Millie Criswell - Body Language

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.”