A Week with the Best Man Read online

  One week...

  ...with the guy she’s desperate to resist!

  Returning home isn’t something buttoned-up businesswoman Harper Addison does often. She’s too focused on earning money to support her family. Now she’s back to be her sister’s maid of honor—which means spending a lot of time with the best man and her former teenage crush, Cormac Wharton. The laid-back billionaire sees far too much of the real her—but surely she can resist his charms for just one week...

  “You might be Gray’s best man, and I might be Lola’s maid of honor, but that does not mean we have to fall into some cliché by getting it on this week.”

  “Getting what on?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I know that you kissed me.”

  “You kissed me!”

  Cormac’s smile said, You know it. But you kissed me right on back, sweet cheeks. He pressed away from the bar and took a step her way.

  Harper’s first instinct was to take a step back, knowing deep in her heart that, despite her demand to not be kissed again, if he came close enough for her to get even a whiff of his scent she’d be back to climbing him like a tree.

  Dear Reader,

  A Week with the Best Man is a book about home. About leaving home. Losing home. Coming home. And what it means to be home.

  When the story opens, the hero and heroine have very definite ideas about what home means to them. Harper would say her home is where her work is, while Cormac believes his home is where his loyalties lie. Little do they know, those beliefs are about to unravel in a big way!

  For me home isn’t merely a location. It’s a feeling—of comfort, of warmth, of ease. Feeling able to let go of a long-drawn-out breath. Feeling able to be yourself.

  It’s a feeling you get when in certain places and around certain people.

  Curled up in a nook, with a book, anywhere in the world, I feel at home. Then again, the moment I set foot in New York City, I also feel at home. When the school bell tolls and I know I’ll see my babies any minute, I’m so close to coming home I can taste it.

  I loved watching Harper and Cormac figure out what home really means to them, and I hope you do, too!

  Love,

  Ally xxx

  AllyBlake.com

  A Week with the Best Man

  Ally Blake

  Australian author Ally Blake loves reading and strong coffee, porch swings and dappled sunshine, beautiful notebooks and soft, dark pencils. Her inquisitive, rambunctious, spectacular children are her exquisite delights. And she adores writing love stories so much she’d write them even if nobody else read them. No wonder, then, having sold over four million copies of her romance novels worldwide, Ally is living her bliss. Find out more about Ally’s books at allyblake.com.

  Books by Ally Blake

  Harlequin Romance

  The Royals of Vallemont

  Rescuing the Royal Runaway Bride

  Amber and the Rogue Prince

  Billionaire on Her Doorstep

  Millionaire to the Rescue

  Falling for the Rebel Heir

  Hired: The Boss’s Bride

  Dating the Rebel Tycoon

  Millionaire Dad’s SOS

  Hired by the Mysterious Millionaire

  Harlequin KISS

  The Rules of Engagement

  Faking It to Making It

  The Dance Off

  Her Hottest Summer Yet

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  To the people and places that make me feel like I’m home.

  Praise for

  Ally Blake

  “Now I’m used to being entertained by Ally Blake’s wit, enjoying her young quirky heroines and drooling over her dark, brooding heroes. But this book stuck inside me somehow.”

  —Goodreads on Millionaire Dad’s SOS

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM PREGNANT ON THE EARL’S DOORSTEP BY SOPHIE PEMBROKE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CORMAC WHARTON SAT on the curved boot of his classic car, shoes hooked a half-metre apart on the gleaming bumper, elbows resting on knees, as he watched his dog, Novak, sprint off into the small forest to his right; a streak of sleek caramel fur in search of the stick Cormac had thrown. And had been throwing for the past forty-odd minutes while he waited for the visitor to arrive.

  The sound of a car belting along Beach Road beyond the high bougainvillea-drenched walls of the Chadwick estate had him sitting up, listening for a slowing engine.

  Alas, it was not to be.

  So, Cormac waited. And would continue to wait. For he was best man to his best mate, Grayson Chadwick, and this was wedding-related-waiting, so it was his job to help out on such occasions. Not that he wouldn’t have done so under normal circumstances. It came down to friendship. Loyalty. Respect. Balance. Duty. The pillars upon which Cormac believed a person could build a good and honest life.

  Harper Addison—Maid of Honour and The Person Cormac Had Been Waiting Forty Long Minutes For—appeared to have other ideas.

  With only days to spare until her sister Lola’s big day, Harper had finally deigned to drag herself onto a plane to join them. She hadn’t condescended to actually let anyone know she was even on her way until she’d landed. Then, refusing to wait for someone to pick her up in Melbourne, she’d hired a car instead to meander down the Great Ocean Road to Blue Moon Bay at her leisure.

  Lola claimed she didn’t mind not knowing exactly when her sister would arrive. That she understood how busy her sister was. Cormac knew better. He knew all about keeping the family peace.

  A crunch of claws heralded Novak’s return as the dog bolted across the bright white gravel driveway, ears flapping, fur gleaming in the summer sun, before coming to a panting halt. Her tongue lolled around the mangled stick as she looked up at him, all liquid eyes filled with adoration and trust. It was a hell of a thing, even from a dog.

  “Good girl,” Cormac said, and Novak carefully placed the damp stick into his upturned palm. He gave her silky ear a rub. “Ready?”

  Novak’s nose quivered.

  “Fetch!” he called as with a flick of the wrist he launched the stick. It whistled winningly as it soared through the air and into the bush beyond. And then Novak was gone, a rocket of joy bounding off into the shrubs.

  When Cormac looked back to the driveway it was to see an unfamiliar car pulling through the gates.

  “Here we go,” he murmured as with hands flat to the warmed metal he launched himself to the ground. There he twisted at the waist and stretched his arms over his head, before running his slobber-covered hands down the sides of his jeans.

  Not a hire car, he saw as it rounded past him. A long black Town Car, the kind that came with a driver and windows so dark he could not see inside. For the hour-and-a-half drive from Melbourne it was a little too much. Even for Blue Moon Bay, which was not short on folk with more money than sense.

  So, what did that make Harper Addison?

  Cormac tried to call up a mental image of what she’d looked like in high school.

  A year or two below hi
m, wasn’t she the one who had hung around the bottom of the D-Block staircase, tin in hand, collecting coins for whatever down-on-their-luck soul had appeared in the news that week? He saw unruly brunette curls, ripped jeans, smart mouth and a frown.

  Lola Addison, on the other hand, was a sweetheart; bright, happy-go-lucky, with an easy irreverence. His hazy recollection of Harper felt about as far from Lola as one could get.

  The Town Car pulled to a halt at the bottom of the wide stone stairs leading up to the house. A moment later a silver-haired driver in a peaked hat and black suit alighted from the car and shuffled to the back door before opening it with a flourish.

  Then, like something out of a classic Hollywood flick, a woman’s shoe—the colour of champagne with a heel like an ice pick—uncurled from inside the car to stab the graveled ground.

  The second shoe dropped, followed by a pair of long legs.

  The woman attached to the legs came last, a hand tipped with shiny black fingernails curving over the top of the door as she disregarded the outstretched hand of the driver and pulled herself to standing, slammed the door shut and stared up at the Chadwicks’ house.

  Not an unruly brunette, Cormac noted as sunlight flowed over sleek, caramel-blonde waves, kicking out sparks of bronze, of gold. And no ripped jeans either, but a long, fitted, expensive-looking coat—far too much for a southern summer’s day—embroidered with the same champagne colour as those killer heels.

  Clearly not the bolshie rebel he thought he’d remembered. Unsurprising. For him, those later high-school years were pretty much a blur.

  The driver moved in to ask her a question right as a mobile-phone tone sounded loudly in the restive silence. She stayed the driver with a hand as she answered the call with a clear, “Yes?”

  Was she for real? Cormac coughed out a laugh. Then ran a hand up the back of his head as he counted down the hours until the wedding. The hours he’d have to make nice with his counterpart in the lead-up. When he could have been working. Surfing. Staring into space. Any of which would be a better use of his time.

  Friendship, he reminded himself. Loyalty. Respect. Balance. Duty.

  The driver glanced Cormac’s way, his face working as if unsure what his next move ought to be. Cormac lifted his hand in a wave and half jogged towards the car to take the passenger off the poor guy’s hands.

  As if she’d heard his footsteps encroaching, the woman turned.

  Cormac’s pace slowed as if his batteries had drained, till he came to a complete stop.

  For the woman was a fifties femme fatale brought to life. A swathe of shining hair curled over her right eye. Shadows slashed under high cheekbones. Full nude lips sat slightly apart, as if preparing to blow a kiss.

  Cormac found himself engulfed in an instant thwack of heat. Like a donkey kick to the gut, it literally knocked the breath right out of him.

  Then she flicked her hair from her face with a single, sultry shake of her head, said something into her phone before dropping it into a structured bag hooked over one elbow, and then both of her eyes met his.

  A flash of memory hit like a rogue wave, and he knew he’d remembered her right.

  He saw himself bounding down the D-Block staircase with Gray, Adele, Tara and the rest of the school gang at his heels. There she was, the unruly brunette, homemade posters covered in pictures of flood or famine tacked to the post behind her, collection tin in hand, eyes locked on his with that same unrelenting intensity.

  A wet snout pressed into Cormac’s hand and he flinched.

  Eye contact broken, he glanced down. Novak leaned against his shin, his knee, his thigh, looking at him as if he was the greatest thing on earth.

  “That’s my girl,” he murmured, giving Novak a scratch under the chin, before pulling himself the hell together and striding over to meet the woman he’d been waiting for.

  * * *

  Cormac Wharton.

  Of course, his had to be the first familiar face Harper saw upon arriving back on home soil for the first time in a decade.

  Her breath had literally stuttered at the sight of him ambling towards her. It had taken every ounce of cool she had not to choke on it.

  Harper glanced back towards the Chadwicks’ gargantuan house, hoping Lola might still come bounding towards her, arms out, hair flying, exuberantly happy to see her. Alas, she understood what Cormac’s presence meant: the Chadwicks had enlisted him to babysit. And nobody in this part of the world said no to the Chadwicks, least of all Cormac Wharton.

  Her fault, she supposed, for making her arrival a surprise. But the moment she’d fulfilled her rocky last contract, she’d wanted to get on the plane and fly away as fast as she could.

  Pulling herself together, Harper turned her attention back to the man in question. Dark sunglasses covered half his face. A bottle-green Henley T clung to the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen, and his jeans fit in all the right places. His haircut hadn’t changed—all preppy, chestnut spikes. The sleek toffee-coloured dog trotting at his side was new.

  He looked good. Then again, Cormac Wharton had always looked good. Dark-eyed, with charm to spare and a smile that lit up a room, he’d claimed the attention of every girl in school. Including, she deeply regretted, her.

  “Ma’am?”

  Harper turned to find her driver still standing beside the car, awaiting instructions.

  “Sorry,” she said, shaking her head and offering a quick smile. “Sam, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Sam’s the name. And no apologies necessary. I’m used to passengers coming off long flights. May I help take your luggage inside?”

  “No. Thank you. I’m not staying. Not here. This was a quick stop in case my sister was here. Seems she’s not. You were kind to drive me this far, so I’ll point the way to the hotel and then you can head home.”

  “Not at all, ma’am. It’s always lovely to find myself in here. Dare say it’s one of the prettiest places on earth.”

  The driver’s smile dropped a smidge when a shadow fell over the car. A shadow in the shape of Cormac Wharton.

  The back of Harper’s neck prickled as it always had when he’d walked by. She shut down the sense memory, quick smart. Enough water under that bridge to require an ark.

  Seeing no use in putting off the inevitable, Harper turned, bracing herself against the impact of the man, up close and personal. He’d taken off his sunglasses, hooking them over the top button on his shirt revealing an array of frightfully appealing smile lines fanning from the edges of his deep brown eyes. Then there was the sun-drenched warmth of his skin. Sooty stubble shading his jaw. And the fact that, at five-foot-nine—plus an extra four inches in heels—she had to look up.

  No longer a cute jock with a knee-melting smile, Cormac Wharton was all man. Just like that a warm flutter of attraction puffed at the dust shrouding her ancient crush.

  “Cormac Wharton,” she said, “as I live and breathe,” her neutral tone owing to years spent working as a professional negotiator.

  “Harper Addison. Good to see you.” His voice was the same, if not a little deeper. Smooth with just a hint of rough that had always brushed against her impressionable teenaged insides like the tickle of a feather.

  For a second, she feared he might lean in to kiss her cheek. The thought of him entering her personal space, stubble scuffing her cheek, warm skin whispering against hers, was enough for her to clench all over.

  Thankfully he pulled to a stop, rocking forward on his toes before settling a good metre away. His dog stopped, sat, leaned against him. A female, for sure.

  “I’d hoped Lola would be here,” Harper said.

  Cormac shook his head, his dark gaze not leaving hers.

  She waited for an explanation. An excuse. It seemed he was content to let her wait.

  “Right, then I’ll head to the hotel.” She turned to Sam, the driver, wh
o moved like lightning, hand reaching out for the handle of the car door before Cormac’s voice said “Stop.”

  Sam stopped, eyes darting between them.

  Harper’s gaze cut to Cormac.

  He said, “Dee-Dee and Weston are expecting you to stay here.”

  She shot a glance at the Georgian monstrosity that was the jewel in the immoderate Chadwick Estate. It looked back at her. Or, more specifically, down on her. Dee-Dee and Weston Chadwick might be richer than Croesus, but they couldn’t pay her enough to stay under their roof. Water under the bridge didn’t come close.

  “I’ve booked a suite at the Moonlight Inn for the duration,” she said, softening the refusal with a smile. “I’ll be perfectly comfortable there.”

  “Your comfort isn’t my concern.”

  Harper’s smile slipped. “Then what, exactly, is your concern?”

  “Gray’s comfort. Dee-Dee’s and Weston’s. And your sister’s. Lola’s had a room ready for you here for some time now, on the assumption you’d arrive sooner. Not with only days to spare.”

  Harper had been in transit for over twenty-four hours. And was still a mite tender after the rare, personal unpleasantness that had tinged the last negotiation job she’d completed in London.

  All she wanted was to see her sister. To hug her sister. To see for herself that Lola was as deliriously happy as she said she was. And to do so beyond the long reach of the Chadwicks and their associates.

  Tangling with a passive-aggressive Cormac Wharton hadn’t been on her radar. Yet he’d just up and slapped her with the trump card; the only thing that would make her change her mind: sisterly guilt.

  Jaw aching with the effort to hold back all the retorts she’d like to fling Cormac’s way, Harper turned to her driver, her voice sweet as pie as she said, “Change of plan, Sam.”

  Sam squared his shoulders before flicking Cormac a dark glance. “Are you certain, ma’am? If it’s still your intention to leave, all you have to do is ask.”