Praise for Annie O’Neil

‘A heartwarming tale of two opposites falling for each other. Annie O’Neil has done a fabulous job with her first offering. Highly recommended for readers of medical romance.’

—GoodReads on The Surgeon’s Christmas Wish

‘A poignant and enjoyable romance that held me spellbound from start to finish. Annie O’Neil writes with plenty of humour, sensitivity and heart, and she has penned a compelling tale that will touch your heart and make you smile as well as shed a tear or two.’

—CataRomance on The Surgeon’s Christmas Wish

“Can’t remember or can’t think straight?” a male voice asked from behind her.

Ali froze. She knew that voice. It had whispered deliciously naughty intentions into her ear not so very long ago.

Her eyes moved along the ground from where she knelt with Chris, her breath caught tight in her chest. Blood began to thunder between her ears as a pair of leather shoes came into view and walked to the opposite side of Chris. It was all she could do not to cry out as the owner of the shoes came into view as he kneeled across from her. Oh, she knew him, all right. She knew him intimately. And she didn’t know him at all.

As their eyes met Ali physically felt the breath being sucked out of her body.

The Suit.

Images flickered past her mind’s eye of their bodies tangled together in a series of sexual acrobatics she’d never believed possible. A wash of pleasure rippled through her and it was all she could do to keep her jaw clamped firmly shut.

She’d never asked him his real name. Nor had he of her. That had been their deal. One night only.

Dear Reader,

This book was a real crackerjack for me, and an absolute hoot to write. A book full of muscly rugby players and a dreamboat of a team doc? Woo-hoo!

I am a big rugby fan—not that I know any of the teams or players or rules … I just love the dedication and commitment the players show to the game—and they’re respectful to boot. Just like the perfect hero.

Ali is a great heroine—I really, really like her a lot. Mostly because she was inspired by a wonderful choreographer I know here in the South East of England. She is a fireball, and has met her match in Aidan.

I hope you enjoy reading this book—and I promise there are no horrid scenes that make you feel you need to drop and give anyone twenty of anything! It’s just pure indulgence.

Enjoy!

Annie O’

ANNIE O’NEIL spent most of her childhood with her leg draped over the family rocking chair and a book in her hand. Novels, baking and writing too much teenage angst poetry ate up most of her youth. Now Annie splits her time between corralling her husband into helping her with their cows, baking, reading, barrel racing (not really!) and spending some very happy hours at her computer, writing.

Find out more about Annie at her website:

www.annieoneilbooks.com.

One Night …
with Her Boss
Annie O’Neil

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is for my former editor, Charlotte Mursell, who first brought me on board with Mills & Boon and helped fine-tune me into the work in progress I am today … (which is better than when she got me). This was the final book we worked on together and she was pure inspiration. I was a lucky gal to have begun my writing career with her. Thank you, Charlotte!!! Annie X

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for Annie O’Neil

Excerpt

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

ALI SCRUNCHED HER eyes as tightly as she could manage, then popped them open. Nope. No good. Even the snow-capped stadium filled to the brim with cheering rugby fans couldn’t help her push That Night back to the inaccessible recesses of her memory. Who would’ve thought a liaison two weeks ago at an airport hotel would still be sending heated shivers of response careering round her body?

Fourteen days on and the sensations were just as potent. She’d wanted change—and now she was virtually swimming in it. Ali rubbed at her arms as if that would help scrub the heated thoughts away. Pah!

“Doc!” One of the players started doing star jumps on the sidelines. “You cold? Just do some of these—they’ll warm you up sharpish.”

Ali tossed a smile at the player and made a little jog-in-place movement to show willing. She was “only” a locum up here, but the lads had already made her feel a welcome part of the beast that was the North Stars rugby team. She wondered what it would be like when the Chief Medical Officer got back from his holiday. She was used to running her own clinic, so being someone’s subordinate would take a bit of a mental shift. But learning from a master of sports medicine? That would be worth it. Definitely.

After that … who knew what lay ahead? Going back to En Pointe Physio didn’t appeal. She wasn’t sure if it ever would. The day she’d walked into her favorite coffee shop back in London and hadn’t even needed to open her mouth to order her specialty mocha was the day she’d started hunting for a locum position. She didn’t do predictable. She didn’t do steady. The longer you stuck around somewhere, the more likely you were to get hurt. When you tried new things—like an unexpected one-night stand on the eve of your new job—suffice it to say, it shook things up a bit.

A shiver rippled up her spine, and even though it was pretty obvious the snowy weather had sent the chill she couldn’t resist closing her eyes again. Letting go of that night was near impossible. Especially when her body was still responding to the memory of his caresses, smoothing and shifting along her bare skin. His name …? A mystery—and it would stay that way.

Whatever had possessed them to head up to her hotel room that night—both of them with their flights grounded for a measly three inches of snow—had been well worth it. Who was she kidding? She knew exactly what had possessed them. Pure as the driven snow, hot as molten lava: desire. Her first ever one-night stand and it had been about as smokin’ hot as they got.

The roars and songs of the crowd blurred into white noise as she dipped and dived into the ten hours and forty-seven minutes they had spent together. And on Valentine’s Day, to boot! She was normally a cynic when it came to twittering birds and love hearts. Life had shown her there was no such thing as “The One.” Even so, the universe must’ve had other ideas—at least for that one night.

“Cupid shot your plane down?” He had placed his drink on the bar next to her empty glass. Cheesy line—but from the quirk in his lips he’d known it.

Her attraction to him had been immediate.

“That obvious?” she’d shot back with a laugh and a smile.

The bartender had placed a fresh cocktail in front of her. One she hadn’t ordered. A Cosmopolitan, complete with a twist of orange peel. Her favorite.

She wasn’t normally a sucker for a well-dressed man—but this one …? No matter what had been about to play out there, she’d already known she would remember him as “The Suit.”

He’d worn his as if he had been sewn into it. And she hadn’t doubted for a second how delicious he would look out of it.

“Been here long?”

She’d felt him make the visual journey up from her biker-style boots, crossed at the ankle, to the bit of leg on show below the swing of fabric that had made up her wraparound dress.

“Long enough.”

Already, she’d only had eyes for him, and the buzz of magnetic energy had tugged them into a cocoon of “Me and You.” Another sip of Cosmo, remarkably little chitchat, a slight lift of his eyebrow—shall we?—and they had headed off to the elevators.

It had been raw animal attraction. They hadn’t needed to discuss it. They’d just known. No names. No deep and meaningful forays into the other’s psyche. Just unreserved, unadulterated, lust. She’d never felt anything consume her so completely before.

The doors of the elevator had barely shut before his hands had begun exploring her, heated kisses had drawn them closer together. She’d felt reckless, wanton, and exactly where she should have been. She’d been completely under his spell, and this total stranger had made himself at home with the dips and curves of her body. Fingers had slipped along waistlines, hands had been drawn possessively along hips, lips had tasted and teased and all she’d been able to do was respond.

She didn’t even remember how they’d got to her room. But Ali could distinctly recall the moment her dress had slipped to the floor, her skin shuddering with desire as she’d pressed against him, still wearing every bit of that three-piece suit. She should have felt vulnerable, exposed. But she hadn’t. Far from it. She’d felt feminine, sexy, and for the very first time she’d understood the power of desire.

The need to feel him inside her had grown as his hands had begun to explore her more intimately. Her breasts, then her nipples had grown taut as she’d pressed against the wool of his suit jacket. He’d slid a hand between her legs, his fingers slipping slowly back and forth, back and forth. Her breath had caught in her throat and he’d tipped his head down to lazily tease his tongue round first one nipple, then the other.

She’d rolled her feet up onto tiptoe. Fluidly, as if she were still dancing and the accident had never happened, she’d tucked first one leg and then, with a small hop, the other around his hips. He had easily carried her across the room to the high bed. As he’d begun to lower her swiftly, almost brusquely, he had turned her around, his hands moving along the sides of her breasts. Then one hand had traced along her front and the other down her back, until he’d cupped her between her legs. Her skin had felt as though it were on fire. She had never wanted anyone more than she’d wanted The Suit.

She’d felt his thick five o’clock shadow along her cheek and, as if he reading her mind, he’d whispered into her ear, “I only have two—so you’re going to have to be patient.”

Two condoms. One night with a man she’d never see again.

These walls better have soundproofing, she remembered thinking. She’d met her match, and from the way his hands had taken such pleasure in exploring her body he’d felt it, too …

“Woooo-hoooo! Did you see that, Doc?”

Ali snapped out of her sexy dreamscape, eyes scanning the field to quickly connect the dots. Must pay more attention!

The clutch of assistant coaches she’d stationed herself next to were whooping it up as the scoreboard flickered to life with a new set of numbers. The North Stars were surging ahead of their opponents.

She grinned and pulled her knitted team skullcap down over her ears. Man, it was cold out here! A far cry from her swish and well-heated therapy center in the heart of London.

The thought pleased and stung at the same time.

Enough.

The Chief Medical Officer was due back sometime today—possibly even mid-match—and it would hardly do for her to be caught daydreaming. Especially dreams of the super-naughty kind.

She forced herself to be alert to the players on the pitch. They were, after all, her responsibility.

As play recommenced, then abruptly stopped, Ali’s senses sharpened. The crunch of shoulder on shoulder, skull on skull was never a nice sound, but these rugby boys didn’t do things by halves.

The howls of pain coming from the field set her into motion. Drama queens, maybe—but these men were not babies. A player was hurting.

Oblivious to the roar of the thousands of fans watching the heated North versus South trial match, Ali picked up her pace as the stretcher-bearers joined her on the snow-spackled field. A scrum combined with a slippery playing surface could easily lead to a spinal injury. She hoped for the player’s sake it wasn’t the case.

The huddle of sweaty, mud-covered men split open as she arrived.

“Hope you’ve got a strong stomach, Harty,” One of the players mumbled as she made it to the center of the group.

There, lying on the ground, staring straight ahead as he fought to control his breathing, was Chris Trace—the team’s hooker. To say he was a sight to behold was putting it mildly. She almost had to laugh. She’d wanted a change and this was most definitely not the sort of injury you saw in the Royal Ballet.

Their player had taken the full brunt of a Southern Cross player’s might. Blood was pouring from a gash in his forehead, and as he swept a hand across his face to clear it from his eyes it looked as though he was going to have one heck of a shiner by the end of play.

The stadium fell into a hush as both teams stood at attention—waiting for the verdict.

“All right, Chris.” Ali grabbed her run bag and pulled out some wipes. “Let’s see what price you’ve paid for victory.”

Spitting out his mouth guard, the athlete tried to grin up at her. A good sign.

“I’ll be back on the field in no time, Doc. Just put a plaster or something on me and I’ll be good to go.” Chris couldn’t stop the flinch crossing his broad face as he tried to lift his head.

“No, you don’t!” Ali pressed him back down to the ground. “You’re not going anywhere until I check you out. What happened to your goggles?”

She smiled down at him, admiring his determination to finish the game. The North Stars were grittily committed to being at the fore of the infamous North against South showdown in just over three months’ time. The last day of her contract. Losing a player to an injury was the last thing they needed.

She began sponging the blood off his forehead to see how big a gash they were dealing with. Head injuries were big bleeders, and with all the sprawling around in the muck these guys did infection was easy to come by.

“Goggles popped off when I landed on my face—or someone’s foot knocked them. Can’t remember.”

“Can’t remember or can’t think straight?” a male voice asked from behind her.

Ali froze. She knew that voice. It had whispered deliciously naughty intentions into her ear not so very long ago.

Her eyes moved along the ground from where she knelt with Chris, her breath caught tight in her chest. Blood began to thunder between her ears as a pair of leather shoes came into view and walked to the opposite side of Chris. It was all she could do not to cry out as the owner of the shoes came into view as he kneeled across from her. Oh, she knew him, all right. She knew him intimately. And she didn’t know him at all.

As their eyes met Ali physically felt the breath being sucked out of her body.

The Suit.

Images flickered past her mind’s eye, of their bodies tangled together in a series of sexual acrobatics she’d never believed possible. A wash of pleasure rippled through her and it was all she could do to keep her jaw clamped firmly shut.

She’d never asked him his real name. Nor had he of her. That had been their deal. One night only.

Someone needed to pinch her. And fast.

“Take me through it.”

He was speaking to her, but looking at Chris. What was he doing here?

“I want to find my goggles.” Chris tried to push up from the ground again.

“No, you don’t!”

“No, you don’t!”

Ali could barely suppress a surprised smile as she and The Suit each pressed on a shoulder, keeping Chris on the ground.

“Not until we know what else you’ve done to yourself. How does the socket around your eye feel?” Ali pressed him down again, this time with her hands covered in purple nitrile gloves, before she gently palpated the area.

“Fine—it’s just the cut, Doc. Honestly. Dr. Tate—tell her.”

For a second time Ali felt her chest constrict.

“You’re Aidan Tate?”

Dr. Aidan Tate? The award-winning sports medicine expert whose articles on non-surgical sports injuries she’d devoured like chocolate? The North Stars’ Chief Medical Officer? And … wait for it … her new boss?

Well. This was a bit of a pickle.

The biggest freaking pickle in the whole entire universe!

Her tummy pirouetted and heated as she stared at him—only just managing to suppress a smile. A short, sharp shake shifted the X-rated images from her mind and she rapidly went back to swabbing away the blood from Chris’s forehead.

“Earth to Lockhart! Harty? What gives? Am I getting back into play or what? Where are my goggles?” he shouted to the other players, who leapt into action.

Ali looked up and caught the eyes of her new boss. His face was unreadable. Hmm … This was nothing short of awkward.

“Got ’em!” One of the Southern Cross players jogged over and handed the protective eyewear to Chris, complete with blood and a tuft of muddy grass. He plopped them on the front of his blood-smeared face and gave Ali a See? I’m Fine grin.

“Nice look, Chris.” Ali guffawed at the gruesomely comic sight, then looked across at Aidan Tate with a mortified expression. He was her new boss. Never mind that she’d seen him naked. He’d hired her to be a doctor, not to snicker at the players’ made-for-Halloween gruesome faces.

Way to make an impression, Lockhart.

She was surprised to see Aidan smirk his approval at her reaction to Chris. She guessed he wanted to make sure the new girly doc could play gross with the rest of the boys.

She glanced at Aidan again, and he nodded for her to proceed. She couldn’t help but feel whatever she said was going to be under microscopic examination. Which was fair enough. If she’d found out the man she’d had a sizzling one-night stand with was her shiny new employee she would probably have held him to a higher standard.

“The cut doesn’t look too deep. Let’s do the spine and concussion drills and then get you to the sidelines for a couple of stitches.” Then for good measure she added, “And maybe give your specs a bit of a bath.”

Ali trained her eyes on Chris and deftly carried out a thorough inspection of his neck and upper spine to make sure it was safe to move him.

“Any tingling sensations in your arms? Burning? Stinging?” She rattled through the checklist, all too aware of Aidan’s eyes on her.

“Nah,” Chris answered.

“Shortness of breath?” She tapped along his lungs. A pneumothorax would be an unwelcome complication.

Chris heaved in a deep breath of air and exhaled with a lion noise. His lungs were fine. “Nope.”

“Guess you’ve kept everything intact except your brain-box—lucky boy. Wiggle your toes.”

“I’m fine, Harty! We’re a breed apart from all your fluffy ballerinas. Made of tougher stuff, we are.”

“Oh, really? And here was me thinking you were only human.” She signaled to the stretcher lads. He was safe to move off the field for a more thorough consultation.

“No way!” Chris pushed himself up. “I’m walking off on my own two feet, thank you very much.”

He stood up between them—weaving ever so slightly—then raised his arms in a victory move and swaggered off the field to the roar of the crowd.

Which left her face-to-face with Dr. Aidan Tate.

Her stomach gave a life-affirming heave and she almost lost her balance, which—considering she was still kneeling—was quite a feat. The man took her breath away. There was no getting away from that. Salt and pepper hair she’d run her fingers through on their way to naughtier climes, coffee-black eyes and a perfect set of cheekbones. Oh—and had she mentioned his lips? They were very, very nice lips.

“Go on.” He pointed toward the sidelines, pushing up to a standing position. “You’ve got work to do.”

She rose and looked into his eyes—hoping for some answers to the thousands of questions whirling round her head, well aware that every part of her body was responding to seeing him again. Hearing him. Being close enough to touch him.

“You need to leave the pitch so all that stops.”

“What?” She looked around.

He lifted his chin in the direction of the stands, from where a flow of catcalls was pealing out. They were obviously aimed at Ali.

“You’re fine with that?” Aidan’s dark eyes crackled—the energy between them was as potent as it had been the first time they’d met.

“The shouting?”

“Yes.” His face was grim.

“I can barely hear them.” And it was the truth. All her senses were triangulating in one very specific direction.

“I’m not fine with it.” Aidan took her by the elbow, turned her around and began to walk her off the field.

“Hey! I can walk on my own, thank you very much!” Ali protested.

“You don’t need to make a bigger show of things than you already have,” Aidan bit out.

“I’m sorry?” Ali bridled. “I think the only ‘show’ was Chris’s head-bleed. Frog-marching me off the field is a pretty bad idea.”

And it was. Aidan dropped her elbow instantly and strode off the field. She could make her own way.

Dr. A. Lockhart. Dance injury specialist, sports medicine MD, and surgeon, brought in for a locum position. When he’d hired her he’d thought her ream of credentials made her perfect for fine-tuning the team’s training in the build-up to the final.

And now he knew she was very same woman who had slowly but surely been consuming every sane brain cell he had left since their night at the airport?

Miss Cosmopolitan.

She had actually rocked his world. Never before had a woman made such an impression on him. From the very moment he’d laid eyes on her.

She’d been sitting at the hotel bar, her eyes on the television weather report, lazily tracing a swizzle stick along her lips. He had become mesmerized by the movement as her mouth had responded to the touch of the little black straw. It had been just about the sexiest thing he’d thought he’d ever seen. Before he could give himself time to think better of it he’d sent her a drink. Ten … fifteen minutes couldn’t have passed before they’d been in the elevator and he’d been tracing a finger along her lips, hungry for more. Much more.

No names … no attachments. It wasn’t how he normally operated—had ever operated—but by the time they had been finished she had been worth every single nail scratch on his back.

He narrowed his eyes as he watched her disappear down the tunnel toward the changing rooms. Glossy black hair streaming in a thick swatch from beneath her team cap, crystal-clear blue eyes so bright they seemed lit from within, and a pair of raspberry-red lips which he could all too easily remember—

No you don’t! Stop.

“Doc! Watch it!”

Aidan nearly collided with Chris, who was trying to give his face a scrub with his filthy jersey.

“Sorry, mate. Away with the fairies.”

“Where’s Harty?” Chris looked around the sidelines.

“Who?”

“Dr. Lockhart,” Chris bit out, his tone abruptly changing.

“Chris, are you all right?” Aidan walked him over to a bench.

Ali had capably gone through the concussion test, he knew—he’d kept careful watch. But sometimes a clot could appear later, with devastating effect. He hoped that wasn’t the case.

“Yeah, fine.” Chris exhaled heavily as he sat. “I just want to get back out there. When’s Harty going to stitch me up?”

“Don’t you trust my stitches anymore?” As the words came out of his mouth Aidan knew they sat wrong, but the mention of Dr. Lockhart on such comfortable, friendly terms had riled him.

She’d been here—what?—a fortnight?—and already had a nickname? He’d been with the team five years and had barely managed to get the odd “Doc” out of the players. Then again—it wasn’t exactly as if he was the easiest person to get to know. He knew if he was more open with the players they would respond in kind—but he wasn’t there yet. Maybe he never would be. Maybe “closed off’ was just who he was.

Either way—he didn’t need to be behaving like a jealous doctor. Ali’s stitches … his stitches—it didn’t matter. She was a highly qualified doctor and he’d hired her for her skills. She clearly had the stomach for it. A “fluffy ballerina” type wouldn’t laugh at a face covered in blood. The best thing he could do was shake it all off. It would keep things professional. Unlike his response to Ali.

Feeling envious because the players got along with the new doctor …? Ridiculous. It was what anyone would hope for. Harmony between support staff and players.

He scraped a hand along his stubbled jawline.

Harmony?

Who was he kidding? The only way he could describe his response to Ali Lockhart was Class A caveman. And that wasn’t going to work. Not here. His reputation went hand in hand with the team’s. Work and emotions weren’t things he mixed. Ever. His annual fortnight of charity work in the Pacific Islands was an upfront-and-center reminder of that. Five years on and he still hadn’t shed a tear. Maybe he never would.

“Are you all right for me to do the stitches?”

Ali appeared by his side with a suture kit in her hands.

“Go ahead.” He nodded in Chris’s direction without looking at her. Those blue eyes spoke volumes and he couldn’t go there. Not now. “Do the concussion tests again before you okay him for play.”

“Would you rather do it?”

“You’re getting paid to look after these boys. You go on ahead.”

He kept his eyes on the field, arms tightly crossed over his chest as he watched the players get into formation at the referee’s whistle. It might look like mayhem to some, but he liked rugby. There was a system. A playbook. Rules.

He liked order, and Ali’s presence here was bringing nothing but chaos.

Ali wished she could scrub away the crimson heat racing into her cheeks. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like an underling.

The cheek! Her hands flew to her face. Her cheeks! Aaaargh!

She huffed out a sigh and started swabbing at Chris’s mud-and blood-covered forehead.

Working with Britain’s premier sports physician was meant to be professionally rewarding. Trying was more like it! On multiple levels.

“Ouch! Easy, Harty.”

“I thought you were a roughtie-toughtie?” Ali gave Chris an apologetic grin and tried to lighten her touch.

She couldn’t let Aidan get to her. Not on a professional front, anyway. Her job was the one thing Ali knew she excelled at, and she was not about to let some perfectly gorgeous chippy doctor from up here in the hinterlands boss her about. Even if she had spent several hot and steamy, never to be repeated, perfectly delicious hours of lovemaking with him.

She rubbed a numbing agent on Chris’s forehead, quickly put in the stiches and gave him another run through the concussion exam. She wasn’t one hundred percent convinced—not enough to prove to Aidan, anyway—so told him he’d have to sit out the rest of the game, and then she’d do the tests again.

“Safety first!” she quipped with a Doris Day grin. Or at least that was the look she was going for. Chris stuck his tongue out at her in response. Child …

Maybe coming here had been a mistake. Already she was getting attached to these big old lugheads, and that hadn’t been part of the plan. Not by a long shot. Nor had sleeping with her new boss, but it seemed that had happened, too. This was all going swimmingly!

Aidan Tate was The Suit.

Who would’ve believed it?

She’d been a secret admirer of his expertise for years. He’d sounded so caring and professional in the medical journals he was regularly published in. And he’d been oh, so very tender and attentive at three, four and five in the morning, when neither of them had felt the need to sleep. Humph! Double-humph!

She grabbed her phone from her coat pocket and did what she always did when things started to get emotional. She bashed out a message to her former mentor from dance school.

What’s the protocol on breaking my contract?

Her mentor had been wise and sage, had had hair like Einstein and—also like Einstein—he had known everything. At least about her. The one person on the planet who had. He’d helped her move on. Just as she had when her mum had died. Just as she had when she had learned she would never dance again.

Then she deleted it. He was gone now—some ten years ago—and she wasn’t a quitter. Never had been. Except when life had forced her to … to alter her course. That was how she preferred to see things. Taking matters into her own hands.

She took her cap off and ran her hand through her hair. Platitudes. Handy when you needed them, trite when you didn’t.

She tried to focus on the stands, the players, the flashing billboards—anything to keep her eyes from the unmoving figure of Aidan Tate. But no matter where she looked her internal camera kept imposing Aidan everywhere. On the big screens, on the looping advertising banners encircling the pitch … even the close-ups of the players showed those flashing dark eyes and that thick black hair she’d so enjoyed running her fingers through as she—ahem—had behaved distinctly unlike her old self.

Aidan had quite obviously been behaving out of character, as well. Caring and studious? Ha! Cranky control freak was more like it. It appeared looks weren’t the only things that could be deceiving.

She tipped her head back and forth in the hope that some answers might fall out. If she’d learned anything in the past few years, it was that most situations were definitely not what they seemed to be. She needed to get out of there.

She watched as the players hurled themselves around the field.

No.

She didn’t.

She owed it to these guys to stick around.

She’d made an oath. An oath to protect and care for her patients. And there they were—all cauliflower ears, biceps bulging, thigh muscles like logs, all gussied up in their unmistakable red-and-black uniforms. The North Stars.

As the cool air swirled around her play intensified and the crowd audibly kept pace with the action. She couldn’t have felt further away from home. Not that she had one to go back to anyhow. Which was the whole point, wasn’t it? Being here. Now.

The past is where it belongs, she reminded herself. You’re safe here.

Ali couldn’t help letting a burble of giggles escape her lips. Safe here? On the sidelines of one of Britain’s most brutal games?

That’d be about right.

CHAPTER TWO

SWITCHING ON THE overhead lights to her warehouse loft flat, Ali felt the adrenaline from the day’s match drain away. The adrenaline from finding out The Suit was her new boss …? That little nugget was keeping her pulse-rate a bit high.

She kicked off her shoes. They landed one by one with a satisfying thunk-thunk on the far side of the flat. She was giving “bachelorette pad messy” a whirl, and it was fun. More fun than watching Aidan sort out the day’s steady stream of cuts, abrasions and strained muscles. She thought she’d earned some Brownie points with her treatment of Chris’s cut, but he’d hardly let her so much as swab a skinned knee after that. So much for earning her keep …

Her stores of controlled breathing, counting to ten and biting her tongue had pretty much been exhausted by the time the final whistle had blown.

Where was the amazing physician she’d heard about, who took new doctors under his wing and single-handedly teased new and seemingly unreachable skills out of them? Where was the volunteer coach lauded as a hero to a rugby squad of twelve-year-old girls? Who had stolen the doctor every medical journal in Britain couldn’t praise enough and replaced him with Generalissimo Grumpy-head? What was the point of being here if she wasn’t going to learn anything?

She leaned against the closed door, well aware that her body was virtually vibrating with all the things she had learned from him—just nothing she could use in the workplace.

But honestly! Who in their right mind would turn down a guy who looked as if he could fix your car, fend off a swath of marauding invaders and pose for one of those posters of sexy guys holding tires in a garage, wearing not much more than a scrappy old pair of jeans? Scrappy jeans just slipping off his hips … right where the little notchy muscle definition bits met …

Nooooooo! Not the way this thought process was meant to go.

She felt herself soften. A little. He couldn’t be that much of a control freak. She had just worked two weeks on her own while he’d been off swanning around in the Pacific, or wherever it was they said he’d gone. Maybe it was all part of some unknown test he set for his minions. Prove thyself—then watch and learn.

Geniuses were supposed to be arrogant, condescending, haughty and superior—but from what she’d read this guy had sounded as if he had heart. That would need some excavating. Not to mention his inability to give her a go. He should be thanking his lucky stars she had come up here at all! She had her own reams of kudos, accrued over a lifetime of—well, of avoiding everything one did in life but work.

Bah! None of this was helping.

She padded across the worn Oriental rug sprawled across the aged wood floors. It was the only thing she’d brought from her “old life” in London, and it matched the vintage feel of the building perfectly. The floor-to-ceiling windows were her favorite feature of the loft. A classic accent from the building’s heyday as a thread factory. If she was really honest she could very easily fall in love with the place. An enormous loft penthouse with an enviable view overlooking the River Teal versus her two-up, two-down with a view across the street? It’d be pretty easy to get used to this.

Not that the flat was her new home. It was an investment. She didn’t put down roots. She made investments. Easier to leave that way.

Ali slipped her keys into a red-lacquered bowl she’d found at a charity shop—the only decorative touch to her kitchen island—and pulled open the door to her enormous American-style refrigerator. The pickings were pretty sparse. The remains of a triangle of cheddar, an out of date ready-to-bake baguette and some just-about-to-wilt salad greens were the only inhabitants of the shelves. It was hardly the food of champions.

She had hit the ground running when she’d moved up here, and grocery shopping hadn’t made it on to her list of things to do. After such a rough day, a hot meal would go down a treat. In London she’d already be on the phone, ordering Thai noodles or a delicious eggplant parmigiana from Casa de Luna. They made it perfectly—crispy round the edges, nice and gooey in the center. Here—well, she knew they had takeaways, up here in the wilds of the North of England, but …

It wasn’t the same.

“It’s not the same—and that’s the point, you ninny,” she scolded herself out loud. Onward and upward!

She was here to push her limits, to reach new horizons and blah-dee-blah-blah-blah. How many pep talks did she have to give herself before something, somewhere, felt right again?

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Ali draped her team duffel coat over one of the two kitchen bar stools, went to her bedroom, peeled off the layers of outdoor gear and put on her favorite pajama shorts with a cozy slouch-shouldered jumper.

Me, some scraps of old cheese and a bit of TV. Precisely what the doctor ordered!

The jangle of the doorbell nearly made her jump out of her skin. She hadn’t had any visitors before and certainly wasn’t expecting any now.

She hurriedly pulled on her woolly slipper boots and jogged to the door. When she pulled it open her stomach careened round her insides and her heart lurched into her throat all in one blood-racing moment.

Standing there, or rather filling up her doorway, eyes twinkling and a bottle of red dangling from his fingers, was The Suit.

“Hello, there, neighbor. Fancy a bit of work talk over a glass of vino?”

Ali’s heart changed its syncopation—moving from dirge to dance mix in an instant. Pure determination kept her from unleashing a broad smile at his presence. She was a steely-gazed doctor, not a moony-eyed teenager. Right?

Her body’s response to Aidan had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was the most gorgeous male specimen she’d ever seen. Clothed or otherwise. Or with the fact that his voice was about as trickle-down-your-spine scrumptious as they came. Especially when he was whispering sweet nothings into her ear as he traced his fingers across her bare belly in an endless swirl of figure-eights.

He was an arrogant know-it-all! And now he was her neighbor?

“What are you doing here?”

Not really a comment out of the etiquette books, but she was pretty sure they were past social niceties.

“I live a couple of buildings down in the complex and thought I’d be a bit more welcoming than I was this afternoon,” he explained with an innocent smile.

“But how did you know I …?” she started, then petered out.

“Apart from the fact your contact details are listed on every emergency sheet at the stadium, who do you think sent you the recommendation you check the place out?” He held up the bottle of red. “This was my thank-you from the building committee for your decision to move in. I thought it would only be fair to share the spoils.”

Aidan practically purred as he made to enter her apartment minus an invitation.

Ali stepped aside on autopilot, all too aware of the scrummy male scent of him as he swept past her into the loft. She could think of a thing or two he could do to be more welcoming—and they were definitely not in an etiquette book.

Regroup! Ali stared at the closed door and tried to come up with a plan. Think, think, think, think.

Kick him out. It’s the only way. Time to show the upper hand.

Ali whirled around, only to see Aidan merrily nosing around her kitchen.

“What’s for dinner, honey? Hope it goes with red!”

Aidan’s voice was infused with the same twinkle of humor she could see in his eyes. The same rascally voice that had kidded her about how quickly she had managed to rip his clothes off. Well, not rip exactly—she had been aware that he might need his shirt the next day—but who knew cotton could seem such a thick barrier between a woman and The Suit’s chest? The clothes had had to go!

He gave her a wink. A cute one that threatened the tightly pinched corners of her mouth. He really did have the most beautiful brown eyes. They somehow managed to look even more like dark chocolate now than they had the first time she’d seen them. A rich contrast to the deep maroon lambswool jumper that his shoulders filled to designer perfection. Of course. Would The Suit’s shoulders do anything but?

What had happened to his suit, anyway? Probably best he didn’t have it on. Too much temptation. Mind you, his earth-toned moleskin trousers didn’t exactly look off the rack. Aidan was rocking a sophisticated “lad” look. Complete with ironically arched eyebrow as he scanned her flat.

It was obvious, as she watched him take in the old leather sofa, the bare walls and the small dining table without chairs, that he found her living arrangements amusing.

“I’m presuming no one told you we have furniture stores up here?”

“Look—” Ali started, then clamped her lips tight. It wasn’t as if she was going to tell him she’d sold all of her furniture in a spontaneous and very thorough need to clutter-clear.

Everything she’d had before her mum died was a memory, and ever since then she didn’t do rehashes of the past. She wasn’t going to tell him a single thing. Not about her mother. Not about her who-knew-where-the-hell-he-was? father. Not about the accident that had ended her dance career before it had even begun. Not a word. Just like she’d said at the airport. No names. No history. Just unbridled passion.

It was obvious Aidan wasn’t after a roll in the hay now. He was on a fact-finding mission.

Too bad! This was her space. One night stands at snowy airports were one thing. Casual drop-in dinner dates with her grouch of a boss had a whole other rulebook.

“Doesn’t seem the doctor’s got much in the house.”

Aidan was making himself quite at home—merrily inspecting her refrigerator’s stores and, having found them wanting, opening up the cupboard doors where he would see, Ali knew, absolutely no food. It was all very familiar for someone with whom she was—er—intimately familiar.

“I’ve been busy. I haven’t really—”

“If you’re going to be part of this team you’ve got to keep your energy up.” Aidan wagged a teasing finger in her direction.

Who was this man? Dr. Jolly-Jekyll or Mr. Keep-Your-Hands-Off Hyde?

“Well?” Aidan looked at her expectantly.

“Sorry? I didn’t catch that.” Ali tugged her fingers through her hair, twisting a few dark strands round her index finger. Her stomach was in knots, so her hair might as well be, too.

“What’s it short for?”

“What?” She stared at him blankly.

“Your full name—I presume it’s not Ali.”

“Alexis. Defender of humankind,” she answered by rote, eyes suddenly locked with his.

Aidan stepped out from behind the kitchen bar, clasping her right hand between both of his. A burst of electricity shot along her spine as she found herself eye to eye with the appealing expanse of his chest. She’d kissed that chest. Lots. A nice display of sexy man whorls of hair above a c’mon, punch me hard set of abs.

If she were to look up into those espresso-colored eyes of his and—

She felt her hand being rigorously shaken.

Er … Was she missing something here?

“Hello there, Alexis.” He further corrected himself, “Dr. Lockhart. I think we got off to the wrong start today.”

Today?

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Dr. Aidan Tate, Chief Medical Officer for the North Stars—at your service.”

He dropped her tingling fingers, took a broad step backward and performed a half bow, then looked up at her with those incredible, endlessly dark eyes. Ali felt her knees give a little.

For heaven’s sake. You’ve met the entire royal family and didn’t act like such a ninny. Pull yourself together!

She gave him a slight head-nod. If this was his version of an apology he had yet to win her over. Well. Professionally. “Dr. Ali Lockhart—at your service.”

There were a number of things Aidan could have said in response, but they wouldn’t serve the purpose of his visit. He was here to begin afresh with Dr. Alexis Lockhart, the team’s new physio-surgeon with one turn-you-green-with-envy CV.

“On paper it looks as though you’ve never taken a moment off to do anything other than study or practice medicine. When did you start? When you were twelve?”

“Something like that.” Ali crossed her arms protectively across her chest and looked away.

There was a story there. Maybe too much time in the science lab accounted for her wild-girl antics at the airport.

His gaze slipped down toward Ali’s feet, stopping to note a couple of scars on her left knee. He’d not noticed them the other night—which was pretty amazing, considering the gymnastics they had achieved. His curiosity was piqued, but he looked away. He wasn’t being fair. He’d come here to apologize and now he was treating her just the way he’d insisted to the coach the players would. Like chattel.

Coach Stone had been fairly terse when Aidan had suggested they see if they could transfer her to another team and bring in a different locum for the rest of the tournament season. One who wasn’t so easy on the eyes.

“Not a chance.” That had been the unwavering reply. The players had taken to her straight away, Stone had said, and hiring someone else with credentials like hers at this point in the season was going to be nigh on impossible. She was staying and that was that.

He cleared his throat and looked at Ali’s reflection in the window. Since when were lambswool boots and a mismatched set of pajamas so sexy?

Maybe if he pictured Ali with an eye patch it would help. And a hideous perm. And a hunchback.

“Earth to Aidan?” Ali was waving her hands in front of his face, pulling him out of an embarrassingly obvious stupor.

“Yeah—sorry, I was just thinking.”

“Anything you care to share?”

Might as well go for it.

“The elephant in the room.”

“Which elephant would that be?” Ali smiled her hostess smile at him.

Aidan couldn’t help returning her smile. If things were different they’d make a great pair. But they weren’t—so it was best to lay his cards on the table. The man she’d met at the airport didn’t exist in his everyday life. The man she’d met was an anomaly.

“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

“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.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve got this one covered, Dr. Tate.”

“Hey, listen, guys—no need to fight over me.” Rory giggled.

“We’re not fighting!” Ali and Aidan answered simultaneously.

“Uh …” Rory looked round at his teammates. “Anyone else here see Mommy and Daddy bickering again?”

“Yup.”

“Sure did.”

“Me too!”

“Same old, same old.”

Aidan tightened his grip on Rory’s elbow as the confirmations rolled in. They weren’t fighting.

“Dr. Lockhart and I were merely having a professional disagreement. Over treatment. Which is a wise thing to do. Options should always be discussed before invasive action is taken. That was the reasoning behind our hiring Dr. Lockhart in the first place.”

“Not because she’s a hot doc?” shouted one of the boys. Aidan threw a glance in Ali’s direction, hoping for some backup. Annoyingly, she was laughing along with the rest of the lads.

“Rory. Get a move on. We need to get some ice on you and take some X-rays.”

“I’ll just stay here with the boys, shall I?” Ali called after him.

“Whatever you think is best, Dr. Lockhart,” Aidan called over his shoulder, hating himself as he did it.

What could he do, though? It wasn’t as though he was going to admit he had the hots for his new colleague. Work and pleasure—they just didn’t mix. If it meant he had to come across as a hard-ass some of the time—well, then, so be it. These boys had a tournament to win—and that needed to be his priority.

“What was that all about?”

Ali held the door open, but didn’t look anywhere near issuing him an invitation to enter. She hadn’t said two words to him the rest of the day at work, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d gone all Cro-Magnon on her and that wasn’t the best way to work together. It wasn’t any way to work together.

“Would it help if I said you were possibly right?”

“Possibly?” Ali looked indignant.

“Well, it’s a fracture. I strapped him up—figure-eight—and told him to rest and ice it tonight, and that both of us would take a look in the morning, when the swelling had gone down.”

“That’s very magnanimous of you.” Ali fake-smiled at him, then began to close the door as she spoke. “Thank you for coming by to let me know.”

“This—” he lifted up a two grocery sacks and stuck his foot in the doorway “—is a peace offering. Can I make you dinner?”

“What? And have you one-up me again?” Ali’s hackles were well and truly raised.

“No.” Aidan pressed his heels into the ground and made himself grow a couple of inches.

He knew he’d been a jerk, but he was hardly going to let Ali turn this situation into a free-for-all of notch-gathering. The North Stars’ medical needs were ultimately his responsibility. And he knew the patients better than she did. Fact.

“I’m happy to have takeaway—or nothing, if you prefer—but we’ve got to sort this out.”

“What, exactly?”

“You. Me. How we deal with things at work.”

Ali rocked back in her woolly boots and he could almost see the decision-making process in her eyes.

“What were you going to make?”

“Risotto.”

She pushed her lips out into a deep red moue and arched a brow.

“What kind?”

“Asparagus and lemon. My nan’s recipe.”

“I didn’t know your nan was Italian.”

“She wasn’t—but I dare you to diss my nan’s risotto.”

“Ha!” Ali pulled open the door and let him pass. “Do you have her tucked around the corner somewhere?”

“Not tonight,” Aidan mused as he carried the shopping to her kitchen island. “I wasn’t certain if you’d offer to cook.”

“That’s something we both know is unlikely to happen.” Ali padded over to him and began to nosy through the bags.

“You want to open up that wine I brought the other day?” He scanned the counter to see if it was still there. It was.

“You go ahead.” Ali slipped onto one of the barstools and watched as Aidan began to hunt round her kitchen for knives or chopping boards or whatever it was he needed to make risotto. “I’m ‘in between’ drinks right now.”

“Oh, yeah?” Aidan smiled up at her. “What does that mean?”

“It happens sometimes—I just can’t pick what drink I like. Right now I’m leaning toward soda and lime.”

“Jumping on the wagon?”

“No—” she started, then reconsidered. “Maybe. I don’t know … Just haven’t felt like drinking. It’s my new boss.” She pulled a face at him. “He’s working me so hard I need to be at the top of my game so he’ll stop questioning my expert opinion about things. Like injured clavicles near the pinch zone.”

“Ali …”

“Yes?” She drummed her fingers along the kitchen island.

She was looking forward to an explanation. She was used to being in charge. Biting her tongue in front of her patients was not familiar terrain and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“Here.” Aidan handed her a knife and a big handful of asparagus. “Chop these up, will you?”

“Tell me why you undermined me today.” She stood her ground. She wasn’t going to be sidetracked and pushed into a sous chef role to boot.

“Honestly?” He looked at her and about a thousand thoughts jockeyed for pole position. “I’m …” he began, then reconsidered. “You’re—This is all a big change. Having you here.”

“Why? Because I’m a woman or because I’m better at practicing medicine?” She gave him a sassy grin.

“Because you’re different.” Aidan responded tactically. “I know you would be hard-pressed to believe it—but I don’t really do change. And having you here is one change after another, so you’re going to have to be patient with me. I hired you because I respected your work. I’d like you to stay—but you’re going to have to get used to working with me. We’re meant to be a team. This isn’t a one-woman chop shop, okay?”

Ali couldn’t stop herself. She had to laugh. One-woman chop shop? That was a good one.

“Who doesn’t like a bit of surgery?”

“Me! It’s not my area of expertise and—Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ali. Do I have to spell it out for you? I may be the CMO of one of Britain’s best rugby squads and able to make a killer risotto, but you know your way around the surgery ward. It’s impressive, Ali. Truly.”

Their eyes met. He was impressed by her? Her lips twitched into a smile. She was tempted to do a little victory dance, but gloating wasn’t her style.

“What was it you wanted me to do with this stuff?” She pointed at her cutting board.

“The asparagus? Small bite-sized pieces, please.”

Ali began hacking away at the innocent asparagus stems and snuck a peek at Aidan, meticulously pithing a lemon. You did pith them, right? Something like that … With big strong hands attached to some rather lovely forearms …

He glanced across at her cutting board. “Easy there, Doctor. I hope you don’t treat your patients like your asparagus.”

“Sorry?” Talk about micromanaging! Hadn’t they just been through this?

Aidan received the full force of her crackling blue eyes. “Don’t glare at me! You’re the one attacking it!” He couldn’t help laughing at her furrowed brow. “Here—let me.”

Aidan laid a hand on Ali’s and gently guided her knife across the asparagus spears, slicing them into emerald green bite-sized pieces.

He felt her hand stiffen at his initial touch, but as they made their way through a few more of the fluid movements she began to relax. A warmth began to move from her hand to his, straight up his arm and across his shoulders. Being with her this way, doing something as familiar as cooking, was calming him. A welcome tonic after a hectic day with the North Stars. A heated memory of the night they’d shared. An unspoken suggestion of things to come.

He felt her hair brush against his cheek as she turned to face him. Her blue eyes were searching his. There was very little space between them and it would have been incredibly easy to just lean in and tease a few kisses out of her full lips. Lips he’d been aching to taste from the very moment they’d parted at the airport.

From the look on her face, she wouldn’t stop him if he leaned in. He saw it in her eyes—just as he had the moment they had seen each other at the bar. Desire. Longing. But tonight it went deeper than that. If he touched her now he knew he wouldn’t stop at a kiss, a simple caress. He couldn’t. Not with her.

Ali reached him on a level he hadn’t thought possible anymore. Not after the island, where his heart had gone numb with shock when he’d lost his grip on his childhood sweetheart’s hand. He hadn’t even begun to know how to mourn her. How to honor her life—the future they would never have together. But from the very moment he had laid eyes on Ali he had felt alive. It was intoxicating, and he knew he was going to have to fight every cell in his body to maintain control.

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