One Night...With Her Boss

“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?”