match for them.
All around the chandeliered space, Diana saw good things. Laughing faces, liveliness, shimmer and shine. Everyone looked happy and satisfied. Everyone except...
Her gaze was drawn again to the one man who seemed utterly still in a room full of motion. His matte black tux drew the light in and kept it. He was supposed to reflect the light, didn’t he know?
Champagne sips provided some discreet cover as Diana kept an eye on him, waiting for his date or his wife to return. The song ended, the dance floor cleared, and still, he brooded alone, sitting at an empty table near the dance floor while everyone else was mingling.
Diana frowned into her bubbly. She didn’t like to see this man so unhappy. Then again, she didn’t like to see anyone unhappy, and she was pretty good at cheering people up, so she and her champagne headed over.
It’s going to be like cheering up James Bond.
Not a hardship, really. Handsome man in a tux?
I choose to accept this mission.
While she was grinning at her own silly thought, James Bond cut his gaze to her. Just, bam. One second he’d been brooding at the dance floor, the next, she’d been caught in a green-eyed, intense stare.
Oh, my.
She hadn’t expected such sea-green eyes from a man with such richly brown hair. Handsome? Holy cow, handsome.
Those sea-green eyes stayed on her, but otherwise, the man didn’t move a muscle. Handsome as all get-out, yes, but not happy at a happy party. She had a job to do.
“Hi,” she said, while she was still a few feet away. The faintest lift of his brow revealed his surprise that she was headed for him. “Thanks for saving me a seat.”
She gave the hem of her bright green dress a tug to be sure it wouldn’t ride up and expose her derriere, then sat in the chair next to his. The dress was a little too short, but she’d fallen in love with its layers of fringe. Even when she moved only the tiniest bit, the fringe looked like she was dancing. Still, she was showing a lot more skin than usual. In an effort to look less like a ’60s go-go girl and more like a flapper from the ’20s, Diana had twisted her brownish—well, mostly red—hair into something resembling a short bob, secured with a jeweled brooch on the side. That had been another great reason to use her stingy boss’s single ticket: the chance to play dress-up.
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