The Bridesmaid's Reward
She switched on her computer and, as she waited for it to boot up, tied her hair back in a scrunchie to keep it out of her face. Working at home had a lot of pluses. That she didn’t have to wear a suit or tights came top of the list. No need for serious work on her hair first thing in the morning was good, too.
No distractions in the way of sexily helpless men who didn’t know how to boil a kettle, or any of the hundred and one other things that a woman will do for a man who says he loves her.
But—and what a nasty word that was—there was always a downside to everything.
She might be able to work her own hours, wear what she wanted, not have to bother with make-up except when she was meeting a client, and never, never have to walk to work in the rain.
But there was no doubt that walking away from Martin, along with her post as tutor at Melchester University’s Art Department, hadn’t helped the constant struggle to keep her weight down.
Her freelance work had increased a little now that she had all the time in the world to concentrate on it, with no students, no man to distract her. But so had her need for comfort food.
Without the brisk daily walk to counter the effect of sitting at her computer and workbench—with exercise an optional extra that she never opted for—the effect on her backside had been disastrous.
Natasha’s wedding, she decided, had come just in time to get her back on the rails and maybe even into her favourite black dress. The one that now gaped unattractively over her bust.
The prospect of following her newly wed sister down the aisle on the arm of the thoroughly gorgeous Charles Gray had to be incentive enough for even the most ordinary woman, the most slothful food junkie, to get back into shape.
That and, of course, the opportunity to show Martin just how big a mistake he’d made.
Lake Spa blended perfectly into its surroundings. A series of low-rise stone buildings, each guest room with its own private deck built out over the water, it was set along the edge of an artificial lake which had been created by long-abandoned gravel workings.
Serene, peaceful now, colonised by wild duck and swans, it was light years from the local authority evening classes in aerobics run by Gina before she’d finally married her day job to her passion.
Dodie parked her ancient van—the battered exterior disguised by her own vivid artwork and hideously out of place amongst the top-of-the-range motors that filled the car park—and walked across to a small dock with a little flotilla of sailing dinghies, seeking inspiration for her part of the bargain. She spent far too long taking photographs of the hotel lodge, the conference arena, the health club and lake with her digital camera. Putting off the moment of no return for as long as possible.
Finally, however, she crossed to the entrance, trying not to feel completely overawed by the healthy creatures who, having been for an early-morning swim or session in the gym, were now vibrating with energy as they bounded off to start their day’s work.
Overawed by the glossy receptionists, busy with the phones and new arrivals. By the tanned, terrifyingly fit staff, in their health club uniform of dark red tracksuits and perfect smiles.
She came to an abrupt halt in the middle of Reception. She couldn’t do this. It had been a serious mistake to think she could. This was not her kind of place. She began to back towards the door before she was pounced on by Angie, chained to some terrifying machine and exercised without mercy until she was fit and thin, too.
She’d stick to the diet her mother had somehow found time in her busy schedule to deliver personally—doubtless to avoid any lame excuses from her ugly duckling daughter that it hadn’t arrived—along with a pair of scales and a gallon of cabbage soup to get her started. And a lecture on how important this was for Natasha. How kind she was being when she could have chosen anyone—and for ‘anyone’ Dodie read anyone thin, beautiful and equally famous—to be her bridesmaid. But she’d insisted on having her sister.
So, she’d stick to the diet. Walk to the shops. Fast. Throw away the monster-size bag of mints that lived in her desk drawer, she promised herself guiltily. She could do it. She knew she had the will-power. Somewhere. If she could only remember where she’d left it…
And then, as her feet became entangled with the straps of a sports bag set down momentarily while its owner tightened his shoelaces, she stopped worrying about losing weight, impressing Charles Gray or making Martin wish he’d taken the longer view. She had a more immediate problem.
Staying on her feet.
She flailed wildly with her arms in an attempt to keep her balance, but even as she bowed to the inevitable, accepting that nothing could save her, she crashed into a pair of strong hands. They gripped and held her as she collided with what seemed like a brick wall.
The guy whose designer bag she’d fallen over picked it up, brushed it off and glared at her before walking off without a word.
‘Sorry,’ she called after him. ‘I hope I didn’t damage your lovely bag. Bruise it or anything.’ Then, as the door closed behind him, ‘Poser.’
‘Possibly.’ The owner of the hands said coolly, and set her back on her feet as if she weighed nothing at all, keeping hold of her while her bones remembered what they were for. ‘But perhaps if you’d been looking where you were going—’
Oh, great. Now she was going to get a lecture on pedestrian safety.
‘You’re right,’ she said, in an attempt to forestall it. ‘I’m a complete idiot. It’s a good job I’ve no intention of applying for permanent membership here or I’d be rejected as a danger to designer label leather goods.’ And, having got that off her chest, she remembered her manners and turned to thank him. She’d undoubtedly have bruises on the fleshy part of her arm where his fingers had gripped her, but that had to be better than the alternative. ‘Thank you for catching me,’ she said politely.
‘Any time,’ he said, with just the possibility of a smile.
‘I think we’ll leave it at just the once, thanks all the same.’ Although now she was over the shock, and had had a chance to look more closely at the man who’d stopped her from making a total prat of herself, she was prepared to reconsider.
He was tall, rangy, built for speed rather than heavily muscled, although anyone who could catch her mid-fall and, more importantly, hold on to her, had to be strong. He was certainly a lot more substantial than the young men who, with their slicked-back hair and Armani suits, bounded up the stairs to the restaurant for a healthy breakfast after their early-morning keep-fit sessions.
Maybe that was because he wasn’t young. He was well into his thirties, at a guess, and there was a maturity about his body, about his entire bearing, that made them look like callow youths.
His face had a seriously lived-in look that added character by the bucket-load, along with a sprinkling of grey to leaven his thick dark hair.
Not that he wouldn’t give the younger men a run for their money in the body department. His suits wouldn’t need any skilful padding to make his shoulders look impressive. In a washed-thin T-shirt that left his sinewy arms bare and clung to his shoulders and torso, outlining his form, she could see that they were impressive…
‘This is your first visit?’ he asked, cutting off this unexpected direction to her thoughts. Of course she was an artist. She appreciated…um…form. He’d make a wonderful subject for a life class. The blue eyes were a plus, too. ‘Don’t let one bad experience put you off joining. We’re not all posers.’ He didn’t wait for her to agree with him, but said, ‘Do you need some help? Someone to show you around?’
‘Oh, no,’ she said. Then, realising that she was letting him walk away, ‘At least…’
‘Yes?’ he offered, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
‘Nothing,’ she snapped. Then, ‘I’m sorry. I’m nervous. I’m not used to this kind of thing.’ She made a gesture that took in a couple of long-legged girls as they crossed the reception area and headed for the exit, dark glossy hair swinging, make-up perfect.
Big mistake.
Her own mousy-coloured hair was tied back in the first scrunchie that had come to hand—one adorned with a cartoon tiger. Cute—she hadn’t been able to resist it when she’d seen it in the supermarket—but not particularly grown-up she realised belatedly.
She hadn’t thought to apply more than moisturiser to her face either: it was far too early to get actively involved in anything as physical as thinking, and wearing make-up to a workout had to be a mistake, surely?
But as his eyes followed the girls, too, and lingered, she had plenty of time to regret her laissez faire approach to grooming. He was looking at them the way she’d been hoping Charles Gray might look at her—just long enough for the photographer to get a shot of them both, anyway. With interest.
She clearly needed a lot of work if that was to happen, and if those girls were anything to judge by this was the right place to get it. Pulling herself together, she said, ‘I’d better go and tell the receptionist I’m here.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then. And relax. This is supposed to be fun.’
‘Is it? Really?’
‘Really.’ He nodded and turned away, and she saw that despite the honed physique he was favouring his right leg.
‘Oh!’
He stopped, looked back. ‘Yes?’
‘Did I hurt you when I crashed into you?’ Her and her big mouth, making sarcastic comments about that idiot and his precious bag instead of making sure she’d done no worse damage. ‘I’m so sorry—’
The muscles in his jaw tightened briefly. ‘It’s an old injury,’ he said. ‘Nothing to do with you.’
‘Well, thank goodness for that!’ Then, as she realised how that sounded, ‘No! I didn’t mean…’
But he hadn’t waited for her to drivel embarrassingly on.
He’d pushed open the doors that cut off the luxury of the carpeted reception area from the polished wood flooring of the business part of the health club and disappeared.
CHAPTER TWO
‘OH, RATS,’ Dodie muttered as the doors swung silently back into place. He was sensitive about his limp and her mouth matched her body. They were both too big.
At least she could do something about the body. And, stowing a totally out of proportion feeling of regret that she’d upset him, she took a deep breath and crossed to the reception desk.
‘Hi, I’m Dodie Layton. Gina said if I stopped by this morning she’d have organised a new body for me. I put in an order for two sizes smaller?’ she offered. ‘And a couple of inches taller.’ If they were dealing in fantasy she might as well make it a thoroughly worthwhile fantasy. ‘She’s probably left it in her office for me to pick up.’
‘I’m sorry?’
Oh, good grief. She really would have to start taking this seriously. ‘No, I’m sorry. Let’s start again. Hi, I’m Dodie Layton. Gina has organised an exercise regime for me and a personal trainer to make sure I stick to it,’ she offered. ‘Angie?’
‘You’re Natasha Layton’s sister?’
The girl’s apparent disbelief came as no surprise. She’d been seeing disappointment in people’s eyes ever since her little sister had graduated from an endless round of dancing, voice and drama classes and stepped into the limelight. Comparisons might be odious, but they were inevitable.
‘Yes, I’m Natasha Layton’s sister,’ she said, trying not to grit her teeth. Shorter, plumper, older. Their hair was the same colour, though. Of course these days Nat had something very expensive done to hers, and it looked as if the sun was shining through it even when it was raining.
That Dodie was the designer of award-winning textiles, an artist, teacher—okay, former teacher—and a person in her own right, never seemed to occur to anyone.
She didn’t envy her sister. Would hate her life. Being on show all the time. Knowing that she couldn’t nip out to the shops for a bag of doughnuts without a full make-up job unless she wanted to see pictures of herself déshabillé in the tabloid press—worse, almost, than being snapped topless through a long lens on a secluded beach. Both of which had happened.
But she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t long for someone, just once, to say to Natasha, “You mean you’re Dodie Layton’s sister? Wow!’
Not in this world.
‘If you’d just like to fill in this form,’ the receptionist said, looking at her as if wondering how two sisters could be so very different. ‘It’s for temporary membership. We need it for insurance. While you’re doing that I’ll go and see if I can find Angie.’
Brad put down the telephone, made a note and sat back in the chair, digging his fingers into the ache in his knee, jarred into life as he’d caught hold of that crazy woman when she crashed into him.
Crazy, but decidedly pretty in a Rubenesque fashion. He frowned. There was something familiar about her, but he’d have remembered if they’d met before.
He found himself grinning. She wasn’t the kind of woman you’d forget.
‘Oh, Brad. I thought you’d gone through into the gym.’
‘On my way. I just stopped to answer the telephone.’ He glanced at the receptionist dithering nervously in the doorway and noticed that she was clutching a file. ‘Do you need help with something, Lucy?’
‘Oh, no. I was just looking for Angie. Have you seen her? Gina asked her to act as personal trainer to a special client—’
‘That was Angie’s husband on the phone. She’s been rushed into hospital with suspected appendicitis. Organise some flowers, will you?’
‘No problem. What about her schedule, though? Her classes?’ Then, ‘What about Miss Layton?’
‘Why don’t you see what you can sort out with her classes?’ he said, pushing the girl back on her own resources. ‘I’ll talk to Miss Layton.’ He held out his hand for the file.
Dodie glanced up as the receptionist returned. ‘Hold onto that,’ she said, as she offered her the form. ‘You can give it to Brad. If you’ll come through to the office?’
‘Brad? Who’s Brad? What happened to Angie?’
‘She’s off sick.’
‘At a health club? Is that allowed?’
‘It’s this way,’ she said, without comment. Dodie followed, smacking her own wrist. There was nothing funny about keeping fit, she chided herself. She’d have to stow her sense of humour for the duration. ‘Brad, this is Gina’s friend. Dodie Layton.’
The receptionist stepped back, holding the door wide so that she could get through, then closed it behind her. Leaving her alone with the guy with the seriously buff body and the good catching hands. She could still feel the imprint of them where he’d grabbed her.
It was clearly going to be one of those days.
‘Hello again,’ she said.
He’d been looking at some notes in an open file on the desk. He didn’t actually flinch as he glanced up with the beginnings of a smile curving a mouth that was as promising as his body. But he did look at her for what seemed like the longest five seconds in the history of the world before indicating the chair facing his desk.
‘Come in, Miss Layton.’
‘Dodie,’ she said, staying where she was. People only called her ‘Miss Layton’ when they were going to say something unpleasant.
‘Dodie. You’re a friend of Gina’s?’ he said, picking up on the receptionist’s comment.
‘We dabbled in the same fingerpaint at nursery school,’ she said. ‘I stayed with the paint while Gina discovered the jungle gym. The rest, as they say, is history. And you are?’
‘Brad Morgan. Do you want to take a seat while I check out the notes Gina left for Angie?’
‘Won’t I burn more calories standing up? I haven’t got much time to get into shape.’
‘I don’t believe it will make a significant difference,’ he said. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Coffee?’ Things were looking up, she thought as she crossed to the chair and sat down. ‘Is that allowed?’
‘It’s not encouraged,’ he admitted. ‘But—’
‘You don’t believe it will make a significant difference.’ That smile almost broke out of its restraints. He made a valiant effort to keep it under control, however. ‘I’ll pass, thanks.’ She’d taken the precaution of tanking up on caffeine before leaving home. And she smiled at him—the wide-screen version—just to show him how it should be done. ‘I didn’t realise you work here.’
He looked as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind. ‘Don’t let the limp fool you. I could make you sweat if I put my mind to it.’
Mr Sensitive wouldn’t have to put her through a full body workout to make her sweat. He was raising her temperature just by looking at her. She was beginning to take a serious dislike to the man; she wasn’t the one who’d made an issue of his dodgy leg. In fact, she was beginning to wish he’d looked the other way when she’d stumbled and just let her fall.
She didn’t say that.
Instead, with a gesture that took in his worn grey sweats, she said, ‘I simply meant that you don’t quite fit the glossy corporate image.’ Then, because she always said too much when she was nervous, ‘Is your good tracksuit in the wash?’
Brad bit back a sudden urge to grin. Dodie Layton was overweight, out of condition and, with her just-keeping-it-out-of-my-eyes hairstyle, lack of make-up and unpolished nails, she seemed to have completely bypassed the notion of ‘perfect grooming’.
Her attitude, however, was refreshing. Stimulating, even. He felt stimulated to eject her from his state-of-the-art health club. She didn’t fit the image. She was making the place look untidy.
On the other hand it had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him without any thought for the consequences. Or weighing up the impression they were making. Apparently she didn’t care what kind of impression she was making—at least, not on him.
And wasn’t the whole point of his health club chain to help people like her achieve the ‘image’?
He held out his hand for her temporary membership form. ‘I’ll take that, shall I?’
He wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, or why Gina was apparently giving this woman the run of the place without expecting her to pay for membership, but he decided to go along with it for the time being.
‘I see from Gina’s notes that you’re hoping to lose a couple of dress sizes.’ An interesting way of putting it.
‘Not hoping. It’s absolutely vital that I can get into a size…’ She stopped, apparently unwilling to betray her present dress size. ‘Something smaller.’
‘And you’ve got six weeks?’ When she didn’t answer, he looked up. She did not look happy. ‘Have I got that wrong?’
‘No. Yes…’
He sat back. ‘Perhaps you’d like some time to consider the question?’ he offered.
‘No. The thing is I did tell Gina six weeks. But my mother called round this morning and apparently the final fitting for the dress is much sooner than that.’
‘Fitting?’ He frowned. Dress? ‘You’re getting married?’
She flushed. ‘Does it sound that unlikely?’
‘Not at all,’ he said, instantly regretting his tone. It wasn’t for him to suggest she wouldn’t make some man a wonderful wife. He was sure that on a good day she was a person of infinite warmth and charm. Today just wasn’t a good day.
But weddings were not his favourite subject and it was beginning to feel as if this woman had been sent especially to torment him.
The sparkle in her large, dark eyes would drag a response from even the most unwilling of men, however. Looking at her, flustered and furious with him, he felt a compelling urge to put his arms around her and give her a cuddle. Found himself wishing he’d taken the opportunity when she was shaky and vulnerable.
Unlikely that she was getting married? No, he decided. Despite everything, he conceded that it was not unlikely at all.
‘But you’re not wearing a ring,’ he pointed out, rather more gently, by way of apology. ‘And you have left it rather late to get into shape for your big day.’ Unless of course it was a rush job. His stomach clenched unexpectedly at the thought as he glanced at the form again. The section on medical conditions had been left blank, but there was no point in pussy-footing about. ‘If you’re pregnant, you should have mentioned it on the form.’
‘Well, thanks,’ she snapped. Abruptly the sparkle disappeared, leaving him with the impression that the sun had gone behind a cloud. She was clearly not amused by his less than tactful comment on her shape. ‘But for your information it’s my sister who’s fallen for the happy ever after bit. Being older, I’ve got a better idea of the reality. I’ve simply been drafted in to make sure the pageboys don’t put white mice down the necks of the flower girls. At least not in church. I’m chief bridesmaid,’ she added, presumably in case he was not only rude, but slow on the uptake.
Firmly put in his place, and oddly pleased to be there, he said, ‘That sounds like fun.’
‘It sounds like hard work to me. And if I have to be hampered by a floor-length dress made from a fabric totally unsuitable for child-minding, it would help if it didn’t split under the strain. Should I have to make any sudden moves.’ Then, like a ray of sunshine peeping out from behind a storm cloud, her apparently irrepressible smile was heralded by the appearance of a dimple. ‘Virtue, however, is its own reward. It won’t all be sticky fingers and nervous vomiting. Traditionally the chief bridesmaid gets the best man…’ The flush returned, hotter and pinker, as she ground to a halt.
She was blushing? How delightful. How unexpected. She had to be—what? He glanced at the form. She’d given her age as twenty-six. If she’d been in the same school year as Gina he could add at least a year to that. Maybe two. Which suggested any other figures she’d put down were suspect, too.
‘I’ve got the picture,’ he said. ‘You believe the best man will be more receptive to your ample charms if they are a little less…’
It occurred to him, somewhat belatedly, that he wasn’t having a particularly good day either, and he stopped before he said something he might have cause to regret.
‘Ample?’ she offered, not letting him off the hook. She didn’t wait for an answer, but leaned forward to retrieve her diary from the roomy canvas bag she’d dropped at her feet. As he was confronted with a glimpse of her generous cleavage, a hint of smooth, soft breasts a man could lose himself in, he found that his mouth dried. Seemingly unaware of the effect she had caused, she flipped through the diary until she found the entry she was looking for. ‘D-Day is the thirtieth April.’ She looked up. ‘That’s D for Dress,’ she said. ‘Can it be done?’
Her mouth was innocent of lipstick, but it was full and inviting—like the rest of her—and defied all attempts by its owner to keep it under control. Again, like the rest of her.
‘Three weeks…’ he said, making a determined effort to get his mind on the matter in hand. ‘Seven-pound weight loss on a sensible diet. Maybe a little more if you have seriously bad eating habits.’
‘I’m banking on twenty.’
‘We don’t encourage crash dieting—it isn’t safe and you won’t keep the weight off. But exercise will help tone everything up, which should do the rest. If you work hard enough.’ He forced himself to regard her sternly. ‘How badly do you want this?’
‘How badly?’
‘I can see the appeal of slimming down for the big occasion—’ although the attraction of dressing up in impractical and outdated clothes simply to witness two people make fools of themselves seemed to have passed him by ‘—but I’d be happier if you were taking a long-term approach to fitness.’
‘Look, I’ve discussed this with Gina. Your boss?’ she reminded him.
‘My boss?’
‘I’ve had the pep talk, okay?’
He swallowed a smile.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t want you making yourself thoroughly miserable in an effort to fit a smaller dress size. Just for one day.’
‘Just?’ She leaned forward so that her cleavage was once again an unconscious invitation that any man would be delighted to accept. ‘Let me tell you this isn’t just any old day. I may not be the bride, but if I explain that the best man is going to be Charles Gray, would that clarify the importance of a smaller dress size?’