Caro Carson - The Bachelor Doctor's Bride

Oh, yes, it was a great ball. Time for James Bond to enjoy it, too.

First things first. She angled her chair toward his with a little scoot. She stuck her hand practically into his torso, so he had little choice but to shake it. “My name is Diana.”

“Quinn,” he said, then released her hand. His voice was somber. The poor man was serious from the inside out.

He glanced away from her, but she kept her gaze on him and saw muscles bunch a little as he clenched his jaw, quite a tense reaction to something. She followed his gaze. He was unhappy about...Lana MacDowell.

Uh-oh.

“I’m sorry to tell you,” Diana said, “but she’s married. Happily.”

“Pardon?”

He said it like a cowboy, with just a touch of Texas twang, but the way he looked at her was purely upper-class offended dignity. He wore polished black cowboy boots with his tuxedo, as did probably half the men at this Austin ball, but he had “exclusive club” written all over him. Ivy League education, for certain.

Diana had to raise her voice as the music resumed. Who’d have guessed that a dozen people making up an orchestra could be as loud as any DJ with massive speakers? “She’s married. Don’t give her another thought.”

“I wasn’t,” he said, without taking his eyes off Lana.

“Sure, you weren’t.”

Mr. Bond brooded on.

Diana sighed and sipped her champagne. “I hate to dash anyone’s hopes, but that’s one marriage that is going to last.”

That got his attention. Those sea-green eyes looked directly at her again. Better at her than a married woman, she supposed.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Lana and I are friends.” For some reason, she added, “And business associates.”

Business associates? It sounded like she was trying to say she was as accomplished as Dr. Lana MacDowell, but Diana was most definitely not med school material. Not Ivy League. Not even community college. Why did she want James Bond to think she was?

She wasn’t his type. It was a simple fact. She could tell, at a glance, that this man would squarely put her in the buddy category. Maybe little sister—annoying little sister.

I’m not annoying, I’m friendly. Her heart was in the right place, so she wasn’t worried if his initial impression was “annoying.” She was going to be his buddy before the party was over, the gal pal who encouraged a guy to get out there and live. It was a role she fell into all the time. People liked her that way.

The poor man continued glowering as he watched Braden and Lana dance. “You’re being a little too obvious,” she said. “What is your name again?”

“Quinn.” From his tone, she guessed he didn’t like having to repeat himself.

Diana snapped her fingers. “Now I know who you are. I saw you on the hospital’s bachelor calendar, didn’t I?” She laughed out loud. “I didn’t recognize you tonight with your clothes on.”

“What?” He sounded baffled—or annoyed. Baffled was nicer, so she went with baffled.

“It’s a joke. I’ve only seen you in your doctor duds, the green scrubs. Didn’t recognize you tonight with your real clothes on, get it?”

He didn’t laugh, just sent a faint, polite smile in the direction of the dance floor. He probably preferred to get his humor from The New Yorker. Intellectual humor, not party joke humor.

Well, she was here to change all that. “Look, I’m good at matchmaking, so let’s find someone else for you to think about. We need to salvage your evening.”

That green gaze returned to her. “Do we? I wasn’t aware I was so dangerously near rock bottom.”

“You need to find the right woman for you. Lana isn’t it.”

He dropped his gaze, which meant he looked at her bare thighs being tickled by green fringe. Then he looked away, frowning faintly.

She tugged at her hem, relieved that he wasn’t ogling her. She hated when guys mistook her friendliness as a sign that she wanted to party horizontally.

It was hard to imagine that anyone had persuaded this man to pose for a fund-raising man-candy calendar. Diana remembered the photo, though. He’d been glowering in that one, too, as if daring the camera to make him take his surgeon’s garb off. She’d thought it was a shame the photographer hadn’t succeeded.

“Lana and I are only friends,” he said. “I’m well aware that she isn’t available.”

“And she never will be.”

“The divorce rate among doctors is astronomical.”

“The MacDowells are rock solid. Just put Lana out of your mind while we find you someone super special.”

Despite the loud music, Diana could almost hear his snort of derision.

She pretended not to notice. Men often acted tough and grouchy when they were really sad and lonely. She’d rescued enough homeless dogs to recognize the gruff defense. “The good news is, you’re far from a hopeless case. For starters, you’re a man, so we don’t have to work too hard to get you on the dance floor.”

“I don’t understand, Miss...?”

“Just call me Diana, please. ‘Miss Connor’ would be ridiculously stuffy.”

“Miss Connor. What makes you think I’m in need of your matchmaking assistance?”

“Because you’re sitting here sulking. Like a child.”

Being blunt had the desired effect. The look on his face made her want to laugh. He couldn’t even frown at her, she’d shocked him so greatly.

She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Don’t take yourself so seriously—or me, either, for that matter. I’m friends with Lana, you’re friends with Lana, so that makes us friends, too. As your friend, I’m here to help you get your party on.”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. At least she had his attention—totally, this time—and he looked like he was actually close to smiling. “How fortunate for me. I thought I’d never manage to get my party on. It was worrying me considerably.”

“Glad to hear we agree. Now, I was saying that you are at a big advantage because you’re a man.”

“Is that right?”

“You can ask a girl to dance. You have no idea what a luxury that is. This would be much harder if you were a woman. If you saw a likely candidate, you’d have to strategically stand where he could see you, make a little eye contact, flirt a little, and hope he asked you to dance.”

“I doubt you are saying this from experience. You don’t strike me as a wallflower.”

“I never ask the man to dance. I only approached you because you were so obviously in need of a little coaching.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll thank me later, trust me,” she said, answering his sarcasm with sauciness. “Now, what kind of woman do you think you want?”

He looked toward the dance floor, but Lana and Braden weren’t there. They’d probably gotten a hotel room—they were practically on their honeymoon.

Diana sighed dramatically. “Okay, okay. You think Lana is the perfect woman. Then let’s find you a woman like Lana.” Diana scanned the crowd. “Gosh, everyone is so beautiful. The whole ballroom is beautiful. Isn’t it great?”

When he made no comment, she turned to him. “Don’t you think it’s a great night?”

He shrugged, an uncaring movement of masculine shoulders under fine black wool.

“Well, it is. Everyone’s so sparkly. And happy.” She poked his lapel, earning herself another raised eyebrow. “And you’re going to be happy tonight, too.”

“What makes you think I’m not happy?”

Diana started to laugh, but she had the sudden intuition he was asking a sincere question. The man needed to take a good look in the mirror.

Diana decided to be that mirror. She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled, hard. Dropping her voice to the lowest bass she could manage, she said, “What makes you think I’m not happy?”