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“Well, we could talk about the big elephant—about how we slept together—or the smaller one—how you should probably clear your spare underwear and gym kit out of my desk.”
“Oh, blimey. That’s your desk, is it?” Ali clapped her hands over her mouth.
“Who else’s would it be?”
“I don’t know—it didn’t seem to have anything personal on it so I just thought it was free.”
Good point. He didn’t do personal. Especially at work. But that didn’t address the issue at hand.
“The locker rooms have eyes and ears, Dr. Lockhart. Very acutely tuned, testosterone-charged cauliflower ears. I don’t think it would be wise to have what happened at the airport being public knowledge. Or to be repeated.”
She gulped, looked away, then began to laugh. Nervous giggles or happy memories? He knew what camp he was in.
“Can you imagine if the lads knew?” she asked. “About that night?” she qualified, as if he could have even begun to forget.
She lifted her gaze to his and this time he was certain they both felt the same connection. Having her standing in front of him in sexy little jim-jams wasn’t strictly helping his body keep it neutral.
Her expression turned sober. “You’re right. Absolutely right. The only reason I came up here was to learn, and all the …” she blew a slow breath between her lips “… other stuff would just get in the way.”
They nodded at each other for a moment, as if they’d just signed a significant pact. And they had. They would be colleagues only. It was agreed.
“I know it wasn’t what you planned for tonight—but what do you say we go out for a bite to eat?”
Ali gave him a dubious look.
“To talk about the team … your next three months here and what you hope to get out of it. Professionally.” He weighted the word as a reminder to himself.
“I’d like that,” she replied, then looked down at her skimpy outfit. “I’m guessing pajamas aren’t the dress code. Smart or casual?”
He knew what he wanted to say, but picked the pragmatic response. As agreed. “Casual is fine. I know a great little Greek place—just around the corner.”
“Love a bit of meze!” Her smile brightened. “Give me two minutes.”
He smiled at Ali’s retreating figure. The man who she’d met at the airport would have waited as long as she needed. Not that he’d tell her that. This whole situation was a matter of using his head over his … other parts. They’d had their night and it had been a one-off. Now he just had to work his way through the next one-hundred-odd days, convincing himself that all work and no play was the most sensible thing to do.
He’d made it through the past five years without so much as a fissure in his heart. Keeping Ali at arm’s length couldn’t be that hard. What was the worst that could happen?
Operation Pals-R-Us was officially under way.
“Are you kidding me? It came out of the socket?” Ali could barely contain her disbelief. She was really going to have to hone her shoulder joint skills. Knees …? She had them nailed. Shoulders …? Not so commonly injured during the pas de deux.
“Completely. You could’ve heard his screams down in London, I’ll bet—but I got it back in, he’s been diligent with his rehab, and now to see Mack run you’d never know otherwise.”
“Amazing. To get him playing again was quite a feat.” Ali didn’t bother curbing her I’m impressed voice as she put her serviette onto her empty plate. Bodies were crazy things, and it sounded like Aidan had had his fair share of having to think outside the box to keep his players fit.
“I had to. These guys have a really short career window. If I can help make it just a little bit longer—so much the better.”
She had to fight the automatic wince. Her career window had been just as short. Nonexistent was more like it. But the past was the past. The players were lucky they had someone like Aidan looking out for them.
In fact, his idea to go out to dinner had turned into a good one. Better than she’d thought when they’d first arrived at the restaurant after a virtually silent ten-minute walk. Trying to make chitchat when all you can think about is kissing your new boss was tough work.
After a bit of an awkward recitation of their professional histories, and some seriously divine moussaka with homemade pita, they had moved on to medical horror stories. The topic was inevitable between doctors, and it had definitely put the pair of them on neutral territory.
In fact, Ali discovered as the evening zipped along, it was really fun. Aidan was turning out to be everything she’d hoped when she had agreed to the locum posting. Smart, funny—and, yes, deeply gorgeous, but she hadn’t known that when she’d signed on the dotted line. And now they’d agreed to keep things professional … Thank God they had medicine in common!
“I hope you don’t mind—” Ali held up her hand to flag the waiter. She’d just about eaten her body weight in moussaka and was ready to crash for the night.
“Not up for a shot of ouzo?”
Ugh. The thought turned her stomach. “No, thanks—you’re on your own with that one.”
“No problem. I’m amazed I made it this late.”
She raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Jet lag,” he explained.
“Crikey! I totally forgot. You must be exhausted. Where was your holiday—some island in the Pacific, wasn’t it?”
“It wasn’t exactly a holiday.” Tricky. Aidan wasn’t one to lie—but he wasn’t in the habit of letting anyone into his confidence either.
“Oh?”
“It’s just something I do every year.”
She looked at him blankly.
“For a charity.”
“Oh, right! Which one?” Her eyes brightened.
“It’s to do with the tropical storm that devastated the region a few years back.”
“Oh, gosh. I remember that. It was horrible, wasn’t it? Thousands of lives lost, weren’t there?”
“Mmm. It took a lot of lives.” Including one that had meant the world to him.
“That’s brilliant that you go out there. I’ve often thought of doing some charity work in London—inner-city kids, that sort of thing—but I was always so wrapped up at the clinic.”
“You really made a success of that, didn’t you?” Aidan gratefully swerved from more questions about the island. Yes, he did charity work—but the rest of it …? That was neatly locked up in his emotional no-go zone.
“I hope so,” Ali began to twist the corners of her serviette into a tight coil. “Most people thought I was foolish for opening such a specialized clinic—but it’s not as if the only ballerinas who injure themselves are in the Royal Ballet. We get clients from all over the world now. My ‘little baby’ is all grown up now.”
“You were smart. Got in there before someone else thought of it and then made an art of it.”
Aidan nodded his approval—not that she needed it. En Pointe was now the destination for anyone with a dance-related injury. Impressive for someone who’d just turned thirty-two. The only way you could get that kind of success, this early, was undiluted drive.
“So how could you leave it all behind?”
Ali looked away.
“Oh … it was time to spread my wings—let new pairs of eyes see to things.”
“So you’re not going back?” This time he couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice. “I don’t know if I could leave my baby as easily.”
“You mean you’d never leave the North Stars?”
“No, it’s not that. If something amazing tempted me I’m sure I’d go. But I’m happy enough here, and any ‘wing-stretching’ I need to do lands in the clinic just about every week in the form of new injuries, new techniques. I don’t need to go elsewhere. Don’t get me wrong—I’m delighted you’re here—but to leave behind your clinic after putting all that time and energy into it … It’s your calling card, surely?”
“No,” Ali answered quietly, still avoiding his gaze. “I never needed to be lauded for the work we do at En Pointe—I just wanted to make sure the resource was there. Dancers need a place they can rely on to specifically deal with all their needs when they’re injured. That’s why it provides a multi-level approach to the care it gives. We don’t just stick bandages on the dancers. They receive surgery, rehab, counseling—the whole lot.”
“That sounds like the voice of experience.” Aidan leaned forward, lowering his head to see if she would receive his inquisitive smile.
“We’ve all got history.” Her eyes remained resolutely elsewhere. “Shall we …?” Ali abruptly dropped her knotted serviette onto the table and briskly headed toward the waiter who’d been making up their bill.
“Hang on, Ali.” Aidan jogged to catch up with her, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. “This one’s on me.”
“No need,” she replied with a tight smile. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.” A look of remorse flashed across her face. “Sorry. Thank you. That’s very kind.” She shot him an apologetic grimace. “I guess you’re not the only one who’s tired.”
“Not to worry.”
Aidan handed a couple of bills to the waiter and waved away any change as Ali shrugged on the coat she’d left on one of the hooks near the front door. She was halfway out the door by the time he’d grabbed his own. There was definitely a story there—a painful one, from the looks of things. But he wasn’t one to dig—particularly as he’d been doing his own “artful dodging.” He was no psychiatrist, but he’d put money on the idea that Alexis Lockhart—defender of humankind—hadn’t come up North solely to expand her medical horizons.
“Shall we go back via the river route?”
“You’re the boss!” Ali quipped.
“Hopefully not a bossy boss,” he shot back with a grin. Witty lines had never really been his forte.
“There’s still time.” Her face bore no trace of humor.
Aidan chose silence as the best response. He’d had enough experience with clamping his mouth shut when yet another woman he’d casually dated had expressed disappointment over things not turning more serious. Not that Ali seemed all that interested in plumbing emotional depths with him. Quite the opposite, in fact. Keeping things superficial …? Now, that he could do.
She rubbed her hands together in the cold winter air and huffed out a puff of breath. “Sorry. I’m sounding really narky and I don’t mean to.”
He pointed her toward the riverside path that would bring them to their respective homes. And he didn’t mean to be superficial. Not with her. He felt a rush of desire to keep things between them on a good level—positive. He’d already seen two sides to this woman and he liked them both. Very much.
“Not to worry. It’s been a long day.”
“You can say that again.”
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_44c7ee17-7f03-506a-abda-99b748a2d2f2)
“ALL RIGHT, LADS—let’s clear some room for the lady.” The assistant coach ushered the players aside for Ali, with her medical tote bag in hand.
“It’s only Harty!” one of the guys shouted.
“Cheers, mate,” Ali riposted.
She enjoyed being just “one of the lads.” It was about a gazillion times easier than being anywhere near Aidan, whose mere presence insisted upon reminding her of how very much like a woman he had made her feel.
“What did you do this time, Rory? Eyes all right?”
She knelt down on the ground next to Rory Stiles, who was busy clutching his shoulder with his eyes squeezed tight shut. From his expression, it looked as though the blindside flanker had taken the full brunt of his fellow player’s might. As she peeled his hand away from his shoulder, one glance at the tenting at his collarbone told her all she needed to know.
“Right. Let’s get you off the field and into the clinic. You’ve done a job on your clavicle.”
The redheaded athlete cracked open his eyes and tried to grin at her through the pain. “It’s nothing, Harty. Just get a figure-of-eight on me and I’ll see out the rest of the practice.”
“No sling is going to see you through the next thirty seconds, let alone two hours, my friend.” She smiled down at him. These guys were just like dancers. Injured or not—the show must go on!
“Just give me some meds—I’ll be fine.”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you pain meds right now. Not until we know what else you’ve done to yourself. We want those bones to heal properly, don’t we?”
“Tate would give me meds!”
“No, he wouldn’t.” The familiar rich voice filled the air around them. “What’s going on?”
“Rory seems to have broken his collarbone and wants to compromise his long-term health for the sake of a practice session.”
“No need to be so melodramatic, Dr. Lockhart. These lads are made of sterner stuff than your tutu brigade.” Aidan knelt down alongside her.
“My what?”
“Ah! Ha-ha-ha! Tutu brigade! Good one, Dr. Tate.”
Rory laughed and Ali shot him a look. One that said, Thanks for nothing, and carried on with her silent and thorough inspection of Rory’s neck and upper spine.
What was that? thought Aidan. The fifth time he’d stuck his foot in it today? Working with Ali was becoming progressively more difficult. Yes, he respected her professionally—but the side of him that wanted her on a completely carnal level was constantly threatening to take over his practical side. His professional side. The one he’d insisted they respect. Work. Careers. Things you could rely on. And all he could think about was taking her in his arms and having his very wicked way with her.
“Any tingling sensations in your arm?” Ali asked Rory.
“Nah.”
“Shortness of breath?”
Rory sucked in a deep breath. “Nope.”
“Guess you’ve kept your arteries out of the pinch zone. Lucky boy. Doesn’t feel like a compound fracture—otherwise it’d be surgery for you!”
“C’mon, Rory. Up you get. I’ll have a look.” Aidan went to help Rory push up from the ground.
“Excuse me, I think we’re good here. Aren’t we, Rory?” Ali moved to Rory’s other side as he rose.
“You and me are always good, Harty. Now … if Tate, here, would just shave a little more often—”
“Invasive surgery isn’t the answer to everything.” Aidan glared across the expanse of Rory’s chest at her.
