The Spanish Groom. Lynne Graham

Miss Robinson.’ At her aghast look of disbelief, the older man averted his eyes.

      ‘A drink…a drink is all I’m allowed on this plan?’ Dixie breathed shakily.

      In silence, the older man nodded.

      Fisher gave her directions to the gym. On her way there she caught tantalising glimpses of magnificent paintings, marble floors and wonderful rugs. She was not surprised to walk into a superb purpose-built gymnasium worthy of the most élite health club.

      At the far end of the spacious room, César was lounging elegantly back against a piece of machinery that looked like an instrument for torture. He was talking to a brunette wearing less clothing than Dixie wore in bed. Presumably Gilda Stevens. A tiny white crop top adorned the lady’s dainty bosom. Skintight white shorts hugged her impossibly slender hips. Every inch of visible skin was tanned and satin smooth.

      Oh, no, why does she have to be so gorgeous? Dixie thought, cringing from such a cruel comparison, such an impossible peak of feminine perfection.

      Tall and supremely authoritative in a dark designer suit, sunglasses dangling from one brown hand, César spoke without turning his dark, arrogant head. ‘Don’t skulk, Dixie. Come and join us. Gilda’s done us a very special favor in agreeing to devote her personal attention to you at such short notice.’

      The very thin brunette studied Dixie critically as she walked towards her.

      Dixie flushed, her soft mouth tightening with embarrassment. César swivelled round, as light as a dancer on his feet in spite of his size. His winged brows pleated as he took in her appearance with frowning dark deep-set eyes. ‘Haven’t you got anything more suitable to wear?’

      ‘Dixie would probably feel too self-conscious in more revealing garments. I’ve seen this so many times before,’ Gilda Stevens informed them both. ‘Fortunately, diet and exercise can work real miracles—’

      ‘Look…’ Dixie began. ‘I’m not an inanimate object you can discuss—’

      ‘I’ll send out for some gear for you,’ César cut in, lean bronzed features already distant as he strode towards the door.

      Gilda gave Dixie a cool, assessing appraisal from glassy blue eyes, and a panicky sensation twisted Dixie’s empty tummy. Before she could even think about what she was doing, she raced in César Valverde’s wake. Suddenly he felt like her only friend.

      ‘César!’ she gasped strickenly.

      At the door he wheeled round, brilliant eyes glittering with impatience.

      ‘César…she’s not a normal woman,’ Dixie whispered almost pleadingly. ‘When she stands sideways on she’s only about six inches wide! I didn’t know anybody could be that thin and still live…and of course I look enormous to her, but I can’t help the shape I was born with!’

      After a stunned pause, César threw back his arrogant head and burst out laughing.

      ‘It’s not funny,’ Dixie hissed in severe mortification. ‘When you talked about hard work and effort, you didn’t mention depriving me of food and putting a stick-insect in charge of me. Did you see how she looked at me? Like I was the size of an elephant and she wanted to skin me?’

      César pivoted round to the wood-panelled wall and braced one lean hand against it as he struggled to contain his mirth. Turning his head back to her, silvered dark eyes still vibrant with reluctant amusement, he murmured drily, ‘It’s the deal, Dixie. Gilda has an international reputation in the fitness field.’

      ‘I’m hungry,’ Dixie mumbled tightly, but, disorientatingly, she found that she couldn’t take her eyes off him. With laughter dying out of his lean, strong face and his cool, dark brooding air of detachment banished, she glimpsed a different César Valverde. A devastatingly masculine male with megawatt charisma, she recognised in some shock. Colouring with discomfiture, she dragged her eyes from him and stared at the wall instead.

      ‘Tough…no pain, no gain,’ César rhymed without pity.

      ‘Have you ever been on a diet, César?’ Out of the corner of her eye she could see his classic profile, and she found her head easing round towards him again without her own volition.

      ‘I’m too disciplined to over-indulge.’

      Dredging her attention from a profile worthy of a Greek sculptor, Dixie decided it would be safer to study the natural wood floor.

      ‘Don’t do that…it always winds me up!’ César imparted with startling abruptness. ‘Look at me when I’m speaking to you!’

      Blinking in hot-faced bewilderment that he had actually noticed she almost never looked directly at him, Dixie glanced up.

      César’s aggressive jawline eased only slightly. ‘That’s only one of your most annoying habits.’

      As he turned away, Dixie cleared her throat awkwardly. ‘What did you tell Miss Stevens to explain why you are hiring her for my benefit?’

      Complete surprise flared in his stunning eyes. ‘I don’t explain my actions to anyone. Why should I?’

      Why should I? The baseline on the way César Valverde lived his entire life, Dixie registered. He was so self-contained, so unapologetic about guarding his privacy. Naturally he wouldn’t have the slightest inhibition about snubbing people who exercised their curiosity.

      ‘Dixie…we’d better get started,’ Gilda Stevens called. ‘We’ll begin with a weigh-in.’

      Dixie hadn’t been on the scales since she was sixteen, and inside herself she simply cowered.

      ‘I’LL SEE YOU TOMORROW,’ Gilda told Dixie.

      Face-down on a mat, perspiring freely, Dixie tried to nod, but even that took muscle power and she decided not to bother. After all, at some stage she would have to get up, walk…well, maybe crawl, she decided. She was beyond caring about putting a proud face on her exhaustion.

      ‘You’re out of condition,’ her torturer sighed as she took her leave. ‘But now I’ve shown you the ropes you’ll be able to follow through on your own every day.’

      Every day. Dixie suppressed a groan but she forced a grateful smile. Gilda might be tough, pitiless and completely lacking in the humour department, but she had worked out alongside her and had been tireless in her efforts to ensure that Dixie did every single exercise correctly. Horribly, hatefully tireless.

      Left alone, Dixie slowly slid into a comfortable doze. The sound of footsteps made her stir. Tipping back her head, she focused sleepily on Fisher’s polished shoes.

      ‘Where would you like to eat lunch?’ the butler asked.

      ‘Here will do.’

      A tray was set on the floor. A plate piled high with salad greens and raw slivers of vegetable awaited her.

      ‘I never liked salad,’ Dixie confided guiltily.

      ‘It’s a detoxifying diet, I believe,’ Fisher commented. ‘You do get a whole grapefruit mid-afternoon.’

      Dixie’s tastebuds shuddered, but she was so hungry she munched at a piece of celery. ‘I like starchy food. I like meat, pasta with lashings of cheese…chocolate fudge cake,’ she enumerated longingly, mouth watering as she fantasised.

      Another pair of shoes appeared in her field of vision. Italian leather casuals with handstitched seams. She froze.

      ‘But you’re not allowed to cheat,’ César Valverde drawled.

      ‘I thought you were at the bank,’ Dixie said accusingly.

      ‘I intend to keep an eye on this project. Just as well,’ César condemned. ‘Gilda’s gone, and here you are lazing about like you’re on holiday!’

      ‘I’m so weak I can’t move!’ Dixie gasped in disbelief.

      César