelt. He felt an odd flutter in his chest. Love was way too strong a word for what he and Jamie shared. To be honest, he still wasn’t sure why Jamie had asked him to be his best man—or why he’d agreed to do it. But even so, her comment intrigued him.
‘You sound like you’ve done this before?’ he said, wondering how many times she’d gotten stuck with being the bride’s go-to girl. And whether she resented it. Maybe that explained the snotty attitude.
‘You have no idea.’ She rolled her eyes and sent him the first unguarded smile he’d ever seen on her face. The hot, sweet ache in his crotch pulsed, and it struck him she ought to let those smiles loose more often.
‘That bad, huh?’ He smiled back, the loud buzz of conversation in the bar dimming as he got fixated on the curve of her full bottom lip.
‘Put it this way—when I get married I’d rather opt for Vegas and an Elvis impersonator than having to organise all this crap.’
‘That’s weird. I had you pegged as the white wedding type.’
She shuddered. ‘Oh pur-lease. It’s the marriage that’s important. Not the trimmings.’
Yeah, right, he thought, but didn’t argue, intrigued by the flash of passion in the mossy green.
‘And do I look like the sort of person who would throw away thousands of pounds on an event that I’d be far too stressed to enjoy?’ she continued. ‘Did you know that 5 percent of marriages end after the honeymoon simply because of the stress of the big day?’
‘Can’t argue with the stats.’ Or the fact that all the blood was draining out of his head when she quoted figures with that furrow of consternation on her brow.
‘So look, are we good with the first dance thing?’ she asked. ‘Seriously, apart from remembering the rings, giving a crude speech detailing all the most embarrassing things Jamie has ever done in his entire life and making sure he doesn’t puke before Libby gets to the altar, that’s your job over and done with.’
‘That’s all? No one told me about the barfing clause—does that entitle me to hazard pay?’
She laughed, the throaty rumble echoing in his crotch. ‘Just be glad you don’t have to wear five-inch heels and a dress which dips at the back right down to the curve of your bum cheeks!’
Shit.
Why did she have to go and mention her ass? He rubbed his palms
on the rough fabric of his jeans to stop the renewed twitching. But he couldn’t resist leaning to one side so that he could direct his gaze under the table. ‘Your bum cheeks, huh? Suddenly, this gig is looking more appealing.’
It was a pick-up line and not one of his best, but she’d given him the opening, so it surprised him when her pale face flushed a bright, glowing red—right up to her hairline. Exactly like it had five years ago in Manchester when he’d told her where he was going to shove his brother’s baseball bat if she didn’t stop directing him like a member of the damn Gestapo.
He’d never seen a woman blush like that before, even then—and he’d found it strangely compelling. As if he was getting a glimpse into her soul she couldn’t prevent. What was uncomfortable and just plain weird, though, was that he found those hot red cheeks a heck of a lot more compelling now.
* * *
Why the bloody hell did you mention the stripper dress?
Sabrina blinked, trapped in the tractor beam of Connor McCoy’s seductive stare, and hoped that the blood throbbing in her cheeks—and not just the ones on her face—wouldn’t be visible in the low lighting.
‘Yes, well…’ She stroked the stem of her margarita glass, then took a steadying sip, trying to regain some of her usual cool and focus on the task in hand instead of the fact that all the oxygen had been sucked out of her lungs with a single crummy chat-up line.
Libby had warned her about her soon-to-be brother-in-law’s phenomenal success with women, but until this moment she really hadn’t thought she’d be susceptible. It was somewhat lowering to realise that despite her phenomenal intellect and feminist sensibilities, she wasn’t completely immune to the moves of a practised player. Taking the softly-softly approach and trying to find some common ground had obviously been a mistake when you were dealing with a tiger who would pounce on any passing prey.
She raised her head to find him watching her in that focused, silent way that made the skin on her spine tingle as if it were being stroked with a vibrator. ‘So you’ll do the second dance with me?’ she asked, struggling for businesslike.
