Читать книгу One Night...With Her Boss - Annie O'Neil - Страница 9

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.