Best Man And The Runaway Bride

‘What I don’t regret is putting my trust in you to help me,’ she said. Max might be pond scum in his personal life and be friend to a cheating, lying fraud. But he had come through for her. That was all that counted.

On impulse she leaned up and kissed him on his smooth, tanned cheek. She was stunned by the sensation that shot through her at the contact, brief as it was. He didn’t kiss her back. Why would he? She’d just run out on his friend. ‘I won’t say I’ll return the favour for you some day because it’s not the kind of favour you want to call on, is it?’

He half smiled at that and turned to leave. She watched him as he strode back to his car, broad-shouldered and athletic. Unless she glimpsed him on television, slamming a tennis ball at his opponent in some top-level tournament, she would never see Max Conway again.

CHAPTER TWO (#u2d56b0cb-1972-5931-896a-ef4bcc005fc5)

Six months later

MAX HADN’T COME to the small Indonesian island of Nusa Lembongan for fun. On previous visits to nearby Bali he had stayed with friends in luxurious private villas the size of mansions, with all their needs and whims catered to by a team of attendants devoted purely to their comfort. Near the beach in fashionable Seminyak. Overlooking the sea on a cliff top in exclusive Uluwatu. High in the treetops of Ubud.

Not this time.

The last six months had been hell. Everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong in both his professional and personal life. He had come to this small island, off the east coast of the main island of Bali, on his own. Not to party. But to make plans to reinvent himself.

Yesterday he had checked in to the Big Blue Bungalows, a small family-run hotel on the beach at Frangipani Bay on the south-west end of the island. He’d come with just a backpack and his laptop. The accommodation wasn’t backpacker basic, nor was it the five-star luxury he was accustomed to. Built as a collection of traditional-style bungalows and small villas with thatched roofs, the hotel was comfortable without being overly luxurious—and not without its own rustic charm.

Lembongan was much quieter and less touristy than Bali, with more scooters and bicycles and few cars on the narrow streets. He hadn’t been there twenty-four hours and he’d already cycled halfway around the island on a pushbike he’d borrowed from the hotel. The friend who’d recommended the island had warned Max he might get bored after a few days. Max doubted that. He just wanted to chill, far away from anyone who had expectations of him. He particularly wanted to escape media attention.

The thing he hated most about his life as a celebritysportsman—he loathed that label—was media intrusion into his private life. Ever since he’d been thrust into the public eye the media had published exaggerated and erroneous versions of events in his private life. A lunch date with a colleague blown up into infidelity. Such fake news had led to a rift with his former girlfriend and, even worse, the inciting incident that had led to his disastrous accident.

His return to Sydney had been purposely under the radar. He’d agreed to be best man to Alan in a low-key, private wedding. Now it seemed Alan had wanted his wedding out of the public eye for his own underhand reasons. Surprisingly to Max, the groom had not traded on the best man’s celebrity. It wasn’t paparazzi that had taken all those photos. It was the wedding photographer who had fully capitalised on his luck in being in the right place at a scandalous time and sold the pictures everywhere.

As a result, Max’s role in the ‘runaway bride’ story that had so captivated Sydney had catapulted him headfirst into a rabid feeding frenzy of press speculation. Right when he’d most needed his privacy. He shuddered at the memory of it. Especially the photos of him carrying another man’s bride in his arms—accompanied by salacious headlines—that had featured on magazine covers all around the world.

Boring would do him just fine. Today, he anticipated the joys of anonymity.

He’d cycled from Frangipani Bay to the village of Jungut Batu, where the fast boat service brought people from Sanur on the mainland across the Badung Strait to Nusa Lembongan.

Max had taken the fast boat ride himself the day before. On arrival, he’d enjoyed a particularly tasty nasigoreng from one of the local warungs, small family run cafés, on the road that ran parallel to the beach. He fancied trying some other speciality from the menu for lunch, washed down with an Indonesian beer. This was the first time he’d travelled so simply, blending in with the backpackers, without agenda. Already he was enjoying the slower pace.

His talent for tennis had shown up when he was barely tall enough to handle a racket. For many years afterwards, school vacations had been devoted to training. There’d been no gap years or budget bus tours around Europe with friends his own age. Later, vacations had often been linked to promoting events managed by his corporate sponsors. And always there had been tennis. Even on a luxury vacation, he’d trained every day of the year. Training on Sundays and even Christmas Day, when his rivals didn’t, had helped give him the edge.

As far as he knew, there was no tennis court on Nusa Lembongan.

Already he was starting to wind down. Felt the warmth of the sun, the sparkling of the endless aquamarine sea, even the spicy scents so different from his everyday life loosening the stranglehold concern for his after-sport career had on his thoughts. The people of this part of the world were known for their warmth and friendliness—their genuine smiles were also contributing to the gradual rebirth of his well-being.

Cycling in the tropical humidity of the day had made him hot; prickles of perspiration stung his forehead, made his T-shirt cling to his back. He decided to walk down one of the narrow alleys that led from the street to the beach to cool off, maybe even plunge into the water. His clothes would dry soon enough.

A nearby boat was offloading passengers, including backpackers and tourists from all over the world. Max paused to watch them. There was no dock. Boats were tethered to shore by mooring lines that ran up the beach. Passengers were helped off the back of the boat and had to wade through the shallow waters to dry land. As people disembarked, he heard excited exclamations in German, Dutch, French, Chinese as well as English spoken in a variety of accents. Fascinated, he gazed at the local women who got off the boat then walked away with heavy boxes of supplies balanced on the tops of their heads.

A young woman with a large backpack turned to thank the boat crew with a wide, sunny smile. Idly, he wondered where she was from, where she was going. She looked like a typical backpacker in loose, brightly patterned hippy pants pulled up to her knees in preparation for her paddle through the water, a gauzy white top and a woven straw hat jammed over wind-tangled blonde hair. As she waded through the aqua-coloured water to the sand, she turned to a fellow backpacker and laughed at something he said. Max froze. That laugh, her profile, seemed familiar.

For a moment he thought... But it couldn’t be. Then she turned to face the beach and he caught sight of her face full on. No. Not her. Not here. The last woman he ever wanted to see again. He blamed her in large part for the hell his life in Sydney had become.

* * *

‘Terima kasih.’

Nikki thanked the crew as she left the boat to wade the few metres onto the beach shore, cool waters lapping around her calves. She’d been to Sanur to pick up supplies from the pharmacy for her friend Maya. Mission accomplished and back on Lembongan, she turned her thoughts to work and the snorkelling trip she was guiding that afternoon, currents permitting. July with its excellent weather was one of the busiest months for tourism here, coinciding with school vacations in both northern and southern hemispheres.

The island didn’t get as overrun as some of the more popular areas of the main island of Bali. But in this peak season there were both day trippers and new guests arriving all the time. Tourists from all around the world seeking a more off-the-beaten-track Bali experience came to Lembongan.

As she neared the shore, she became aware of a man’s intense gaze on her. The guy standing on the beach was hot. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair bleached from the sun, a sexy scruff of beard growth. Blue shorts and a white T-shirt showcased an athletic, muscular body. But she wasn’t looking for masculine company. Not now. Maybe not ever. The experience with Alan had left her too shattered to imagine ever trusting another man again. She ignored the stranger.

But his gaze didn’t drop. In fact it turned into a distinct glare. Was he some discontented dive-boat customer? Some of the tourists were determined to swim with the manta rays or mola mola fish, no matter the time of year or conditions on the day they took a tour. They didn’t understand how unpredictable the sea currents could be here and would go away to vent their anger on Internet review sites. She’d prefer them to express their disappointment to her. How would she have forgotten a man as attractive as this?

But as she got closer she realised exactly who the man was. Max Conway.

Anger and frustration rose in her so bitter she could taste it. After six months surely Alan had given up trying to find her? Now it seemed he’d sicced his watchdog best man onto her.

She marched across the sand to confront him. There was no call for niceties. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded.

His blue eyes were intense with dislike. ‘I could ask the same of you.’

She didn’t owe him any explanations. ‘Did Alan send you to drag me back to Sydney? If so I—’

‘No. Why would he? And why would you think I’d jump to his command if he did?’

‘He hasn’t stopped hunting for me.’

Max shrugged. ‘That’s nothing to do with me. I haven’t seen the guy since your wedding day.’ His tone was so decisive, his gaze so direct, she believed him.

His hand went to his nose in a reflex action he didn’t seem to know he was doing. She noticed it was slightly crooked. The slight flaw only made him look more handsome. So it was true.

‘I believe Alan didn’t take it kindly when you returned my engagement ring to him.’ She felt bad about what had happened. All her fault for dragging the unwilling best man into her drama. Not that she regretted it for a moment. She still shuddered at the thought of how lucky she’d been to escape marriage to Alan.

‘You heard right,’ said Max. ‘His response was to try to knock me out.’

She cringed. The photos of the best man and the groom brawling had been all over the press. The erroneous implication being they were fighting over her. The photographer she had hired for her wedding had cashed in big time. ‘Did he break your nose when he punched you?’ She found herself mirroring Max’s action by touching her own perfectly intact nose.

‘I’ve had worse injuries.’ He smiled a not very pleasant smile. ‘Trust me, he was hurting more than I was when I punched him back.’

Secretly, she was glad Alan had been hurt. After all he’d done to her, his ex-wives, and others she’d since found out had been damaged by his underhand behaviour, her former fiancé deserved more than a whack on the nose.

‘But you were friends,’ she said.

‘I wouldn’t go so far as to call it friendship,’ he said. ‘I met him at tennis camp when we were teenagers and we became mates of a kind. He wasn’t good enough to make the grade competitively. When he stopped playing tennis we pretty much lost touch. Until recently. I was back in Australia after years of living abroad. He’d returned to Sydney after living in Melbourne for a long time. I was surprised when he asked me to be his best man, but he said his friends were in Melbourne.’

‘By marriage number three—thwarted marriage number three, I mean—he might have run out of best-man options.’ Nikki couldn’t help the cynical edge to her voice.

He frowned. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I didn’t mean that as an insult,’ she said hastily. ‘He was lucky to have you.’

He shrugged. ‘I was the sucker who said yes.’

‘So you weren’t pond scum after all. Not that I ever really thought you were.’ It was a small white lie. She’d thought him pond scum by association. But when he’d picked her up and run with her in his arms, Max had redeemed himself in her eyes. There was still his media reputation as a love cheat but that had nothing to do with her.