Millie Criswell: Body Language

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.

“Never trust a man who doesn’t like dogs.

Dogs are loyal; men are not!”

“MOM, WHAT is it? Why are you crying? Is something the matter with Dad?”

“I’ll say there’s something the matter with your father,” Rosemary said in a voice that spewed venom. “Theodore Peters is a bastard. I hate him. He’s a sick man, that’s what he is.”

Ellie was stunned by her mother’s vehemence, and not because Rosemary’s sharp tongue couldn’t flay the skin off an adversary from twenty paces. But her venom was seldom directed at her husband. Rosemary didn’t believe swearing was appropriate behavior for a woman, no matter the upset.