Annie O'Neil - London's Most Eligible Doctor

’ If only she knew. Cruel to be kind was more like it. As Lina slipped her arms into the sleeves and shrugged the coat over her shoulders Cole was struck by how fragile her neck looked. Before they’d gone out she’d swept her hair up into some sort of semi-tamed twist. A few tendrils had come loose and were brushing along the length of her neck, her shoulders. It was taking some serious self-control to stop himself from reaching forward and letting the pad of his thumb or the length of his finger draw down the length of her neck. He could just as easily imagine dipping his lips to kiss the bare, pale swoop of skin between her neck and shoulder … Lina abruptly turned around, their noses nearly colliding. Cole instinctively grabbed hold of her so she could steady herself, but in that moment—and it was just a moment—with her face within kissing distance, her eyes catching his, Cole knew he’d have to channel his deepest powers of control or risk everything. Dear Reader About the Author ANNIE O’NEIL spent most of her childhood with her leg draped over the family rocking chair and a book in her hand. Novels, baking and writing too much teenage angst poetry ate up most of her youth. Now Annie splits her time between corralling her husband into helping her with their cows, baking, reading, barrel racing (not really) and spending some very happy hours at her computer, writing. Title Page London’s Most Eligible Doctor Annie O’Neil www.millsandboon.co.uk Dedication This book is a delight to dedicate! The heroine—Lina Keminsky—is inspired by one of my favourite people in the world. She is kind, passionate, and a most excellent maker of strawberry daiquiris! Thank you, Michelle Kem, for being the flame of creativity behind this flame-haired heroine. CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

IT WAS OFFICIAL. This was Lina’s worst ever nightmare in the history of nightmares. Who knew it would have such well-appointed surroundings? En Pointe’s reception area was about as Zen and soothing as it got. Creams and sages and tactically placed throw pillows in accent colors just the right side of understated chic. The polar opposite of the way she felt.

Auditioning—no, scratch that— interviewing for a job where she’d have to face her demons every day from nine to five? Someone up there was really testing her. Or having a mighty fine belly laugh. If this was her ultimate low, she was well and truly looking forward to the high.

A dark twist of pain tightened in her stomach. She’d had her highs—as a prima ballerina for three glorious, unbelievably wonderful years. Yes, she’d had her highs.

When she’d received the call from her former dance captain that there was a job going here, her first instinct had been to refuse it. It didn’t even sound real to her. Something officey at London’s premier dance clinic? That was the one job going in the whole of the city? Not that anyone in the ballet owed her anything. Not now.

She scanned the room. Okay. Fair enough. From the lack of a human on Reception she could see it was not a pretend job they’d made up just to get her out of her flat, but really ? The path from prima ballerina to phone answerer was a bitter pill to swallow and already it felt like she was choking.

“What do you want to rely on? Your good looks?”

The words of her former ballet director—the notorious Madame Tibold—rang in her head. Over and over and over. So, here she was, feeling the opposite of pretty and down-to-the-bottom-of-her-piggy-bank broke. In the interest of keeping her landlord—and the ballet director’s haunting words—off her back, she was here. Seeing as she was out of the house she might even see what change she could rustle up for a visit to the Polish deli. A taste of home would be nice. Even if she could only afford a small one.

She looked around the waiting room and felt her face going into scrunched-up don’t want to be here formation. She fought it and forced her expression to return to rehearsal hall neutral. The one that didn’t show the pain.

When Lina was really being honest with herself, this job was a lifeline she needed to grab. There wasn’t a chance in the world she would call her parents for money after the sacrifices they’d made in her quest to become a ballerina. A small-town teacher shelling out again and again for shoes, tutus, training, trainers, foot stretchers, arch blocks … the list was endless. She owed them her very soul and would never ever ask them for anything again.

The most precious thing she “owned” was her shiny new titanium hip joint, which would have been difficult to hawk, and—more to the point—there would be no more income from the pirouette and plié department from here on out so it was time to look elsewhere. Which turned out to be here—En Pointe—where London’s hottest ballerinas came to be fixed. She might as well have left her pride on the coat hook when she’d come in.

But, hey! She was Eastern European. She could take it. Her hand automatically slipped down to massage her bionic hip as yet another nonlimping dancer swept past her out into the hubbub of early evening London. She could always tell dancers apart from … civilians … by their posture and physique. Lucky minx. If she was smart, she’d cherish every single moment she had as a ballerina. She certainly had.

All the doctors said she was supposed to have healed from the surgery by now, but she still wasn’t a hundred percent. She shook her head, a wry smile playing across her lips as her fingers toyed with her cane. Who was she kidding? She’d never be a hundred percent again and the fear that came with embracing that fact was threatening to destroy her. Just the buzz of the clinic wrapping up a busy day of sewing ballerinas back together for another night onstage—a night she would never have again—was like being seared with a hot poker again and again. No wonder she rarely left her flat these days. The pain that went with it was too much.

“Michalina Keminsky? I’m Dr. Manning.”

“Lina,” she snapped automatically, before looking up to match the male voice to the man. Uh-oh … She wished she’d not resorted to her post-accident narkiness quite so quickly. She remembered when people used to describe her as the “nice one.” From the frazzled look on the man’s face, a big load of attitude was the last thing he needed. Not that he didn’t look like he could handle it. He was tall. Six-foot-somethin’-somethin’. And fit. Not to mention a healthy dose of straight-up-her-strasse good looks, as well. His deep caramel-colored skin spoke to a mixed-race heritage. No stylized hairdo, just a smooth grade two from a not very talented barber, from the looks of things. Her fingers twitched, fighting a curious urge to reach out and run her hands along his head and then see what else happened.

Interesting.

She hadn’t felt physically charged in “that department” in quite some time. And his eyes! Two of the bluest, loveliest, darkest-lashed eyes she thought she’d ever seen. An optimum combo of sexy and nice.

“You coming?” He looked up for a nanosecond from the chart he was holding. “I’ve not got all day.”

Okay, fine. Not so nice, then. But at least he spoke in one of those American Southern drawly type accents. It took the edge off. She pushed up from the sofa, trying not to make it too obvious she favored one hip over the other. Even so, false sympathy made her cringe.

“You’re the boss.”

“Not yet.” He shot back. And then smiled. A nice and easy American smile.

Hmm. The jury was still out on this one. Dr. Cole Manning. He had been running En Pointe for a year after a stint up north with a rugby club, so she’d never met him in her prima days. A bit of a nomad, from the sound of things.

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