Читать книгу London's Most Eligible Doctor - Annie O’neil - Страница 10

IT WAS OFFICIAL. This was Lina’s worst ever nightmare in the history of nightmares. Who knew it would have such well-appointed surroundings? En Pointe’s reception area was about as Zen and soothing as it got. Creams and sages and tactically placed throw pillows in accent colors just the right side of understated chic. The polar opposite of the way she felt.

Auditioning—no, scratch that—interviewing for a job where she’d have to face her demons every day from nine to five? Someone up there was really testing her. Or having a mighty fine belly laugh. If this was her ultimate low, she was well and truly looking forward to the high.

A dark twist of pain tightened in her stomach. She’d had her highs—as a prima ballerina for three glorious, unbelievably wonderful years. Yes, she’d had her highs.

When she’d received the call from her former dance captain that there was a job going here, her first instinct had been to refuse it. It didn’t even sound real to her. Something officey at London’s premier dance clinic? That was the one job going in the whole of the city? Not that anyone in the ballet owed her anything. Not now.

She scanned the room. Okay. Fair enough. From the lack of a human on Reception she could see it was not a pretend job they’d made up just to get her out of her flat, but really? The path from prima ballerina to phone answerer was a bitter pill to swallow and already it felt like she was choking.

“What do you want to rely on? Your good looks?”

The words of her former ballet director—the notorious Madame Tibold—rang in her head. Over and over and over. So, here she was, feeling the opposite of pretty and down-to-the-bottom-of-her-piggy-bank broke. In the interest of keeping her landlord—and the ballet director’s haunting words—off her back, she was here. Seeing as she was out of the house she might even see what change she could rustle up for a visit to the Polish deli. A taste of home would be nice. Even if she could only afford a small one.

She looked around the waiting room and felt her face going into scrunched-up don’t want to be here formation. She fought it and forced her expression to return to rehearsal hall neutral. The one that didn’t show the pain.

When Lina was really being honest with herself, this job was a lifeline she needed to grab. There wasn’t a chance in the world she would call her parents for money after the sacrifices they’d made in her quest to become a ballerina. A small-town teacher shelling out again and again for shoes, tutus, training, trainers, foot stretchers, arch blocks … the list was endless. She owed them her very soul and would never ever ask them for anything again.

The most precious thing she “owned” was her shiny new titanium hip joint, which would have been difficult to hawk, and—more to the point—there would be no more income from the pirouette and plié department from here on out so it was time to look elsewhere. Which turned out to be here—En Pointe—where London’s hottest ballerinas came to be fixed. She might as well have left her pride on the coat hook when she’d come in.

But, hey! She was Eastern European. She could take it. Her hand automatically slipped down to massage her bionic hip as yet another nonlimping dancer swept past her out into the hubbub of early evening London. She could always tell dancers apart from … civilians … by their posture and physique. Lucky minx. If she was smart, she’d cherish every single moment she had as a ballerina. She certainly had.

All the doctors said she was supposed to have healed from the surgery by now, but she still wasn’t a hundred percent. She shook her head, a wry smile playing across her lips as her fingers toyed with her cane. Who was she kidding? She’d never be a hundred percent again and the fear that came with embracing that fact was threatening to destroy her. Just the buzz of the clinic wrapping up a busy day of sewing ballerinas back together for another night onstage—a night she would never have again—was like being seared with a hot poker again and again. No wonder she rarely left her flat these days. The pain that went with it was too much.

“Michalina Keminsky? I’m Dr. Manning.”

“Lina,” she snapped automatically, before looking up to match the male voice to the man. Uh-oh … She wished she’d not resorted to her post-accident narkiness quite so quickly. She remembered when people used to describe her as the “nice one.” From the frazzled look on the man’s face, a big load of attitude was the last thing he needed. Not that he didn’t look like he could handle it. He was tall. Six-foot-somethin’-somethin’. And fit. Not to mention a healthy dose of straight-up-her-strasse good looks, as well. His deep caramel-colored skin spoke to a mixed-race heritage. No stylized hairdo, just a smooth grade two from a not very talented barber, from the looks of things. Her fingers twitched, fighting a curious urge to reach out and run her hands along his head and then see what else happened.

Interesting.

She hadn’t felt physically charged in “that department” in quite some time. And his eyes! Two of the bluest, loveliest, darkest-lashed eyes she thought she’d ever seen. An optimum combo of sexy and nice.

“You coming?” He looked up for a nanosecond from the chart he was holding. “I’ve not got all day.”

Okay, fine. Not so nice, then. But at least he spoke in one of those American Southern drawly type accents. It took the edge off. She pushed up from the sofa, trying not to make it too obvious she favored one hip over the other. Even so, false sympathy made her cringe.

“You’re the boss.”

“Not yet.” He shot back. And then smiled. A nice and easy American smile.

Hmm. The jury was still out on this one. Dr. Cole Manning. He had been running En Pointe for a year after a stint up north with a rugby club, so she’d never met him in her prima days. A bit of a nomad, from the sound of things.

From monster athletes to the most delicately tuned ballerinas. Interesting switcheroo. Rumor had it he’d taken over for the clinic’s founder, trying to escape some demons of his own back in the US. Then again, the rumor mill in the dance world was about as sharp-tongued and schadenfreude-laden as one could get. One dancer down meant another dancer in. After a lifetime of dedication she was now getting the full glory of being the dancer down and it hurt. Big-time.

“After you.” Still focused on his chart, Cole gestured that she should head down the corridor before him. Not her favorite position as it would mean he’d probably see her limp. Not that the cane she carried wasn’t already a dead giveaway. But she wasn’t here for an audition. Only something she’d never done before in her whole entire life: a job interview. Not that she’d bothered to dress up for it or anything. Her thick, out-of-control hair was stuffed into a couple of over-the-shoulder plaits and she hadn’t even bothered borrowing something businesslike. Not when she was already perfectly at home in her favorite forest-green swishy rehearsal skirt. Never mind that it had become her favorite swishing-round-the-house skirt. It was still her favorite. And it swished. A girl had to grab her delights where she could.

A smile teased at Cole’s lips as “the favor” swooshed past him. He’d heard Lina was still smarting after her hip injury but at least she didn’t seem depressed. He believed anger was always better than the bleakness of despair and, from what he’d heard, Lina Keminsky had plenty to be upset about. Anger he could work with. It could be channeled into something productive. Something that made your world come alive again. Experience had taught him that time and again over the past five years. At least he was still able to do what he loved. In Lina’s case? She was going to have to do some proper soul searching.

“I’ve spoken to the City of London Ballet …” He let the words travel along the corridor and saw her spine stiffen, but the speed of her gait remained unchanged. The dance company would’ve done its bit for her as long as she was on the roster of dancers—but the phone call he’d received from Madame Tibold had confirmed she’d been officially signed off a few weeks ago. It was now seven months since her accident. Long enough to be up and about. Long enough to be facing the truth.

Unexpectedly, Lina whirled round at the end of the corridor, green eyes lit with sparks of passion. “I suppose they told you my performance as Giselle was an excellent career pathway to answering the telephone.”

It wasn’t often someone took his breath away and this was one of those Whoa! Howdy! Take a look at what we have here moments.

So. This woman was the “favor.”

Huh. Well. In for a penny …

He went to respond and found himself bereft of words. Peculiar. It wasn’t an affliction he usually suffered from. But what sort of human came close to having green eyes so … so green? Lina’s strawberry blond hair accentuated the extraordinary shade of pale green that—at this particular juncture—was being cloaked by heavy-lidded suspicion. Just like a cat. The way she held her body, tilted her head at him, impatiently tapped her foot—they weren’t having the off-putting effect on him they were meant to. Her soft Polish accent just added to the overall affect. Mesmerizing.

There was no mistaking the dancer in her. Even if she’d chosen something else to do, she would command the eye. Lina Keminsky oozed sensuality. And a healthy dose of get-the-hell-out-of-my-business. Which, strangely, made him feel right at home. He knew that feeling, too. It was why he’d thought working with a bunch of rugby players would suit him. A no-feelings zone. Turned out, no matter where he went, those better-off-forgotten memories insisted on clipping at his heels.

No. Lina wasn’t emanating serenity—but she had showed up. It was something.

He could easily imagine how beautiful she would look with a smile peeling apart those tightly pursed lips of hers. Even they were a different hue than mere mortal lips. A pale pink rose color. And it was all natural. No lipstick or gloss. Not a speck of makeup anywhere and, from where he was standing, so much the better. Lina pulled the sides of her navy crossover cardigan in more snugly over her front. He’d caught a glimpse of her collarbones as she’d tugged it into place—a bit too prominent, he thought.

“We’re looking for someone with your experience.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He hadn’t ever actually planned to hire her. Just do the interview. That had been as far with the favor as he’d been prepared to go for the director of City of London Ballet. They had a lot of former dancers on staff, but they couldn’t take everyone. Particularly if they weren’t willing.

“What experience would that be, then? In breaking their hip, destroying their life, or both?”

“Reception.” Which she should’ve already known.

“And that involves …” Impatience ran across her face.

For heaven’s sake! Who was interviewing who here anyway? Despite his best efforts, Cole heard his crisp, officious voice come out. “We need someone capable on Reception. Someone who knows about dancers would be a perk.” Depending, of course, upon the level of “perk” Lina would bring to the job.

“I guess that rules me out, then.” Lina arched a brow, daring him to contest her.

Cole could feel the urge to rise to the challenge properly awaken within him. This woman didn’t want a pushover. She wanted combat.

He turned his own accent up a notch. Having a mother who’d grown up a dyed-in-the-wool Southern belle had its advantages. It had been drilled into him for years. The impression you make is everything. What you really feel doesn’t matter a hoot.

He gestured to his office door. It was time to get the balance of this little tête-à-tête back in order. “This isn’t normally how I conduct job interviews, Ms. Keminsky, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

There was a whimper from a small willow basket just inside the doorway and they both looked down. Puppy was looking up at them with his mournful eyes.

Good thing he wasn’t sentimental. The little tricolored ball of fur would already have a name if that were the case. His receptionist—ex-receptionist—had called it Fluffy and there was no chance Cole was going to run around the park calling out that name. Not that keeping it—him—was part of the plan. It was temporary. Right, Puppy? He gave the mutt a grudging nod of thanks. They could, at the very least, work as a team while they were stuck together.

“Right—so now you see why we need a receptionist.”

He pointed at a chair across from his desk and scooped up Puppy’s basket at the same time.

“Why?” Lina asked drolly, folding into the chair. “He no longer likes to answer the phones?”

“He’s broken his leg so he finds the hours too long. On top of which he doesn’t make a very nice cup of tea,” Cole replied.

Lina maintained a neutral expression. She was clearly a woman who didn’t fall for corny lines. As if to confirm his theory, she raised a dubious eyebrow at him, then moved her eyes to the puppy.

Interesting. Not someone who cooed straight off the bat. Now, that he liked. Not to mention being able to spar verbally with someone. Ballerinas … hmm …

Ballerinas had thick and thin skin and it was sometimes impossible to tell which tack to use. Lina definitely didn’t seem as though she needed coddling. Quite the opposite, in fact. While she took in his hodgepodge attempt at a puppy carrier—hey, needs must and all that—Cole took another studied look at her.

She was hands-down beautiful. A bit too thin. Proud. Still had a slight limp after the hip surgery, which really shouldn’t have been there if she’d been doing all the rehab. And obviously resented being here. To hire or not to hire?

His number one motto sprung to mind: It’s up to you. And Lina Keminsky didn’t look like a willing player. This wasn’t a charity. It was a business. A frantically busy one even in the quiet times. And with her chip-on-the-shoulder attitude, he didn’t know if he could offer her the post. Not without making more work for himself.

“Our receptionist found herself a flamenco dancer who could only get work in Spain. He asked her to elope the same day as she got Puppy here. I guess the lure of the Latin lover won out. All of which is to say there’s an urgent need for a receptionist here at the clinic. Comes with a puppy.”

Lina’s fingers drummed along her collarbone, her expression impassive. She never liked to react to things straight away and she could tell Cole was assessing her. A twitch or a frown spotted by the ballet master could’ve knocked her off her career path so she had taught herself to smile or remain expressionless, then deal with the fallout in private. Just like she was trying to do right now. Except …

Right now? Right now it was all she could to keep her fingers from dancing the tarantella, let alone keep her pulse in line.

Her stream of visitors since the accident had gone from steady to trickle to nonexistent. She liked it that way. At least she thought she did.

But a blue-eyed, caramel-skinned and ridiculously long-lashed Dr. Charming, complete with a fluffy puppy in a basket? Unh-unh. No. She hadn’t banked on that.

She looked out the window to the sprawl of sky visible beyond the rooftops. Maybe this was some sort of heavenly intervention. A dark bank of clouds was hunkering in the distance. Hmm.

The day was morphing into something entirely unexpected. Did she wish she’d tamed her hair into something more sophisticated, washed her face, put on something other than her reliable skirt and navy wrap-over?

Yes.

Did she resent her former dance captain for needling her into coming out of her cozy fortress of a flat for a job she didn’t want?

Yes.

Coming along had seemed to be the only way to get everyone off her back. Now that she had, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to leave without learning a bit more about Cole Manning. And the puppy. It was cute. Mishmash mutt cute. One ear up, one ear down. Forlorn expression on its face. A little bit like looking in the mirror.

She narrowed her eyes at Cole. He was cute, too. But his ears matched. Hmm.

Nah. Nope. She wasn’t going to do it. Now wasn’t the time to open up. She hadn’t even come close to sorting things out for herself and she’d vowed not to let anyone in—let alone renowned Dr. Fancy Dance Clinic Manning—until she could face the world, aka her family, with pride.

Her fingers stilled as her gaze slipped away from Dr. Charming’s expectant gaze. She had been wrong to come. She wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, pressing herself up and out of the chair. “Maybe another time.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” Cole leaned back in his chair, hands lacing behind his head. “This is a limited-time-only offer.”

She pressed a hand against the wall to stabilize herself as a hit of dizziness unbalanced her.

The sensation was growing familiar. Food shopping hadn’t exactly been topping her list of things to do. Very little topped her list of things to do these days. What was the point when her entire life’s ambition—not to mention her daily routine for the past twelve years—had disappeared at the end of a poorly executed plié?

A plié! Of all the ways to shatter your dreams into smithereens …

“So what’s on offer, Dancing Doctor? Is this a job with benefits?” The words were out before she could stem them. Oops. She doubted they were printed on his business card. Not that he’d shown her one.

“I doubt anyone who has seen me dance would call me that.”

Maybe not. But he didn’t seem to mind.

His full lips opened into a broad smile. There was a little gap between his front teeth that was … Ooh, mój boże … It was sexy! Lina hadn’t felt anything close to even a hint of desire for months—okay fine, longer—and now twice in the space of an hour? Her giddy nerve endings were fighting her very best poker face for supremacy.

What was he doing being all good-looking and thirty-something anyway? She’d thought Dr. Cole Manning would look more—more academic, have furrows in his brow and maybe some white hair. A big shock of it. Who had put that dimple on his cheek when he smiled? That thing was about as close to irresistible as it got. And on top of that a puppy? Life was testing her. Hard.

Lina stopped herself from chewing on her lip. And ogling. It could come across as flirtatious. She didn’t do relationships. Not now—and she certainly didn’t do flirting. Particularly at job interviews.

“I hope you’re not trying to find another project—another success story. No headlines to be made here, I’m afraid.”

Did his jaw just twitch? Hard to tell. Maybe she’d hit a sore point. Well, too bad. This time of day was normally when she took a first-class nap. Then again, she’d been taking a few too many of those lately.

“Why’s that? What’s so bad about your story?” he challenged.

Uh. Apart from the totally obvious fact that she’d never dance again? She held her cane out between them. “It’s a bit too late for a full recovery.”

He let the words hang between them for a moment. She liked that he didn’t offer her the over-sympathetic expressions she’d had from all of the hospital staff when she’d been in recovery. The piteous looks had made her blood boil. She wasn’t someone to be pitied. She was someone who …

Who …

Well, that was as yet to be decided, wasn’t it?

Lina shifted her position as the wind dropped out of her sails. She didn’t exactly know who she was these days. All she knew for sure was what she wasn’t—a ballerina.

“I don’t think I’d be much good at delivering messages quickly for you.”

“Lina, I’m pleased to inform you En Pointe is part of the modern era. We receive and deliver our messages by telephone—not foot messenger these days.” And there came that slow smile again—like the sun coming out from beneath a cloud. Warming, wrapping round her like a protective blanket.

She considered him skeptically. Why was he doing this? Interviewing her—the least likely candidate for the job?

“And we have the latest in ergonomic chairs ready and waiting to be whirled in.” He gave her a playful smile and showed off his chair’s three-sixty spin. “If whirling in wheelie chairs between taking calls is your thing.”

She lifted an eyebrow and gave him a “yeah, right” look.

“And, of course, a whole lot of other things you are familiar with.” Cole’s face turned serious as he began to rattle off the seemingly endless list of injuries a ballet dancer—any dancer—could come across on any given day, at any given moment. Just. Like. Her.

He rose and crossed to a table where coffee and tea supplies were in abundance. Was that how he fueled himself?

“You’re Polish, right? So I presume you take coffee?”

She nodded.

“How do you take it?”

“White—no, black.” Her eyes caught his as she heard herself say, “I like both.”

She wasn’t talking about coffee anymore.

Heat instantly began to sear Lina’s cheeks and she forced herself to look away. Anywhere but at Cole. He was obviously mixed race and—słodkie niebiosa—he’d turned out perfectly. Not that she was attracted to him or anything. She was more used to being surrounded by gorgeous men at work than not. It had just … been a while.

She watched as he flicked the switch on the kettle before he opened a packet—definitely from a specialty shop—and poured a healthy pile of grounds directly into a waiting cafetière, grinned and gave her a wink. Measuring didn’t seem to be his thing.

“I hope you like it strong.”

Her tummy fluttered.

Er … what was that? She didn’t have tummy flutters. She had—well, she wasn’t quite sure what she had but she wasn’t a schoolgirl with strings of pastel-colored butterflies dancing gaily around her insides. She was a woman on the verge of figuring out what to do with the whole rest of her entire life now that all her hopes and dreams had careened straight over the horizon.

“So, tell me more about this job. Nine to five and see you later, boss man?”

“Something like that. Here, have some biscuits.” Cole tossed her the packet. Guess formality wasn’t his thing, either. Refreshing after years of ballet where every breath she’d taken, every gesture she’d made, everything had been based on exacting tradition.

Cole settled himself back into his chair after handing her a mug of coffee. “It’s pretty straightforward. Answering the phones, checking clients in …” He pointedly looked at his coffee. “Making sure the milkman has come.”

“You have a milkman?” The information brought an unchecked smile to her lips. She’d grown up in a small village where the milkman, the baker and butcher had still been everyday sights. Everyday jobs.

“Sure do.” Cole grinned back. “Why? Were you a milkmaid in your past?”

“No.” The smile abruptly tightened into a grimace. Her best friend from school had followed in her mother’s footsteps and milked her father’s dairy herd. They made cheese and, on special occasions, ice cream—but mostly it was delicious, creamy milk and very, very hard work which, by all accounts, she still did.

Lina had led a different life. Her parents had scrimped and saved and sacrificed so that their daughter could pursue her dream of becoming a ballerina.

Which one of them was happier now? she wondered.

She saw Cole watching her intently. Best to keep on track. Trips down memory lane weren’t of any use now. “The job?”

“Right. The job.” Cole had to stop himself from physically shaking his head to put himself back in the moment. He’d been outright staring and was pretty sure Lina had caught him at it. He doubted he’d disguised it as an interested-physician look. It had been a bald and outright I-wish-I-knew-more-about-you look. He cleared his throat.

“As I said, it’s pretty straightforward. It doesn’t pay a high salary, but if you’re happy to have a trial run—a week to start with to see if you’re interested and then three months before we sign a full contract—we open at nine a.m. I’d expect you at eight.” He named a figure and noticed Lina’s eyes widen ever so slightly. It wouldn’t put her in designer heels but it would pay her rent. The last time he’d checked, box-office staff at the City of London Ballet were receiving more an hour than members of the corps de ballet. Everyone needed to make a living, and fallen prima ballerinas were no different.

“So?”

Lina still hadn’t said anything. She took a sip of her coffee, her face unreadable.

“And if after one day I decide this isn’t for me?”

“We hire someone else. Simple as …”

“Simple as what?”

Cole laughed. “I don’t know. I heard someone cool on television say it and thought I’d have a go. Clearly, I’m not down with the hipsters.”

Lina took a bite of biscuit, hand curled protectively in front of her mouth as she chewed, rather than risk a reply. He didn’t need to be in with any crowd. Cole Manning was in a class of his own. She closed her eyes as the sugary sweetness of the biscuit melted into nothing on her tongue. It tasted like home. The one place she couldn’t go until she could show her parents she’d been worth the effort.

She looked at Cole again. He seemed genuine enough. As did the job offer.

A receptionist job. Well … She tried to keep her dejected sigh silent. At least she knew she was physically up to it. Talking to people—talking to dancers—all day might not come so easily.

She looked away from him, teasing at a pile of invisible flower petals on the floor. She didn’t want him to see how much she needed the job. Her foot automatically shaped itself into an elegant turnout as it swiped the “petals” to the side of the room with a controlled semicircle of movement. That much she could do.

“Cole!” A woman appeared at the doorway and gave the frame a quick double knock. “We need you in Reception right away.”

It was then that Lina tuned into the noises outside Cole’s office. There was the sound of a young woman crying. Periodically broken by an occasional heated wail. She knew that feeling. She knew it down to her bones.

“All right, Lina? Are we good?” Cole rose quickly to his feet, moving the puppy’s basket to the floor.

“So I already have the job?” She couldn’t help but let some cynicism sneak into her voice. This whole thing was sounding more and more like some sort of setup.

“Let me check what’s happening out there and then see how we go, shall we?”