Liz Fielding - The Bridesmaid's Reward

‘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‘I can see the appeal of slimming down for the big occasion—’ although the attraction of dressing up in impractical and outdated clothes simply to witness two people make fools of themselves seemed to have passed him by ‘—but I’d be happier if you were taking a long-term approach to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.’