Just What the Doctor Ordered

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “I’m certain those designs—” Ainsley gestured at the sketches “—have been perfect for at least a month. You know, Miranda, it is possible to work a project to death. Ivan needs your help. And it’s only for a little while.”

  “Ainsley, I don’t see why you need me for this. You can dance with him. You’re a much better dancer than I am, anyway.”

  “This won’t work without you.”

  Miranda’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flitted across her expression. “If I were a dance instructor, that might be true. Might,” she stressed. “But as I’m not, I believe you can handle the dance lessons all by yourself.”

  There were ways to get around Miranda’s stubbornness…and Ainsley liked to think she knew them all. “Come on, Miranda. Just for a little while? I can’t dance and give instructions at the same time. I’ll have to stop the music to explain a step and then start the music to show him how to do it. Then I’ll have to stop the music to explain, and start the music to demonstrate. Stop the music, start the music, stop the music, start the music, stop the music, start the music, stop, start, stop, start—”

  “Stop!” Miranda held up her hand like a traffic cop. “You’re twenty-six years old, Ainsley. When are you going to stop trying to wheedle favors out of me?”

  “You’re twenty-nine, Miranda. When are you going to stop treating a couple of hours of fun and relaxation as if it’s a death sentence?”

  Miranda’s eyebrows arched in a scold, but her lips were already curving toward a smile. “One hour,” she said. “I’ll give you and Ivan one hour after dinner. But that’s it, Ainsley. That’s time I should be going over these sketches again, so don’t pester me for more. Agreed?”

  Ainsley nodded and smiled her you’re-the-best-sister-in-the-whole-wide-world smile, as she scooted around the desk to administer an affectionate hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You won’t regret this, Miranda, I promise. You may even thank me one day.”

  “Don’t press your luck, Baby, or I may have you out replanting shrubs to make up for this little favor.” Miranda’s focus turned back to the detailed landscape plans in front of her and Ainsley escaped without having agreed to any time restraints.

  She’d replant shrubs with a happy heart if this worked. Not that there was much danger of Miranda having made a mistake in her design, and even less that she could have missed it all four million times she’d reviewed the layout scheme. The landscape of the new pediatric center would be as well-thought-out as the building itself, a garden of beauty surrounding a hospice of hope.

  Despite the sixty minutes of scrutiny Miranda was giving up this evening to dance with Ivan.

  Sixty minutes. Ha.

  Once she was in Ivan’s arms, Miranda would forget she had an agenda. She’d forget the sketches altogether. She’d forget time even existed. Ainsley had danced with Ivan. She knew how it felt.

  Miranda wouldn’t be able to resist.

  * * *

  Miranda danced the way she did everything. Precisely. Perfectly. With not a wasted motion or a hair out of place. If that intimidated Ivan, however, he certainly wasn’t letting it show. For the past half hour, he and Miranda had danced around the ballroom floor at Danfair with the greatest of ease, proving Ainsley’s contention that Ivan could dance when he wanted to and that her sister was the perfect, complementary height for him.

  Not that one thing had anything to do with the other. Ivan had a natural grace and, while his steps weren’t as polished as say, Matt’s, for instance, he had nothing to worry about. As for Miranda’s five-foot-eight-inch height…well, Ainsley simply thought she fit well with Ivan’s six-foot-three-inch frame.

  Not that that mattered, since neither one of them seemed even remotely aware of how good they looked together.

  From the sidelines over by the open terrace doors, Ainsley observed her sister and her friend with a critical eye as they swirled past on the three-quarter rhythm of a waltz. How could two people who were so dead-on perfect for each other seem so blithely unaware of the romantic potential between them? Just what was it going to take to get these two to notice the possibilities in each other? Where was the spark of attraction and when was it ever going to ignite?

  “Keep your arms bent, but relaxed,” Ainsley instructed as they circled close to her again.

  “He’s doing fine,” Miranda said in crisp tones that irritated Ainsley more than usual. “Quit fussing at him.”

  “I was talking to you,” Ainsley fired back in sisterly rebuttal. But, of course, Ivan really was the one she’d been trying to coach from the sidelines, for reasons that were foggy even to her. It was clear he didn’t need much in the way of guidance. He was doing fine, getting whatever subtle corrections he might require from his dancing partner, the multitalented Miranda. But the longer Ainsley watched them the more she wished she’d never asked her sister to help. The more blended their dance steps became, the more she regretted putting them together like this. Talk about wasted opportunities. This was almost as bad as watching Scott walk right past his perfect match and sit down at the table with Molly.

  The more Ainsley thought about it, the more annoyed she became. She was starting to wonder if Ilsa’s method of researching a client and then setting up an introduction of possibilities wasn’t outdated. Maybe there was something to be said for arranged marriages and introducing the two main participants after they’d already exchanged vows. Then a matchmaker would really be in charge and there’d be none of this frustrating waiting around for something—anything—to happen.

  Why she was so impatient with the pace of this particular romance, Ainsley couldn’t quite decide. Maybe she was simply overeager to jump ahead to the conclusion of this drama…or nondrama, as it was turning out to be. Or maybe she was restless and wanted a change, needed something new to think about. Maybe she knew the players too well. But there was no avoiding the knowledge that if Miranda would open her eyes and look at Ivan, there’d be no further need for a matchmaker. And if Ivan would pay some serious attention to the woman he currently held in his arms, he could have her heart on a string before the “Blue Danube” came to its final harmonic chord.

  Earlier, Ainsley had thought this dance practice was one of her better ideas. The perfect opportunity for one of those oh-my-what-have-I-been-missing? moments, with the added benefit of not being a true introduction of possibilities. If there had been even a little bit of cooperation from either one of the primary parties tonight, Ainsley could later truthfully claim to Ilsa—or even Miranda, if the subject ever came up—that she hadn’t, technically, done anything to put together the match.

  Ivan had needed a refresher course.

  Miranda was an excellent dancer.

  Voilà, the whole thing had simply happened during the dance lesson, she could say. She’d be off the hook professionally and not accountable for the eventual outcome. She could be pleasantly surprised when the romance developed, and delighted as it progressed.

  But that wasn’t happening.

  Nothing was happening…except that she was feeling more and more like a star player, confined to the bench, while the second-string athletes lost the game.

  “There, that was perfect,” Miranda said as they glided to a stop on the final note of the waltz. Then, without so much as a blink of reluctance, she stepped back out of his arms.

  Ainsley just had time to wonder if her sister was actually conscious, before Ivan turned to her with a question. “What do you think, Ainsley?” he asked. “Am I ready for Broadway?”

  Miranda laughed, displaying her rarely exercised sense of humor. “Just like a man. Once around the floor without mishap and he’s ready to star in a musical.”

  Personally, Ainsley thought Ivan would be terrific…it was her sister she worried about.

  “Maybe I need a little more practice before the a
uditions start,” he conceded with a grin. “I did warn you, Miranda, I have more enthusiasm than finesse.”

  “You’ll do fine at the gala,” Miranda said confidently. “But my advice is to concentrate on the basics and leave the finesse for a later occasion.”

  “You two were mad to dance together,” Ainsley said, believing—however futilely—that the evening might still be redeemed. “Why don’t you dance one more dance together before we quit.”

  “Oh, I think being mad to dance together is a fitting conclusion to this lesson,” Ivan said, picking up on her slip of the tongue and teasing her with a grin. “And I’m sure Miranda’s relieved to have it over.”

  “You weren’t that bad,” Miranda said.

  “Made,” Ainsley corrected even though they weren’t listening. “I meant to say you were made to dance together.”

  “Thanks for working with me, Miranda. I do feel a little more confident now, and if all else fails, I have a line ready to go.”

  “Let me guess—” Miranda said “—old football injury?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Experience.”

  “Miranda used to date a football player,” Ainsley supplied, although no one had asked her. “Nick Shepard.”

  “Good old Nicky,” Miranda said. “He used that ‘old football injury’ excuse any time he didn’t want to do something. Which happened quite a bit, as I recall.”

  “He’s still a great-looking guy, though. He’s on television now. A soap opera star,” Ainsley said, which was not only irrelevant but downright dumb.

  Miranda seemed a little puzzled by it, too, but whatever she might have said in response was interrupted by Tomas, who stood in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot, unsure if he could speak before being spoken to, no matter how many times he was told otherwise.

  “Yes, Tomas?” Miranda asked.

  “Telephone,” he said, turning it into a foreign word with about six extra syllables, a cross between his native language and the English he was learning with painstaking effort. “For you.”

  “Me? For Miranda?” Miranda pronounced her name distinctly—she liked to be sure before she took a call that it was, actually, for her. No wrong numbers allowed on her time.

  Tomas nodded, pleased to have gotten his message across on the first try. “Meez Murr-an-da,” he repeated. “Where take?”

  “Well done, Tomas, thank you. I’ll take the call in the study.”

  He smiled and nodded some more as he backed from the doorway. Miranda was halfway to the door herself before she seemed to remember her manners. “I enjoyed our dance, Ivan,” she said. “I’ll see you Saturday night.”

  “I’ll understand if you want to sit out our dance,” he called after her.

  “Don’t be silly,” she called back, and was out the door and gone.

  Good riddance, thought Ainsley, the forgotten.

  “Well, I think that went well,” Ivan said.

  “Oh, it was just hunky-dory.”

  “You don’t think I’m ready for prime time, huh?”

  Chagrined at allowing her pique with Miranda to show, she offered a smile to offset it. “I think you were ready before my sister even walked into the room, but then Miranda’s opinion always carries more weight than mine.”

  Not her best effort at hiding her feelings. Ainsley turned on her heel and walked over to fiddle with the sound system. Her hands shook a little and that agitated her all the more. There was no reason for her to be upset. Just because she had a sister who might as well be in a coma for all the attention she paid to the possibilities right in front of her nose. But why should Ainsley care? It wasn’t as if tonight had been some kind of final exam she had to take before becoming a full-fledged matchmaker. There wasn’t an exam. Not even a test case. Ilsa would never even know about this. No one would ever know about it…because nothing had happened.

  “Ainsley? Is something bothering you?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, schooled her expression into unconcern. “Me?” she asked, feigning innocence. “No. What would be bothering me?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

  “No,” she said brightly. “Nothing.”

  “So what are you doing?”

  “Turning off the music.” Except that the music hadn’t stopped although she was pressing—and pressing—the off button.

  He reached for her hand, pulling it away from the control panel. “You’re hitting the dimmer switch,” he said.

  Only then did she notice the lights were fading around the perimeter of the ballroom. “Oh, well, I was close. The sound system is right…” She leaned forward to squint at the panel of switches.

  “Over there.” Ivan indicated another panel nearly a foot away from the first.

  “I knew that.” Pretending she wasn’t flustered by her mistake, Ainsley reached over and tapped a button. Like magic, the music stopped, then suddenly started blaring a different tune. She should have just hit Off, she realized. “Oops, didn’t mean to do that.”

  Her over-the-shoulder glance caught Ivan’s puzzled expression. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

  “I’m terrific. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Great.” She returned to contemplating the music player…and the reason her heart was hammering her rib cage insistently and her palms were beginning to sweat. Being upset with Miranda wasn’t exactly something new. They were sisters, after all, and living under the same roof, albeit a very large roof. But their disagreements didn’t usually leave Ainsley this agitated, this unfocused. She couldn’t figure it out, unless maybe she was coming down with something.

  “Can I help?”

  She jabbed a few buttons and the player switched albums. “I’m changing the music,” she said decisively. “Let’s tango.”

  Surprise arched his brow as she spun to face him, extending her arms for the dance. “I thought we just decided I should stick to the basics.”

  “That was Miranda,” she said. “Given a choice, she’ll always opt for the basics. I, on the other hand, think people ought to take a risk now and then, if only to speed up their metabolism.” Ainsley grabbed his hands and placed them in position, one at her waist, one at her shoulder. “Are you ready?”

  “I think that should be my line.”

  “Dance,” she commanded, and on the downbeat of the music she propelled him back and into the steps.

  To say he picked up the intricate footwork with little effort would have been a misstatement. But he took his cues from her, and although he did falter occasionally, there was no denying he had an innate sense of timing and anticipated her moves with surprising accuracy. Numerous times in the past, she had coaxed him into twirling her around this very ballroom floor. They’d laughed and teased and paid no attention whatsoever to their feet. Even less to what dance step they were improvising. It had been movement, an expressive joy in the moment, and nothing more. They’d been simply two friends—brother and sister, really—clowning around.

  But this wasn’t like that.

  Something had changed. She didn’t know what. Or why. But this wasn’t like that, at all.

  She was too short for him. He was too tall for her. But somehow, the longer the dance went on, the more perfectly their moves coalesced and the easier it became to lose herself in the dance, in the warmth of his hands as they pulled her close, then spun her away again. She was conscious, in a way she hadn’t been before, that he was not her brother, that he was, in many ways, a stranger. Her heart—kickstarted by her agitation even before the music began—jumped several beats at that realization, and she stumbled.

  He caught her easily and swept her back into the dance, a certain rueful determ
ination in the smile he offered, as if the misstep had been his fault. She knew it had been hers, yet she didn’t say so. For the first time in memory, she didn’t know what to say to Ivan, didn’t have the words to explain her odd thoughts and feelings. They pulsed inside her body, as if the music had gotten into her blood and made it pound with a rhythm not her own. Her palms were no longer sweating—they felt dry as a desert now…and hot. Her fingers felt tingly, too, but when she flexed them, it only seemed to increase their sensitivity.

  “Okay?” she asked Ivan, forcing the word into a bright inquiry, as if she were simply worried that he might be, somehow, not okay.

  “Great,” he said, and his voice sounded normal, as if this was no different than all those other times he’d danced with her in this room. “How about you?”

  She nodded, unable somehow to meet his eyes, definitely incapable of conversing with him. This was ridiculous. Her imagination must simply be running with all the things she’d hoped would happen with Miranda. She was just playing her sister’s role, that was all, allowing this dance to take on an importance it wouldn’t otherwise have had. That was the reason everything felt topsy-turvy. That was why dancing with Ivan seemed suddenly so fraught with danger. With possibilities.

  Ainsley missed another step, but recovered in time to dip backward across his arm. For a split second, she got lost in his gaze, in the enigma of wondering what might have happened had she been Miranda and awake to the possibilities of him. Would he have kissed her in that moment? Would she have kissed him?

  The music surged and Ivan pulled her up and back into the dance, unaware—thankfully—of how wild her thoughts had been. This was crazy. She wasn’t Miranda, who had probably never done an impulsive thing in her whole life. She was Ainsley, whose imagination had always hovered closer to fancy than fact. Next thing she knew she’d be imagining that he had kissed her.