London's Most Eligible Doctor. Annie O'NeilЧитать онлайн книгу.
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?”