Body Language

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here.”

“Excellent! Then let’s get started.”

Mr. Gorgeous proceeded to weigh her, take her measurements and body fat, and then he put all of the information into a folder with her name on it, no doubt making a notation about her extreme obesity in big red letters: “BABY FAT PHONEY!”

Normally, Ellie would have told an insensitive Neanderthal like Will to go “F” himself, but since the man had arms like tree trunks, a chest the size of a small country and no wedding ring, she decided to suck it up and remain friendly.

There was no telling what other large “attributes” Will might possess, and he was definitely a dating possibility.

Size mattered, regardless of what anyone said. Whether you were talking male genitalia, female breasts or brain matter, size was definitely important—the bigger the better! Let’s face it, and she wasn’t trying to be mean, but a teeny, weeny weenie wouldn’t be able to hit the A, B, C or G-Spot.

“I’m sure I’ll be in good hands,” she said.

After all, only King Kong had meatier palms!

Will looked her over from top to bottom, scribbled something else on his clipboard, and pronounced, “You’ve got a good body, Ellie. It just needs a bit of toning. Go change and meet me at the treadmills in ten. We’ll go over your dietary plan and workout program as soon as you’re ready.”

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.