The Bridesmaid's Reward

‘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.