Annie O'Neil - London's Most Eligible Doctor

From monster athletes to the most delicately tuned ballerinas. Interesting switcheroo. Rumor had it he’d taken over for the clinic’s founder, trying to escape some demons of his own back in the US. Then again, the rumor mill in the dance world was about as sharp-tongued and schadenfreude -laden as one could get. One dancer down meant another dancer in. After a lifetime of dedication she was now getting the full glory of being the dancer down and it hurt. Big-time.

“After you.” Still focused on his chart, Cole gestured that she should head down the corridor before him. Not her favorite position as it would mean he’d probably see her limp. Not that the cane she carried wasn’t already a dead giveaway. But she wasn’t here for an audition. Only something she’d never done before in her whole entire life: a job interview. Not that she’d bothered to dress up for it or anything. Her thick, out-of-control hair was stuffed into a couple of over-the-shoulder plaits and she hadn’t even bothered borrowing something businesslike. Not when she was already perfectly at home in her favorite forest-green swishy rehearsal skirt. Never mind that it had become her favorite swishing-round-the-house skirt. It was still her favorite. And it swished. A girl had to grab her delights where she could.

A smile teased at Cole’s lips as “the favor” swooshed past him. He’d heard Lina was still smarting after her hip injury but at least she didn’t seem depressed. He believed anger was always better than the bleakness of despair and, from what he’d heard, Lina Keminsky had plenty to be upset about. Anger he could work with. It could be channeled into something productive. Something that made your world come alive again. Experience had taught him that time and again over the past five years. At least he was still able to do what he loved. In Lina’s case? She was going to have to do some proper soul searching.

“I’ve spoken to the City of London Ballet …” He let the words travel along the corridor and saw her spine stiffen, but the speed of her gait remained unchanged. The dance company would’ve done its bit for her as long as she was on the roster of dancers—but the phone call he’d received from Madame Tibold had confirmed she’d been officially signed off a few weeks ago. It was now seven months since her accident. Long enough to be up and about. Long enough to be facing the truth.

Unexpectedly, Lina whirled round at the end of the corridor, green eyes lit with sparks of passion. “I suppose they told you my performance as Giselle was an excellent career pathway to answering the telephone.”

It wasn’t often someone took his breath away and this was one of those Whoa! Howdy! Take a look at what we have here moments.

So. This woman was the “favor.”

Huh. Well. In for a penny …

He went to respond and found himself bereft of words. Peculiar. It wasn’t an affliction he usually suffered from. But what sort of human came close to having green eyes so … so green ? Lina’s strawberry blond hair accentuated the extraordinary shade of pale green that—at this particular juncture—was being cloaked by heavy-lidded suspicion. Just like a cat. The way she held her body, tilted her head at him, impatiently tapped her foot—they weren’t having the off-putting effect on him they were meant to. Her soft Polish accent just added to the overall affect. Mesmerizing.

There was no mistaking the dancer in her. Even if she’d chosen something else to do, she would command the eye. Lina Keminsky oozed sensuality. And a healthy dose of get-the-hell-out-of-my-business. Which, strangely, made him feel right at home. He knew that feeling, too. It was why he’d thought working with a bunch of rugby players would suit him. A no-feelings zone. Turned out, no matter where he went, those better-off-forgotten memories insisted on clipping at his heels.

No. Lina wasn’t emanating serenity—but she had showed up. It was something.

He could easily imagine how beautiful she would look with a smile peeling apart those tightly pursed lips of hers. Even they were a different hue than mere mortal lips. A pale pink rose color. And it was all natural. No lipstick or gloss. Not a speck of makeup anywhere and, from where he was standing, so much the better. Lina pulled the sides of her navy crossover cardigan in more snugly over her front. He’d caught a glimpse of her collarbones as she’d tugged it into place—a bit too prominent, he thought.

“We’re looking for someone with your experience.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He hadn’t ever actually planned to hire her. Just do the interview. That had been as far with the favor as he’d been prepared to go for the director of City of London Ballet. They had a lot of former dancers on staff, but they couldn’t take everyone. Particularly if they weren’t willing.

“What experience would that be, then? In breaking their hip, destroying their life, or both?”

“Reception.” Which she should’ve already known.

“And that involves …” Impatience ran across her face.

For heaven’s sake! Who was interviewing who here anyway? Despite his best efforts, Cole heard his crisp, officious voice come out. “We need someone capable on Reception. Someone who knows about dancers would be a perk.” Depending, of course, upon the level of “perk” Lina would bring to the job.

“I guess that rules me out, then.” Lina arched a brow, daring him to contest her.

Cole could feel the urge to rise to the challenge properly awaken within him. This woman didn’t want a pushover. She wanted combat.

He turned his own accent up a notch. Having a mother who’d grown up a dyed-in-the-wool Southern belle had its advantages. It had been drilled into him for years. The impression you make is everything. What you really feel doesn’t matter a hoot.

He gestured to his office door. It was time to get the balance of this little tête-à-tête back in order. “This isn’t normally how I conduct job interviews, Ms. Keminsky, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

There was a whimper from a small willow basket just inside the doorway and they both looked down. Puppy was looking up at them with his mournful eyes.

Good thing he wasn’t sentimental. The little tricolored ball of fur would already have a name if that were the case. His receptionist— ex-receptionist —had called it Fluffy and there was no chance Cole was going to run around the park calling out that name. Not that keeping it—him—was part of the plan. It was temporary. Right, Puppy? He gave the mutt a grudging nod of thanks. They could, at the very least, work as a team while they were stuck together.

“Right—so now you see why we need a receptionist.”

He pointed at a chair across from his desk and scooped up Puppy’s basket at the same time.

“Why?” Lina asked drolly, folding into the chair. “He no longer likes to answer the phones?”

“He’s broken his leg so he finds the hours too long. On top of which he doesn’t make a very nice cup of tea,” Cole replied.

Lina maintained a neutral expression. She was clearly a woman who didn’t fall for corny lines. As if to confirm his theory, she raised a dubious eyebrow at him, then moved her eyes to the puppy.

Interesting. Not someone who cooed straight off the bat. Now, that he liked. Not to mention being able to spar verbally with someone. Ballerinas … hmm …

Ballerinas had thick and thin skin and it was sometimes impossible to tell which tack to use. Lina definitely didn’t seem as though she needed coddling. Quite the opposite, in fact. While she took in his hodgepodge attempt at a puppy carrier—hey, needs must and all that—Cole took another studied look at her.