The Bridesmaid's Reward. Liz Fielding
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