The Bridesmaid's Reward. Liz Fielding
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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