Читать книгу The Bridesmaid's Reward - Liz Fielding - Страница 7

‘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?’

‘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?’