Читать книгу Body Language - Millie Criswell - Страница 12

IT WAS SATURDAY and Ellie was taking the big plunge.

She had enrolled at Gold’s Gym for a three-month trial period. Exercise not being her thing, she didn’t want to commit to any time period longer than that, just in case it didn’t work out. Although, she was fairly certain—okay, pretty sure—well, if not pretty sure then relatively hopeful—it would.

And there was method to her madness.

Not only was she planning to lose weight and get in shape—that’s what she told herself, anyway—she decided that going to the gym would be an excellent way to meet men. Hanging out where the guys did made perfect sense to her.

Ellie didn’t play golf, racquetball or frequent those sports bars with the big-screen TVs. But she could exercise, if she was so inclined.

And now that Brian was out of her life, she was definitely inclined.

Ellie didn’t intend to remain celibate any longer than she had to. Sex by mechanical means was the pits. Not to mention that she’d gotten a shock the other night, and it wasn’t of the pleasant variety. In fact, it had given new meaning to the phrase “tickling your fancy.” Unfortunately, her fancy had almost fried.

She would never confess to her mother that she liked sex. Rosemary preached that sex before marriage was immoral and that intercourse should be solely for procreational purposes.

Yeah, right!

Sex was a great way to release tension, it curbed her appetite—well, she wasn’t one hundred percent certain about that; her lack of hunger could have been due to exhaustion—and it made her skin glow.

Yes, having sex on a regular basis with someone who knew what they were doing—translation: orgasm proficient—was definitely a goal to strive for.

But first, she needed to get back in shape. Cellulite and sex didn’t go well together, despite what her mother claimed—this, from a woman who probably hadn’t had sex in the last ten years, not that Ellie wanted to think about such matters. Parents having sex was at the very top of the ick factor scale. A child could go blind if she thought about such things.

“You must be Ellie Peters,” the brawny man with the clipboard pronounced as he approached, interrupting her disturbing thoughts. “I’m Will Travers, your personal trainer.”

Wow! Her personal trainer was a major hunk. The man had pecs and abs to die for and pretty green eyes that were warm, friendly and made Ellie’s tummy flutter.

Should she give him her phone number now, or wait until they became better acquainted?

“I’m Ellie.” She smiled her cutesy Meg Ryan smile.

He pinched her upper arm and the cellulite bunched like warm chicken fat around his fingers.

Meg Ryan did not have upper arm fat, she thought, wanting to scream, “It’s baby fat!” figuring everyone under the age of thirty-five should be able to claim baby fat, if no one called them on it.

Unfortunately, he had called her on it.

“Looks like we’ve got some work to do.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here.”

“Excellent! Then let’s get started.”

Mr. Gorgeous proceeded to weigh her, take her measurements and body fat, and then he put all of the information into a folder with her name on it, no doubt making a notation about her extreme obesity in big red letters: “BABY FAT PHONEY!”

Normally, Ellie would have told an insensitive Neanderthal like Will to go “F” himself, but since the man had arms like tree trunks, a chest the size of a small country and no wedding ring, she decided to suck it up and remain friendly.

There was no telling what other large “attributes” Will might possess, and he was definitely a dating possibility.

Size mattered, regardless of what anyone said. Whether you were talking male genitalia, female breasts or brain matter, size was definitely important—the bigger the better! Let’s face it, and she wasn’t trying to be mean, but a teeny, weeny weenie wouldn’t be able to hit the A, B, C or G-Spot.

“I’m sure I’ll be in good hands,” she said.

After all, only King Kong had meatier palms!

Will looked her over from top to bottom, scribbled something else on his clipboard, and pronounced, “You’ve got a good body, Ellie. It just needs a bit of toning. Go change and meet me at the treadmills in ten. We’ll go over your dietary plan and workout program as soon as you’re ready.”

Fearing demerit points if she was late and wanting to impress him, Ellie changed quickly and was at the treadmills in the allotted time, garbed in black Nike shorts and a cropped top to match that did nothing to hide the lump that was sadly called her stomach.

She could almost count every candy bar, bowl of ice cream and piece of bread as she grimaced at the rolls of dimpled flesh. The moon had fewer craters.

Will, the cellulite slayer, would not be pleased.

“I CAN’T WALK another step,” Ellie admitted after only ten minutes on the treadmill. She was breathing heavier than an obscene phone caller and sweating like a pig on Prozac. “I have no idea how mice do it.”

The little bastards got to eat cheese, that’s how they did it.

“My seventy-five-year-old grandmother walks faster and longer than you do,” he said, softening the chastisement with a grin, which was damn sexy and gave Ellie the impetus to go one more lap, though she was positive a heart attack was imminent.

What if the flutter in her chest wasn’t caused by Will, but by heart disease?

“Your grandma obviously has better genes than I do.”

“Maybe. Gran smokes, drinks vodka martinis and still has sex. Claims it keeps her young.”

Ellie’s brow shot up, but she remained silent, wondering why an elderly woman could find male companionship while she was having so much trouble.

On the other hand, did she really want someone who kept his teeth in a glass at night?

“Come on. We’ll do weights next. That’s the only way you’re going to firm up those biceps and triceps, and it’ll help burn fat. I’m sure you want to look good in tank tops next summer.”

Ellie shook her head. “Actually, I’m committed to wearing long sleeves. No sunburn, no mosquito bites…”

“The reps will help firm your breasts, too. They’ll be nice and perky when we get done with them.”

Glancing down at her chest, she frowned deeply. “What’s wrong with my boobs? They look perfectly respectable to me.” Actually, she thought her breasts were one of her better features, but obviously Will wasn’t impressed.

“You’ve got a bit of sag going on there, Ellie. You don’t want to turn a 36C into a 42L, now do you?”

“Ha, ha, ha! You should be shot. I don’t know why I decided to come to this gym. It’s like a torture chamber. And the insults…I’m going to ask for my money back.”

Nevertheless, Ellie plodded behind Will as they made their way to the weight room. She had no energy left to argue and no idea how she was going to find the strength to walk Barnaby this afternoon.

The weight room was crowded, the smell of sweat and testosterone filling the air. Will indicated that she was to lie on the bench and lift the weights he handed to her over her head. They were only three pounds each, but they might as well have been three thousand, as difficult as it was to hoist them up.

The only pumping iron she’d done before today had involved pressing her shirts for work.

“You’re doing good. Keep it up. I’ll be back in a sec. I’ve got to go talk to someone. Just keep lifting. And no cheating. I’ll be watching.”

“I hate you!”

“I know, but you’re going to be in the best shape of your life when I get finished remolding you, and then you’ll thank me.”

Ellie had never considered herself a quitter, but as she lifted the weights up and over her head and the muscles in her arms screamed in protest, she felt like quitting, crying, or both. She hadn’t been in this much pain since the fourth grade when she’d fallen off her bike and dislocated her shoulder. At least then, her mother had given her ice cream for bravery. Now she got bupkis!

Squeezing her eyes shut, she concentrated on lifting her arms one more time.

“Hello, Ellie.”

That voice! She would recognize that deep, sexy voice anywhere. It was like chocolate smoke and it had haunted her dreams—er, nightmares—for years.

But how could it be?

Cracking one eye open, she gasped, dropped the weights to the floor with a loud thud and nearly cracked her head on the pulls overhead as she bolted upright.

DAMN IF ELLIE Peters didn’t still look hot!

She wore her dark curly hair a bit shorter now and was maybe ten pounds heavier since he’d last seen her, but she was still the Ellie he remembered.

The Ellie he’d been engaged to.

The Ellie he’d dumped.

The Ellie who now hated him.

Michael thought back to the first time he’d seen her. She had been pounding furiously on a Coke machine, cursing and kicking it, claiming it had stolen her dollar.

For Michael Deavers, it had been love at first sight.

Like Ellie, he had majored in language at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C. where they’d met, dated and fallen in love. But unlike Ellie, he’d gone on to get his doctorate in linguistics in the hope that someday, when he grew tired of the rat race, he’d be able to teach at the university level.

He’d stayed in D.C. after graduation, working first in the private sector for an international pharmaceutical company, and then with the State Department, which finally led him to his present job with the United Nations, Director of Translation and Interpretation, a job that had been a lifelong dream.

A job likely to become a nightmare, once Ellie found out about it.

Most women would have forgiven and forgotten by now, but not Ellie. He knew without a doubt that, even though almost seven years had passed since he’d last seen her, she had not let bygones be bygones. She was too Italian for that.

Ellie had sent him a voodoo doll shortly after they’d broken up, complete with pins stuck in the groin area and a note that read: A prick for a prick.

Michael knew he deserved her wrath. He’d treated her like shit. He had asked Ellie to marry him, gifted her with a diamond ring—which she had subsequently flushed down the toilet—planned for a future together, and then he’d backed out.

It had been the shortest engagement since Custer took on Sitting Bull.

Michael hadn’t meant to hurt Ellie. Hell, he’d loved her like crazy. But he’d developed cold feet over the idea of getting married, to anyone. He’d had lofty goals and dreams back then, and a wife and family just hadn’t factored into the equation.

Michael was still single, still eating takeout every night, still lonely, and there hadn’t been a day in the last seven years that he hadn’t thought about Ellie.

He was still in love with her.

And he was still afraid to get married.

“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” Ellie squawked.

Michael could have asked her the same thing; he had nearly choked on a breath mint when he’d spotted her flat on her back, lifting weights.

Ellie had never been what you would call athletic. In fact, the most physical thing they had done together, aside from making love, was walking across the Georgetown campus. Her idea of strenuous exercise had been flipping through the dress racks at Ann Taylor’s.

“What are you doing here, Michael?” she asked again, her eyes full of fire.

“Working out, same as you.”

She rose to her feet and faced him, arms crossed over her chest and chin tilted defiantly.

Michael could smell the scent of her perfume mingled with the sweat of her labors. Memories better off forgotten came rushing back and the sudden ache in his groin had nothing to do with his workout.

Dark eyes flashed annoyance. “You know that’s not what I mean. What are you doing in New York City? I thought you were living in D.C.”

Debating silently whether or not to tell Ellie about his new job, he finally decided against it.

“I’m in the city on business. It’s only an hour’s plane ride from Reagan National, so I tend to come here often.”

Ellie looked relieved, so he assumed she had bought his answer. It was mostly true, at any rate, but that “mostly” would definitely complicate things down the road.

Of course, life with Ellie had always been one big complication.

“I’m surprised to see you working out,” he told her. “Didn’t think you went in for diet and exercise, not that you need it, of course.” She looked damn good in her shorts. Ellie had great legs and soft, full breasts that begged to be touched.

And there’d been a time when he’d touched them, a lot.

Her cheeks filling with color, she lowered her arms to cover her stomach, as if she could hide the last candy bar she’d eaten. “I’m getting into shape, reorganizing my life, eliminating past mistakes, so to speak. So,” she pasted on a fake smile that exuded all the warmth of a piranha, “that being the case, it’s been interesting talking to you, Michael. Have a nice life.”

Michael watched Ellie disappear into the ladies’ changing room and shook his head, knowing that come Monday morning the shit was going to hit the fan, and he was going to be in the line of fire.

IN THE CHANGING ROOM, Ellie bent over, hands on knees, taking several deep breaths to calm herself. Fortunately, she was alone; no one had witnessed how the mere sight of Michael Deavers had caused her to become apprehensive, unglued, and downright pissed off.

Why did she have to see him now, when she felt so alone and vulnerable?

Why did she have to see him at all?

The devil might wear Prada, but Ellie was pretty certain he wore Armani, too.

“Get it together, Ellie. You’re over him,” she told herself, stripping out of her sweaty togs, grabbing a towel off the bench and heading for the showers.

I am woman, hear me…

Meow?

Damn, but he still looked as handsome as ever. His eyes looked even bluer than before, and the sight of his body in that tank top…

Michael dumped you, you moron. Get over it!

Of course, that was easier said than done. She’d pined for the bastard after he’d broken their engagement. She’d tried to put him out of her mind by dating a procession of new men, but nothing had worked. Even moving to New York City hadn’t been the panacea she’d hoped for; the man still had the power to make her nipples hard, even after all this time.

But then, sex between them had always been fantastic. Michael knew a million ways to make a woman happy in bed.

It was when you got out of bed that the trouble started.

Turning on the faucet, Ellie doused herself with cold water and let loose a shriek as the bracing water cascaded over her, erasing all—well, if not all, then most—erotic thoughts from her mind.

Not erotic, she amended. Psychotic! Because it was madness to have even the least little feelings where Michael was concerned.

The man was a heartbreaking, insensitive, lying, insincere bastard!

Don’t fret. He’s going back to D.C. You never have to see him again. Well, maybe in seven years. That seemed to be about the length of time between visits. And maybe by then she’d be married and have children, or at least a bunch of puppies to coo over.

Ellie purposely turned her thoughts to Will instead. He was a nice man, though not really her type. But then, what was her type? Brian hadn’t been right for her, and he was a three-piece suit all the way. Maybe a bit of Neanderthal loving was just what the doctor ordered. And Will as her trainer would keep her on her diet. With her lack of willpower—no pun intended—that was a positive.

A group of ladies came into the locker room just then and began undressing. A shapely blonde, who didn’t need to exercise—damn her size two hide!—smiled at Ellie, and she returned the gesture.

“You’ve got Will as your trainer, right?” she asked and Ellie nodded. “Too bad he’s gay. It’s such a waste of male perfection, don’t you think?”

Ellie’s eyes widened, even as her stomach took a dive south. “Will’s gay? Are you sure?” He sure didn’t come across as gay. Not that it was all that easy to tell. But some homosexual men were swishier than others.

The blonde smiled. “Yeah, pretty sure. He’s out in the lobby kissing some dark-haired guy. Apparently they had a tiff this morning.” She shrugged. “Oh well. Doesn’t mean he’s still not a great trainer. Just a sad loss to the female population at large, if you know what I mean.”

Ellie did. All the really cute men she’d dated or contemplated dating were either gay, married, or had commitment problems.

That was Joey Fratelli—thirty-four and still living with his mama, who did his laundry and cooked and cleaned for him. Rosemary had adored the dentist, which was reason enough for Ellie not to see him again, even though Joey had been very good with a drill.

Robert Lipscomb liked to dress up in women’s clothing, and the hell of it was, he’d had a better wardrobe than she did. Then there was Brian Pomeroy, who harbored an unreasonable hatred of dogs, especially ones who peed in his shoes.

And last, but certainly not least, was Michael—the man she had foolishly given her heart to, the man she had loved and the bastard who had dumped her.

Numb with the news that her trainer was now out of the picture, as far as dating was concerned, Ellie proceeded to dress, wondering if her bad luck was permanent.

ARRIVING BACK at her apartment a short time later, Ellie surveyed the mess that Barnaby had made of the remaining packing paper and boxes—which she should have disposed of properly, but hadn’t—scolded the animal half-heartedly, because he was so darn cute—okay, reasonably attractive—then hit the button on her telephone to retrieve her messages.

Brian’s deep voice boomed out of the phone’s speaker as he demanded in a very impolite manner that Ellie return his “damn key, immediately if not sooner.”

“Like I really want the damn thing,” she shouted back, wondering what had ever possessed her to live with such an unreasonable, dog-hating man in the first place.

The second message was from one of her girlfriends, Stephanie Marco, who was calling to see if Ellie wanted to go clubbing this evening. Like Ellie, Steffie was between relationships and had declared that Saturday night was a very good night to get laid.

“Hard to dispute that, Barn.” Not that she was into casual sex, mind you, but her flirting techniques could use a bit of brushing up. And after seeing Michael, Ellie’s ego needed a boost, as well.

Too bad someone hadn’t invented breast implants for egos, so you could make them larger when you needed to.

Ellie needed a 46DD boost right about now.

Just as she’d deleted the last message, the phone rang, and she thought about not answering it. Sometimes her boss, Mr. Moody, called on the weekend to ask her to come into work, and she wanted to avoid talking to him.

And did she really need more bad news?

But deciding it might be Steffie with last-minute details about their night out, she finally picked up.

She wished she hadn’t.

Actually, Ellie wished she was dead.

It was her mother, and Rosemary was crying.

And the thing is: Rosemary Peters never cried.