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.
