One Night...With Her Boss

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 (#ulink_9a47154e-12f3-5681-9de3-897759993394)

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.