CHAPTER ELEVEN
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.
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
