One Night...With Her Boss. Annie O'Neil
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.”
“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