The Midwife's Pregnancy Miracle. Kate Hardy

aware that the hospital grapevine had labelled him a heartbreaker, a playboy who had an endless string of one-night stands. There was a grain of truth in the rumours, because he never got involved with anyone for the long term; but he really wasn’t a heartbreaker and he was picky about who he slept with. He always made sure that every woman he dated knew the score right from the start: that it was just for fun, just for now and not for always. He definitely didn’t leave a trail of broken hearts behind him, because that would be unkind and unfair.

      But there was something about Ella that drew him. A simplicity of heart, maybe?

      Which was precisely why he ought to make an excuse and get her to dance with someone else. Put some space between them until his common sense came back. He didn’t want to mess up their working relationship. Even though right now he really, really wanted to dance her into a quiet corridor and kiss her until they were both dizzy.

      Then he became aware that she was speaking and shook himself. ‘Sorry, Ella. I was wool-gathering. What did you say?’

      She gave him the sweetest, sweetest smile—one that made his heart feel as if it had just turned over. ‘Nothing important.’

      ‘I guess I ought to stop monopolising you and let you dance with someone else,’ he said.

      * * *

      Which was Oliver being nice and taking the blame for her social mistakes, Ella thought. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. She kept the bright smile pinned on her face as they went back to join the rest of the team. Then Charlie Warren, one of the other doctors from Teddy’s, asked her to dance. Although Charlie was usually quite reserved, his offer was genuine enough, so she accepted.

      ‘So are you enjoying the ball, Ella, or here under sufferance like me?’ Charlie asked.

      ‘I’m enjoying myself.’ In fact, much more than she’d expected to. Though she had a nasty feeling that Oliver was the main reason for that. ‘I’m sorry you’re not.’

      ‘I never do, really,’ Charlie began, then grimaced when she trod on his toes.

      ‘Sorry,’ she said instantly. ‘I’m afraid I have two left feet.’

      ‘I thought all Irish people were supposed to be natural dancers? I guess you have Riverdance to blame for that.’ It was an attempt at humour, as he was obviously trying to make polite conversation, but for as long as Ella had known Charlie, he’d always been distant with everyone at work. Quite the lone wolf.

      ‘Sadly, that gene bypassed me,’ she said. ‘I’m more Flatfeet than Flatley.’

      ‘I think my toes have already worked that one out for themselves but, even though we’re no Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, you look lovely tonight, Ella.’

      ‘Thank you,’ she said smiling. ‘I think you look more like James Bond than Fred Astaire anyway.’

      ‘You’re very sweet, Ella.’ He gave her a shy half-smile. ‘And you’ve made an otherwise dull evening much nicer.’

      Ella found herself going through a similar routine with the colleagues she danced with from the Emergency Department.

      ‘You know, we’re going to have to set up a special broken toe department in the unit, just for the men you’ve danced with tonight,’ Mike Wetherby teased.

      ‘So I’d be better off sticking to delivering babies than dancing, hmm?’ she teased back, knowing that he meant no harm by the comment.

      ‘You can dance with me any time you like, Ella O’Brien,’ Mike said. ‘As long as I have fair warning so I can put on my steel-toe-capped boots first.’

      She just laughed. ‘In steel-toe-capped boots, you’d be clomping around the dance floor as badly as me.’

      ‘Then we’d be the perfect match.’

      ‘Yeah, yeah.’

      And then Oliver rested his hand on Ella’s shoulder. ‘The next dance is mine, I believe.’

      The warmth of his fingers against her bare skin sent a shaft of pure desire through her. She reminded herself crossly that this was a charity ball and Oliver had danced with at least half a dozen other women. He’d treated them in just the same way that he’d treated her, with courtesy and gallantry, so she was kidding herself and setting herself up for disappointment if she thought that his behaviour towards her tonight was anything more than that of a colleague. And she wasn’t going to embarrass herself by throwing herself at him and being turned down.

      Was it wishful thinking or did the lights actually dim slightly as they moved onto the dance floor?

      Oliver drew her closer, and she shivered.

      ‘Cold?’ he asked.

      ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, not wanting him to guess that her reaction had been something so very different.

      He pulled back slightly and looked her in the eye. For a second, Ella could’ve sworn that the same deep, intense yearning she felt was reflected in his eyes. But that had to be imagination or wishful thinking. Of course he didn’t feel like that about her. Why would he?

      She stared at his mouth, wondering for a crazy second what it would be like if Oliver kissed her. It must be that second glass of champagne affecting her, she thought, vowing to stick to water for the rest of the evening.

      But dancing with Oliver was headier than any amount of champagne. And she noticed that, although she’d been clumsy with her other partners, with Oliver she didn’t seem to put a foot wrong. Dancing with him made her feel as if someone had put a spell on her—but a nice spell, one that made her feel good.

      And when he drew her closer still, she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Just for these few moments, she could believe that she and Oliver were together. Just the two of them, dancing cheek to cheek, with nobody else in the room. Just them and the night and the music...

      At the end of the evening, Oliver said casually, ‘I think you’re on my way home, Ella. Can I give you a lift?’

      The sensible thing to do would be to smile politely and say thanks, but she’d be fine—though she hadn’t remembered to book a taxi, and there was bound to be an enormous queue so she’d have to wait for ages in the cold. It was a twenty-minute drive from here to her flat. She could manage that without making a fool of herself and throwing herself at Oliver, couldn’t she?

      ‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you,’ she said. ‘It’ll save me having to wait ages for a taxi.’

      ‘Pleasure,’ he said. ‘Shall we go?’

      She walked with him to his car. It was icy outside, and the thin wrap she’d brought did nothing to protect her from the cold.

      ‘Here,’ he said, shrugging out of his jacket and sliding it across her shoulders.

      ‘But you’ll be cold,’ she protested.

      ‘Not as cold as you,’ he said.

      Typical Oliver: gallant and charming. But she appreciated the warmth of his jacket, and tried not to think about the fact that it had been warmed by Oliver’s body heat.

      Just as she’d half expected, his car was sleek and low-slung. When he opened the door for her, Ella nearly tripped getting in and was cross with herself for being so stupid and clumsy.

      ‘Ella, relax. There aren’t any strings. This is just a lift home,’ he said.

      More was the pity, she thought, and was even crosser with herself for being such an idiot.

      ‘Sorry. Too much champagne,’ she fibbed.

      When she fumbled with the seat belt, he sorted it out for her. Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed against her.

      Stop it, she told herself. He doesn’t think of you in that way. And you’re too busy at work to get involved with anyone—especially a colleague who apparently