The Bridesmaid's Reward

‘Charles Gray?’ he queried, distracted.

‘You’re kidding, right?’

He dragged his gaze back to her face. ‘Sorry.’

‘Actor?’ she offered. ‘Movie star? Dark brown eyes that crinkle dangerously at the corner whenever he smiles, floppy corn-coloured hair and a seriously cute bottom—’ She frowned. ‘Unless of course he used a body double in that movie where he and—’

‘Okay,’ he said abruptly, stopping her before she started drooling. ‘I’m with you.’ He’d heard of Charles Gray. It just hadn’t occurred to him to connect Dodie Layton with a pin-up movie star with whom the entire female population appeared to have fallen in love. ‘I can quite see that as a reward for keeping the pageboys in order he’d be exactly what the bridesmaid ordered.’

‘Absolutely.’ Her dark eyes flashed dangerously. ‘Although I prefer to think that I’m his reward for not losing the ring.’

It was the flash that flipped the ‘on’ switch in his brain and the name finally connected.

Dodie Layton.

‘Your sister is Natasha Layton?’ There had been a photograph of her on the front page of his morning newspaper. Even the broadsheets were treating the announcement of her forthcoming marriage as a major news story. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t make the connection.’

‘Don’t apologise. It comes as a shock to most people. Even my mother finds it difficult to believe we’re out of the same gene pool.’

‘On the contrary. I thought you seemed familiar when we met out there. There’s a family likeness.’

She gave him a look that suggested she wasn’t convinced, but now he knew they were sisters he could see that they shared the same dark, expressive eyes. It was possible they shared the same fine bone structure, but in Dodie’s case the effect was slightly blurred.

Something she wanted to fix, it seemed. In a hurry.

For Charles Gray.

At least the reason Gina had given her the freedom of Lake Spa was now clear. He’d had a momentary concern that he’d misjudged the woman. That she was using her position to give her friends the run of the place.

But she’d marked the file ‘Special Deal’ and left a note for Angie to take ‘before’, ‘during’ and ‘after’ photographs. He knew that a lot of people liked to have those, but Dodie Layton was obviously getting the use of Lake Spa in return for a sweet little “transformation” piece in one of the women’s magazines.

He could see that though Dodie and Gina might be friends, this was business. Good business. For both of them.

Gina was getting an opportunity to impress him with the kind of publicity that couldn’t be bought. The gossip magazine that was paying for exclusive coverage of the wedding—and there undoubtedly would be one—would leap at the chance to cover the human interest side-story of the Cinderella sister.

Their rivals would probably pay even more handsomely to get a piece of the action, too and it didn’t take much imagination to guess the photographs.

Dodie in outsize jogging pants, her hair tied up in a childish scrunchie that was decorated with some soft furry animal. She’d obviously chosen the least flattering clothes she could lay her hands to in order to emphasise the transformation.

Unflattering pictures of her working up a sweat, suffering in the name of beauty—all with the Lake Spa logo in plain sight—would be worth the reward of a photograph of her transformed into a wedding belle and dancing with the man of every woman’s dreams.

There was only one problem. With Angie in hospital they were short of a fairy godmother to perform the transformation. On the point of calling through to Reception for the diary, to see who could fit her in, he hesitated.

This would need careful handling. The Natasha Layton wedding would be a media feeding frenzy. Gina had chosen her own staff and, in her absence, had undoubtedly picked someone she could trust to be completely discreet. He didn’t know any of them well enough to judge who on the team would be capable of keeping this kind of secret, even from a partner. He doubted that any of them could.

Besides, if Dodie had any hope of achieving her objective in such a short time she’d need a dedicated staff member to see her through. Total support.

He was the only person around here with a clear diary: the only person he could be sure wouldn’t share this interesting piece of pillow talk. And, since everything seemed to be running like clockwork—apart from Angie’s dash to Emergency—he could do with something to keep him occupied.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’d better get started. There’s a lot to do if Mr Gray’s reward is going to be worthy of his, um, “cute” bottom.’ Which took the sparkle out of her smile, he thought as he stood up. Got those expressive eyes flashing like a lighthouse. Which was good. Anger got the adrenalin flowing. His own, for some reason, seemed to be in flood. ‘Let’s get you measured up and weighed, and take some photographs.’

She pulled a face.

‘It won’t hurt a bit,’ he promised.

‘How would you know?’

He thought about the photographs that had graced the newspapers years ago, when he’d left the rugby field on a stretcher. How much he’d hated seeing himself like that. Helpless. His leg in ruins.

‘I know,’ he said. He’d used that photograph, blown up massively, to drive himself to greater efforts with physiotherapy after each operation. ‘You can stick it on your fridge door afterwards. It’ll help keep you on the straight and narrow long after your encounter with Charles Gray is nothing but a cherished memory to tell your grandchildren.’

‘Thanks, but I’d rather put a photograph of Charles Gray in such a prominent place. He’s prettier.’

‘Whatever works for you,’ he said, refusing to flatter her. She’d have to work for every word of praise. ‘This way,’ he said, heading for the door.

‘No, wait—’ He opened the door and pointedly held it for her. ‘You mean you’re…’ She’d swivelled around in the chair but was making no attempt to follow him. ‘You’re going to be my personal trainer?’

‘Is that a problem? I’m afraid without Angie it’s a question of all hands to the pumps—’

‘Liposuction!’ she exclaimed, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘That’s it! You’re a genius!’

Since she was obviously just playing for time, he made no comment.

‘No good, huh?’

‘I’m afraid not. Vacuuming up the fat only works if it’s in one place. You’re just going to have to tone up the flesh you’ve got. All over.’

‘Just? What is this with you and “just”? Have you any idea how much flesh there is?’ she demanded.

‘I’m about to find out. After that, if you do everything I tell you—cut out—’ it didn’t take instant recall to repeat Gina’s list of her friend’s weaknesses ‘—chocolate, cheeseburgers, doughnuts—’

‘Give me that!’ she exclaimed, as she made a dive for the folder. ‘Whatever Gina wrote in there is a lie!’

Brad lifted the folder out of her reach and caught her as she crashed into him. He was expecting it so there was no damage. In fact, as he caught her round her waist to steady them both, and was assailed by the wholesome scents of shampoo and fabric conditioner, he took full advantage of his second opportunity to hold her. It felt good. There was something appealing, something feminine about her that was missing in the starved thin models who usually occupied that space.

‘—and start taking a little gentle exercise,’ he continued, ‘Mr Gray won’t know what’s…um…hit him. Or maybe you’ll manage not to fall over him, or flatten him.’

Okay, he was lying about the ‘gentle’. He wasn’t the kind of fairy godfather who made wishes come true with a magic wand. The only way he knew was to reach out and grab what you wanted for yourself. The hard way. The way he’d done it himself.

The way he was holding onto Dodie Layton right now, her voluptuous curves pressed hard against his chest.

He disentangled himself with reluctance, but her mind was fixed on the very pretty Charles Gray. Not on a wrecked rugby player.

‘You just have to ask yourself if you really, really want to headline in the gossip magazines. Be the woman in the photograph captioned, Charles Gray Loses his Heart to the Bride’s Lovely Sister,’ he said.

It was a little like worrying a bad tooth. Stupid, but impossible to resist.

‘You disapprove?’

Confronted, he could not deny it. He did disapprove. Not of her desire to get into shape—although he was beginning to see real possibilities in the shape she had. Just the reason for it. But she was a grown woman. If she wanted to make a fool of herself it wasn’t his business to stop her. It was his business to take advantage of the situation.

‘Why would I disapprove?’ he enquired coolly. ‘You want to get fit.’

‘But you disapprove of the motivation. Kiss-chase is perfectly okay when it’s a man doing the chasing, but it’s not quite nice for a woman to set her sights on an especially tempting target and be totally honest about it.’

‘Look—’

‘No, you look, Mr Morgan—’

‘Brad,’ he insisted, really, really hating the way she’d called him ‘Mr Morgan’ to press home her point.

‘Okay, Brad,’ she said encouragingly. ‘I need you to use your imagination here. I want you to consider a slightly different scenario. Same big showbiz wedding, right? Only this time you’re going to be the best man.’

‘I don’t quite see—’

‘Are you with me?’ she insisted.

He shrugged, refusing to commit himself.

‘Right,’ she said, taking that as a yes. ‘Now, then, Mr Best Man, you’ve just learned that my sister—the utterly lovely and very desirable Natasha Layton—is going to be the bridesmaid.’ She cocked a glossy dark brow at him. ‘Think about it.’

He thought about it.

According to the media, Natasha Layton had been at the top of every red-blooded male’s fantasy wish list since she’d made her first film. She was not only beautiful, in an ice-cool, untouchably perfect way—a way that made men long to muss her up—but a supremely talented actress. Dodie was suggesting that, given that scenario, he’d be the one planning sweet seduction and no one would think any the worse of him for it. Would expect it, in fact. Would envy him the chance to be that close to a legend, even if he did nothing more than kiss her hand.

He didn’t have much truck with fantasies, but he did have an imagination—one that could see how tough it would be if you were Natasha Layton’s older, earthier sister. Having to cope with the undisguised astonishment that you were related. Over and over again.

If Dodie Layton wanted her own fifteen minutes of fame then who was he to begrudge it to her? Especially when it was going to provide Lake Spa and the rest of his health club chain with a public relations coup.

Whether, in the long run, she’d be happy, was a moot point. It seemed to him that this might very well come under the heading of ‘be careful what you wish for’. But it was her wish. Her dream to be swept away by Prince Charming.

‘You’re making the point that this is the age of equal opportunities in all things? Including fantasy?’

‘You see?’ she said, with a big smile. ‘That wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

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