The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs(32)

"Go get some lunch," he whispered as she powered down her laptop. "Sit by the pool. Get some sun. Enjoy the rest of the day."

"Oh." She thought he'd said it wasn't that kind of trip.

"I'll join you later."

Thus he disappeared into another room, shooting her a quick smile and a "thank-you" under his breath.

Released from duty—however much she'd enjoyed herself at the meeting—Bry dashed happily to the suite for a shower and a change of clothes. She slipped on a sundress, floppy hat and espadrilles. Since she'd forgotten sunscreen, she had to stop at the store in the lobby and there she was tempted by a sight that would once have terrified her. A rack of swimsuits. It was years since she'd worn a bikini. Fat girls stuck to one piece suits, preferably with thigh coverage, and a large, matching sarong. If they were forced into swimwear and couldn't get out of it.

But the new Bryony 2.0 was ready for anything.

Other women with not-so-perfect bodies were unafraid at the prospect of donning sparkly, sequined bikinis. Why shouldn't she? Besides, Ben liked her body—he'd complimented every inch of her, several times over. So she grabbed a ruffled blue bikini and bought it. There. Done. Her dimpled ass was just as entitled to feeling a little sun as anyone else's toned butt.

She changed in the lobby bathroom and put the sundress back on over her two piece suit. Heart pounding, she walked out to the pool, took a big fluffy towel from the attendant on duty and settled on a lounge chair by the deep end. It seemed appropriate.

There were only a few stray folk around the pool and after a very short time she felt ready to slip out of her sundress. Nothing happened. The sky did not darken with a thunder storm. No one collapsed in peels of laughter. Her pale, brazen thighs shimmered with sun lotion and her old pal, the stomach roll, jiggled as she took a breath of that sweet, hot air. Good.

Even when a tall, skinny person with hip bones walked by, Bryony managed a smile and a cheerful "hi". The skinny person did not have Ben Petruska panting after her, did she? Poor, tiny thing.

What had come over her? Where had all the shyness gone?

She'd lost it somewhere over the Atlantic at around 30,000 feet.



* * * *



He found her by the pool, fast asleep on her stomach with an ass and back that was looking decidedly lobster-like.

"Hey, Bry! I told you to get some sun. Not sunburn." He pressed his iced glass on her back and she woke with a start. He laughed. "How long have you been out here? Where's your sunscreen."

She hitched up on her elbows. "Fuck! What happened?"

"Looks like you took a siesta. Here," he passed her another glass. "Mudslide. Although maybe you should have some water instead."

"No. I'm fine." she sat up, looking pained. Her nose was pink too but not so bad. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and squinted, taking a long sip of the creamy cocktail. "That's better! How did the meetings go?"

"Great." He perched on the next lounger. "Thanks for your help this morning."

"What did I do?" she snorted. "I lazed about here all day."

"Nah. You have no idea how great it was to have you with me." That sounded kinda lame, but it came out before he could re-word it. Maybe it was the bikini she wore. Mulligan and her hot body had been on his mind constantly that afternoon and now he found himself gazing at her again like a lecherous schoolboy. He sipped his frosty cocktail. "Don't suppose you had a chance to sign that contract yet."

She laughed softly. "Nope."

"Undecided still about the job?" Ben leaned over and wiped her pouting mouth with his paper napkin. "Mudslide on your lips."

"Oh."

"I thought you'd have a chance to make up your mind sitting out here," he waved his arm toward the shimmering pool. "How can you turn the position down now you know what I' m offering?"

"Hmm. I must say, it would have its perks."

He reached in his shorts pocket and drew out a small box. "Here."

She put down her glass. "What is it?"

"If you open it, you'll find out, won't you?"

It took her a minute. She sat up, fussing with her towel. Finally she took the box and opened it to find the pearl and ribbon thong nestled on a satin lining.

"Wear it tonight," he said, leaning over to plant a kiss on her forehead. "We're having dinner on the balcony and then I'll have another try at winning you over."

He was running out of time. On Monday afternoon they'd be back in New York and she could slip away again. If he didn't get her to agree to his terms now, he probably never would. Bryony Mulligan just had to be his plaything. His exclusive plaything. His personal resort spa. So what was wrong with that? He could give her anything she wanted in return. Almost anything.