“Please, Brad,” she murmured, her voice soft as a baby’s breath, pleading with him. “I want…” she said breathlessly. “I need…”

“What?” His own voice was thick and husky. “What do you want, Dodie?”

Not chocolate, Dodie thought.

He lifted his head, caught her lower lip between his teeth and grazed it gently, teasing it with the tip of his tongue, tasting her. “You’re beautiful, Dodie,” he said.

“Beautiful?” He heard the soft choked sound as, painfully, she tried to laugh. “Please….”

“Beautiful,” he insisted. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

Every woman has dreams—deep desires, all-consuming passions, or maybe just little everyday wishes! In this brandnew miniseries from Harlequin Romance® we’re delighted to present a series of fresh, lively and compelling stories by some of our most popular authors—all exploring the truth about what women really want.

Step into each heroine’s shoes as we get up close and personal with her most cherished dreams…big and small!

• Is she a high-flying executive…but all she wants is a baby?

• Has she met her ideal man—if only he wasn’t her new boss…

• Is she about to marry, but is secretly in love with someone else?

• Or does she simply long to be slimmer, more glamorous, with a whole new wardrobe!

Whatever she wants, each heroine finds happiness on her own terms—and unexpected romance along the way. And she’s about to discover whether Mr. Right is the answer to her dreams—or if he has a few questions of his own!

This month enjoy The Bridesmaid’s Reward

by Liz Fielding.

Next month, look out for Surrender to a Playboy

by Renee Roszel, #3752.

The Bridesmaid’s Reward
Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

‘DODIE? What’s happened? Calm down! Deep breath…’

Dodie Layton, having bombarded her best friend with an almost incoherent appeal for help, took a long, slow breath, as ordered, but her heart continued to race and her legs remained nothing but jelly.

‘Okay now?’

She nodded, although since this was a telephone call Gina wouldn’t be able to see her.

Gina knew her well enough to fill in the gaps, however, and said, ‘Good. Now, tell me all that again. Slowly.’

‘I’ve got six weeks to lose two dress sizes and transform myself from Miss Blobby into Bridesmaid of the Year,’ she said, editing her first garbled rush of information to its essentials.

‘You are not a blob. You’re…’

‘Cuddly?’ Dodie offered while her best friend gamely sought for a kindly euphemism to cover her generous curves, the width of her bottom, thighs that gave cellulite a bad name. ‘That is not a comfort. My sister—the thin, beautiful, young one—’

‘You’ve only got one sister.’

‘—the one who’s been nominated for every film award going in the last twelve months. Star of stage, screen and telly. Loved by everyone—’

‘Listen, I know your sister. I remember her when she had zits and braces on her teeth—’

‘—is getting married.’ Gina, silenced by this stunning piece of gossip, gave her the opportunity to cut to the chase. ‘And I’ve been cast as chief bridesmaid,’ she finished.

‘Oh, wow!’

‘Oh, disaster!’ Dodie wailed, reaching for the toast she’d been buttering when her mother rang with the big news. Along with strict instructions to reduce her dress size pronto and a promise to put details of the very latest diet—guaranteed to work practically overnight—in the post. Since she was far too busy to bring it over. Obviously.

Dodie tucked the telephone beneath her ear while she sloshed on an extra thick layer of marmalade before taking a bite. She’d cut down on the calories later; right now she needed sugar for the shock.

‘I don’t suppose I need to ask who she’s marrying?’ Gina asked, her attention now fully focused on the really important matter of hot gossip. ‘The diary columnists have been salivating for weeks over rumours that the on-screen lovers were doing it for real. When’s the big day?’

‘I can’t tell you the exact date. It’s a state secret, apparently, but early May seems to be favourite.’ She groaned again. ‘I’ve got six weeks, Gina. I need to jog. I need weights. I need aerobics,’ she said, spluttering toast crumbs everywhere as she wondered what had happened to all those resolutions she’d made on New Year’s Day. ‘I’ve got to do all those things I’ve been putting off for ever and—’

‘What you’ve got to do is stop talking with your mouth full and get a grip.’

‘Right,’ she said. She wasn’t about to disagree with the only person in the world who could get her into shape in time. She swallowed the toast. ‘I can do this,’ she said firmly. ‘In fact my heart’s beating so fast with the excitement that I’m losing calories just talking to you.’

‘I’m sorry to disillusion you, but for any loss of weight the raised heartbeat needs to be the result of exercise.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Oh, well, you know more about this than I do. Which is where you come in.’

‘Oh, right. All becomes clear.’

‘Look, do you want to come to this wedding or not?’ Dodie demanded, stooping to outright bribery. ‘The guest list is going to be a Who’s Who of the film and theatre world. Actor knights. Pop stars. Starlets in wildly unsuitable dresses hoping to make the front page—’

‘Why would your sister ask me to her wedding?’

‘I get to ask someone. As in “and partner”.’

‘Er, isn’t that supposed to be a bloke?’

‘That’s a very un-PC comment, Gina,’ she said primly. ‘This is a showbiz wedding. And anyway, I haven’t got a bloke.’ She was planning to keep it that way. ‘Besides, I wouldn’t want a man along cramping my style. I mean, isn’t the chief bridesmaid supposed to arouse feelings of unrestrained lust in the best man? Traditionally?’

‘I’d heard that rumour, although personally I’ve never seen one worth getting excited about.’ Dodie didn’t say anything. ‘Oh, right. I think I’m beginning to understand the unlikely attraction of wearing some hideous satin, frill-covered concoction. And why you’re even considering getting toned up for the occasion. Come on, give. Who is it?’

‘The best man, do you mean?’ she asked casually, as if this wasn’t the reason her heart was quivering like a greyhound in the slips, throbbing like a Ferrari in pole position at Monaco, pounding like…like the entire drum section of the Royal Marine band at the Edinburgh Tattoo. And for a moment she had to grip the back of a handy chair—this kind of excitement was really too much to deal with over breakfast. ‘The best man is going to be Charles Gray.’

Being human, she took a certain amount of pleasure in the resulting stunned silence that positively vibrated down the telephone line.

‘Charles Gray?’ Gina responded finally, with gratifying awe. ‘Heartthrob and sex god? The man every right-thinking woman wants to find under her tree on Christmas morning wearing nothing but a smile and a condom? That Charles Gray?’

‘Yes. Total fantasy.’ And she sighed. ‘Absolutely perfect, in fact. One day of enchantment without any messy long-term reality to ruin the effect.’

‘You plan on turning back into a pumpkin at twelve o’clock?’

‘On the dot. And I’ll be a lot more careful with my shoes than Cinderella. I mean, let’s be honest, what are the chances that she lived happily ever after with a man fixated on her feet?’

‘I’d never given it any thought,’ Gina admitted. ‘And of course your eagerness for me to wave my magic wand and turn you into a princess for the day has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Martin will see the pictures in Celebrity magazine and realise that he could have been there, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous? Imagine the caption… Mr Martin Jackson, partner of the bride’s lovely sister, Miss Dodie Layton, chatting to composer and well-known art collector, Sir Thingummy Whatsit…’

Reminding her about Martin didn’t have quite the effect Gina would have wished. Far from being amused, Dodie was only reminded just how undesirable she was. Casting a hopeless look down at herself in her working clothes—barrage balloon jogging pants that had never been jogged and a T-shirt that appeared to have shrunk in the wash—she groaned.

‘I’m just fooling myself, aren’t I? It’ll never happen. I’m going to look like a lumpen fool amongst all those toned, tanned and skinny celebs. As out of place as a lily on dung heap, in fact.’ As the reality of the situation sank in she broke off and grabbed another slice of toast. ‘Charles Gray being the lily.’

‘Nonsense,’ Gina said, with gym mistress briskness. ‘Don’t put yourself down.’ Okay, so she wasn’t a gym mistress, she was the manager of a seriously upmarket health club at the newly opened Lake Spa complex, but she could give a good impression of one when she was feeling bossy. ‘He couldn’t have a more charming companion at a wedding. You’re every bit as pretty as your sister. This may be considered heresy in some circles, but I think her cheekbones are a bit, well, bony. Contrary to popular myth, it is possible to be too thin.’

‘The camera loves bone.’

‘Maybe, but you’re not an actress, and, with or without bone, your smile would light up any occasion.’

Gina meant to be kind, she knew, but that was exactly the reaction Dodie most dreaded. It wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t constantly have to stand comparison with her incredibly beautiful, incredibly talented, incredibly thin sister. But, having cast about for something complimentary to say, desperate relatives who hadn’t seen her for a while always plumped for the safety of her “lovely smile”.

Well, this time it wouldn’t be enough.

‘Since my “lovely smile” will have to compete with that of the terminally sexy Mr Gray’s, I doubt it will make much impression. I’ll just be that girl wearing a frilly tent and grinning inanely in all the photographs.’ And, groaning again, she abandoned the astringency of the marmalade and opened the fridge door. There was a jar of chocolate spread tucked away at the back that she kept for emergencies such as this.

‘I didn’t mean it about the frills, Dodie. Your sister has far too much good taste to put adult bridesmaids in frills.’

‘Maybe the frills are metaphorical, Gina, but the sniggers will not be—unless you, my dearest, oldest friend, save me from myself. I need the kind of one-on-one help that only someone who’s shared your most intimate secrets since nursery school, who knows your every weakness, can give. Who else would know where I hide the secret supplies of chocolate? Those biscuits I keep for the really bad moments? My addiction to soft, melting Camembert piled onto a Bath Oliver—?’

‘Stop it right now!’

‘I’m a hopeless case,’ she said. ‘In moments of stress you go for a run. I just reach for food. My mother only had to mention the words “instant miracle diet” for me to break out in a sweat. I’m on my knees here, begging you to move in with me for the duration, keep me on the straight and narrow—’

‘I’d do anything for you, Dodie, you know I would, but—’

‘But? Don’t tell me “but”, Gina. I can’t handle “but”…’

‘But,’ she said, ignoring the rising panic in Dodie’s voice, ‘our friendship has always been on a live-and-let-live basis. I’ve tolerated your love affair with the diet from hell. You’ve tolerated my need for the endorphin high of exercise. Ours is a relationship based on mutual respect for our individual no-go areas and I think we should leave it that way. And,’ she went on before Dodie could interrupt, ‘even if I wanted to help I couldn’t. I was just about to call you and ask if there was anything in Los Angeles that would make your life truly wonderful.’

‘Los Angeles?’

‘My company is sending me to the US to check out the latest trends in the health and leisure club scene over there. I leave today.’

‘You’re kidding!’ Dodie forgot her own problems for a moment, excited for her friend. ‘That’s fantastic.’

‘I do feel a bit as if I’ve stepped into a fairytale myself,’ Gina agreed. ‘I was given carte blanche to choose my own team at the health club. And now this. My degree in business management has finally connected with my real life and I’m going places.’

‘Los Angeles, apparently. That’s such good news, Gina. I’m so pleased for you.’ Then, ‘I just wish you were going places some other time. Couldn’t you put it off for a couple of months?’

‘Not even for you, sweetheart. But I’ll offer some sound advice. Ignore your mother’s “instant” diet. There is no such thing.’

‘But—’

‘I mean it. The answer is to cut out the bad stuff—and you know what that is without me telling you—and get some exercise. What I can do,’ she said, cutting off Dodie’s wail of anguish, ‘is sort you out a personal trainer. Someone to put together a programme for you and keep you at it.’

Some stranger who wouldn’t know all her little foibles?

‘I’ll backslide without constant help,’ Dodie said. ‘Right now, for instance, I’m taking a pot of chocolate spread out of the fridge.’ She’d finally found it lurking in the depths of the salad bin, where she’d tucked it away out of temptation. Sadly, all that remained was a slick of chocolate clinging to the sides of the jar. But Gina didn’t know that. ‘I’m going to spread it half an inch deep on this really thick slice of toast,’ she said, fingers crossed as she stretched the truth until it twanged. She did have the toast, however, and, holding it close to the phone, she took a crunchy bite. ‘It’s white bread,’ she warned, mumbling through a mouthful of crumbs.

Gina just laughed. ‘Nice try, Dodie, but it’ll take more than that to stop me from catching my flight. Look, why don’t you forget the diet, relax and just enjoy yourself at the wedding? Wear something low-cut and the starlets won’t get a look in with the photographers, believe me. Besides, Charles Gray is probably bored to death with girls who are little more than skin and bone.’

‘Are you supposed to say things like that? It’s your business to get women down to skin and bone.’

‘It’s my business to get them fit. There’s a big difference. Besides, it’ll probably be a whole new experience for him to dance with a woman-sized woman. An armful of cuddle. A bit of a treat, in fact.’

‘Get real.’

Gina sighed. ‘Martin Jackson didn’t cheat on you because you were a few pounds overweight, Dodie. He did it because he’s a Class A piece of—’

Dodie took another crunchy bite of toast to drown out the word Gina used. She knew what Martin was. It didn’t make what he’d done—or the fact that he’d done it with a girl the size of a stick insect—any easier to bear.

‘I’m more than a few pounds overweight now.’

Gina kindly refrained from pointing out that she’d done that to herself. Instead she went straight to the point, the way she always did.

‘What do you really want, Dodie?’ she asked.

‘I want to be thin, I want to be beautiful, I want heads to turn wherever I go.’ Like her sister. If she was going to dream, she might as well dream big.

After a momentary pause—probably to pick herself up off the floor—Gina said, ‘Oka-a-a-y. Let’s start with the weight—get that right and everything else will fall into place.’

‘I now know why you’re my best friend.’

‘I love you, too. But this is going to be tough love. The first thing you have to do is put the chocolate spread in the bin—with all the other comfort food you’re addicted to.’

‘If it was that easy,’ Dodie said, ‘you’d be out of business.’

‘All right, all right. Don’t fret. Cinderella will go to the ball. I’ll find you someone who’ll keep you at it. Angie. She’s your girl. She’ll not only monitor your progress but clean the junk food out of your cupboards and be a friend on the end of the phone when you’re tempted by a triple cheeseburger with French fries.’

‘At the end of the phone won’t work. She’ll have to be here to forcibly remove them from my fingers.’

‘Angie has a husband and kids of her own to babysit. She can’t babysit you.’

Dodie caught her breath. What on earth was the matter with her? ‘No, no, of course not. I’m sorry. I’m being unreasonable.’

‘No, you’re in a state. In your shoes I’d be in a state, too. But Angie will do everything else I’d do, and if you just listen to her—’

‘You’re a star, Gina.’

‘She can only do so much. The sweat, pain and tears are down to you. And there’ll be plenty of those. If you want to turn heads it’s going to take more than cutting out the comfort food. You’re going to have to exercise.’

‘Cheers.’

‘My pleasure. Present yourself at the health club at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Angie will take a “before” picture of you to stick on your fridge door as a deterrent against backsliding. To get the “after”, you have to do everything she says. No argument.’

‘That’s all very well, but how am I going to pay for this new life?’

‘Oh, I see. The only reason you want me to supervise your regime is because I’d do for love, is that it?’

‘I’m an artist—’

‘But not a starving one, apparently. You’re far more likely to keep on the straight and narrow if it’s costing you. But,’ she went on quickly, cutting off a squeal of pain from Dodie’s wallet, ‘if you stick to the regime and don’t break the zipper on the two-sizes-smaller dress on the big day, I’ll give you a special deal.’

‘Gina, you’re the best—’

‘A three-month free membership of the health club, use of all the facilities and the services of a personal trainer.’

‘But that’s—’

‘In return, you can design and make a textile hanging for the health club. Something that reflects the spirit of the place. There’s a large empty wall in Reception simply crying out for a Dodie Layton.’

‘Ouch.’

‘I know. Lake Spa is getting the best of the deal. But this is business, and I have to repay the boss-man’s faith in me. Of course, if you don’t shape up, I’ll forget the textile and charge you the going rate. Believe me, you can’t afford it.’

Actually, Dodie realised—given ten seconds to consider the matter—having one of her works on permanent display in a place used by people with high disposable incomes was a win-win situation for her. It gave her a double reason to shape up.

She’d undoubtedly need both of them. She grinned. Gina wasn’t just a whip-slender body. She had motivation down to a fine art.

‘You’ve got a deal. I’ll bring the digital camera with me tomorrow and take some pictures. I can work on some ideas while you’re away.’

‘Excellent.’ Before Dodie could respond, she added, ‘Oh, and make sure that invitation is on my doormat when I return. If Charles Gray isn’t bowled over by your smile, I’m planning on being second in line.’

‘Problem?’

Brad Morgan had been staring out of the window of his penthouse office for the last twenty minutes.

‘What makes you think I’ve got a problem?’ he said, without turning around, as his secretary placed a cup of coffee on his desk.

‘Your body’s here, but it seems to me that just lately your mind’s been somewhere else. Want to talk about it?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Is it a woman?’ she asked, undeterred.

‘Women aren’t a problem unless you allow them to be.’

‘My mistake. Yours don’t stay around long enough to cause trouble. You change yours with the season, the way some women change their wardrobes.’

‘At least I’m consistent.’

‘Right. They’re all tall, thin and looking for a man to show them off in all the right places,’ she said dismissively. ‘And you’re tall, rich and obliging. Temporarily. Is it Lake Spa?’ she persisted. ‘Is that why you’re going down there for the next few weeks?’

‘No, Lake Spa is already outperforming expectations, but new buildings inevitably have teething problems and someone needs to be on the spot while Gina’s away.’

‘You?’ She didn’t bother to conceal her disbelief.

‘Yes, all right, you’ve seen right through me as usual. I want to take a close look at the staff she’s chosen.’ He swung his chair around to face her. ‘They’ll tell me a lot about the woman. And if what they tell me is as good as I think it will be, I want to see who performs above expectations, looks like a natural successor.’

‘To Gina? But I thought she was a real find.’

‘She is. I’m considering promoting her to take overall charge of the health club division within the year.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Why don’t you take a break and come down for a day or two? See what you think of the hotel now it’s finished. Swim, have a sauna, an aromatherapy massage. A complete makeover in the salon. Whatever you like.’

She pulled a face. ‘No, thanks. I made myself a promise that I’d never take my clothes off during working hours and it’s served me very well for the last thirty years. Why don’t you take one of those women who don’t give you any trouble? I’m sure they’d queue up for the chance.’

‘Like you, Penny, I never mix business with pleasure.’ And health and leisure were big business these days. Of course, it helped that he’d applied the same single-minded determination to building his business empire that he’d put into his glorious, if short-lived, career on the rugby field. Expanding fast enough was the only problem there.

‘Okay, I give up. Not business. Not women. When was the last time you took a holiday?’

‘I hate holidays. There’s nothing wrong, okay?’ he said, noticing her raised eyebrows. ‘It’s always the same when a new project reaches completion. A sudden gaping hole in the working day. A what-was-I-doing-before-I-did-that? emptiness.’ Lake Spa had been bigger than anything he’d done before. The low was correspondingly deeper, that was all.

‘You need a new project. A new challenge.’

‘Do I?’ How many new challenges were there in his business? The Lake Spa project had been a new direction, combining hotel, health club and conference centre. So what was left?

He’d reached the pinnacle in his sport for one dazzling moment of fame and glory before his career had been cut short by injury. He’d never had a chance to get bored, to reach the been-there, done-that stage when repetition was all he could hope for. And the journalists watched for signs of him passing his peak.

Not that it had seemed like a plus at the time. He’d had to pull himself back from the edge of despair and start again, this time in business. But now his leisure company had reached a point where all he could do was add another new health club to the chain, another new hotel, another new conference centre. Or another spa.

The prospect of repetition yawned before him. Been there. Done that.

‘You definitely need a holiday,’ Penny said. ‘Something to recharge the batteries. Inspire you.’

What he needed was a challenge that wouldn’t leave him empty when it was done. Something that would continue to grow. Keep him focused.

‘Inspiration can’t be found lying on a beach,’ he said. Or staring out of his office window. ‘But, if there’s nothing needing my attention, I might as well go home.’

Maybe a couple of weeks at the Lake, at the sharp end of his empire, would give him some new ideas.

Dodie resisted the urge to dip her finger in the jar of chocolate spread and instead tossed it into the bin. ‘I will be good,’ she said out loud to no one in particular, avoiding her reflection as she passed the mirror on her way out to her studio. ‘Honest.’

She switched on her computer and, as she waited for it to boot up, tied her hair back in a scrunchie to keep it out of her face. Working at home had a lot of pluses. That she didn’t have to wear a suit or tights came top of the list. No need for serious work on her hair first thing in the morning was good, too.

No distractions in the way of sexily helpless men who didn’t know how to boil a kettle, or any of the hundred and one other things that a woman will do for a man who says he loves her.

But—and what a nasty word that was—there was always a downside to everything.

She might be able to work her own hours, wear what she wanted, not have to bother with make-up except when she was meeting a client, and never, never have to walk to work in the rain.

But there was no doubt that walking away from Martin, along with her post as tutor at Melchester University’s Art Department, hadn’t helped the constant struggle to keep her weight down.

Her freelance work had increased a little now that she had all the time in the world to concentrate on it, with no students, no man to distract her. But so had her need for comfort food.

Without the brisk daily walk to counter the effect of sitting at her computer and workbench—with exercise an optional extra that she never opted for—the effect on her backside had been disastrous.

Natasha’s wedding, she decided, had come just in time to get her back on the rails and maybe even into her favourite black dress. The one that now gaped unattractively over her bust.

The prospect of following her newly wed sister down the aisle on the arm of the thoroughly gorgeous Charles Gray had to be incentive enough for even the most ordinary woman, the most slothful food junkie, to get back into shape.

That and, of course, the opportunity to show Martin just how big a mistake he’d made.

Lake Spa blended perfectly into its surroundings. A series of low-rise stone buildings, each guest room with its own private deck built out over the water, it was set along the edge of an artificial lake which had been created by long-abandoned gravel workings.

Serene, peaceful now, colonised by wild duck and swans, it was light years from the local authority evening classes in aerobics run by Gina before she’d finally married her day job to her passion.

Dodie parked her ancient van—the battered exterior disguised by her own vivid artwork and hideously out of place amongst the top-of-the-range motors that filled the car park—and walked across to a small dock with a little flotilla of sailing dinghies, seeking inspiration for her part of the bargain. She spent far too long taking photographs of the hotel lodge, the conference arena, the health club and lake with her digital camera. Putting off the moment of no return for as long as possible.

Finally, however, she crossed to the entrance, trying not to feel completely overawed by the healthy creatures who, having been for an early-morning swim or session in the gym, were now vibrating with energy as they bounded off to start their day’s work.

Overawed by the glossy receptionists, busy with the phones and new arrivals. By the tanned, terrifyingly fit staff, in their health club uniform of dark red tracksuits and perfect smiles.

She came to an abrupt halt in the middle of Reception. She couldn’t do this. It had been a serious mistake to think she could. This was not her kind of place. She began to back towards the door before she was pounced on by Angie, chained to some terrifying machine and exercised without mercy until she was fit and thin, too.

She’d stick to the diet her mother had somehow found time in her busy schedule to deliver personally—doubtless to avoid any lame excuses from her ugly duckling daughter that it hadn’t arrived—along with a pair of scales and a gallon of cabbage soup to get her started. And a lecture on how important this was for Natasha. How kind she was being when she could have chosen anyone—and for ‘anyone’ Dodie read anyone thin, beautiful and equally famous—to be her bridesmaid. But she’d insisted on having her sister.

So, she’d stick to the diet. Walk to the shops. Fast. Throw away the monster-size bag of mints that lived in her desk drawer, she promised herself guiltily. She could do it. She knew she had the will-power. Somewhere. If she could only remember where she’d left it…

And then, as her feet became entangled with the straps of a sports bag set down momentarily while its owner tightened his shoelaces, she stopped worrying about losing weight, impressing Charles Gray or making Martin wish he’d taken the longer view. She had a more immediate problem.

Staying on her feet.

She flailed wildly with her arms in an attempt to keep her balance, but even as she bowed to the inevitable, accepting that nothing could save her, she crashed into a pair of strong hands. They gripped and held her as she collided with what seemed like a brick wall.

The guy whose designer bag she’d fallen over picked it up, brushed it off and glared at her before walking off without a word.

‘Sorry,’ she called after him. ‘I hope I didn’t damage your lovely bag. Bruise it or anything.’ Then, as the door closed behind him, ‘Poser.’

‘Possibly.’ The owner of the hands said coolly, and set her back on her feet as if she weighed nothing at all, keeping hold of her while her bones remembered what they were for. ‘But perhaps if you’d been looking where you were going—’

Oh, great. Now she was going to get a lecture on pedestrian safety.

‘You’re right,’ she said, in an attempt to forestall it. ‘I’m a complete idiot. It’s a good job I’ve no intention of applying for permanent membership here or I’d be rejected as a danger to designer label leather goods.’ And, having got that off her chest, she remembered her manners and turned to thank him. She’d undoubtedly have bruises on the fleshy part of her arm where his fingers had gripped her, but that had to be better than the alternative. ‘Thank you for catching me,’ she said politely.

‘Any time,’ he said, with just the possibility of a smile.

‘I think we’ll leave it at just the once, thanks all the same.’ Although now she was over the shock, and had had a chance to look more closely at the man who’d stopped her from making a total prat of herself, she was prepared to reconsider.

He was tall, rangy, built for speed rather than heavily muscled, although anyone who could catch her mid-fall and, more importantly, hold on to her, had to be strong. He was certainly a lot more substantial than the young men who, with their slicked-back hair and Armani suits, bounded 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 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?’

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