Just What the Doctor Ordered

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  The dance came to a natural end, but she stood a moment and studied the man she’d become too accustomed to thinking she would marry some day. “You’re an awful snob sometimes, Bucky, did you know that?”

  “I am not a snob. I’m a realist. Big difference.” His smile was slow and coaxing and, despite her efforts to be mad at him, rather persuasive. “You know what, Cuteness? Let’s go outside and grab some fresh air, what do you say?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Oh, come on,” he wheedled. “You might get that kiss you were after.”

  For a second she thought about kissing him, outside, in the moonlight. But even from where she stood, she could tell the moon was hidden behind a bank of clouds and she knew in her heart Bucky’s kiss would be no different than it always was. Pleasant, practiced, rather persuasive, with just the right amount of graduated pressure, just enough genuine feeling to lure her in, bring up her expectations. But somehow—especially lately—she somehow wound up dissatisfied after his kiss. As if he’d promised her Cloud Nine, but then decided she’d get dizzy if he took her higher than Cloud Five.

  Ainsley sighed. Maybe she did know him too well, was too familiar with his moves. Maybe that’s the way the best relationships worked. Maybe it was a good thing to be able to predict what her partner would do next in an embrace, where his hands would travel, when he’d part her lips with his tongue, how he’d smile at its conclusion. Until lately, she’d taken that knowledge as comfort, believed the familiarity was love. But just remembering the kiss she’d only imagined with Ivan brought a heated rush of color to her cheeks—so much for being pale!—and made her want to walk away from Bucky right now and not look back.

  Which was stupid. Especially considering that imaginary kiss had been a hypothetical one between Ivan and Miranda and had nothing at all to do with her.

  “Ainsley?” Bucky crooned, lifting a hand to his forehead as if he needed to shade his eyes. “Are you blushing? Or is that a reflection from those sugarplum lips?”

  “I am not blushing,” she said, although she could feel the sting of heat in her cheeks.

  “Mmm-hmm…and I suppose you’re not thinking about being kissed out in the moonlight, either.”

  “Not with these lips,” she said irritably. “Besides, there isn’t a moon. It’s turning cloudy. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it rains buckets before the night is over.”

  “Then we’d better go outside now before it starts, don’t you think?”

  “No.” She was tired of his smug teasing. “I’m not interested in going outside with you, Bucky.”

  He frowned, surprised and probably concerned by her unusual and—at least to him, anyway—completely illogical mood. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong with you tonight?”

  “Positive,” she lied crisply. “What could possibly be wrong with me?”

  “Well, you’re not dancing, for one thing.” Ivan slipped up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her away from Bucky by quick, subtle degrees. “I’m going to steal your girl for a few minutes, Bucky. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Not waiting for a confirmation, or caring if one came, he turned her onto the dance floor and propelled her right to the center. “You looked like you needed rescuing,” he said, drawing her into his arms even before the next song began.

  “I’m not his girl, you know.”

  “He seems to believe you are.”

  “Well, he’s wrong.” She knew, suddenly, and without reservation, that she wasn’t going to marry Bucky. She didn’t know why she’d ever thought she could. “And what makes you think I couldn’t save myself…if, as you say, I did need rescuing?”

  “Instinct,” he said. “Pure, heroic instinct.”

  Ainsley laughed, the first time since before dinner. “Where have you been all night, Ivan? I’ve been drowning in a sea of solemnity. Practically everyone I’ve talked with at this gala has been so deadly serious.”

  “You should have been at our table. We had a lot of laughs.”

  Because he’d been there, she knew. Because he dealt with serious stuff all the time and knew the wisdom of creating joy wherever he could. She’d always loved that about Ivan. He appreciated being able to laugh, was able to find humor and invite others to share it with him. “I wish I’d thought to switch place cards. Who was at your table?”

  The music began, a pleasant melody that barely registered in Ainsley’s thoughts as she found its rhythm, not so much dancing with Ivan as swaying with him in time.

  “I didn’t know there’d be a test. Let me see if I can remember all the names.” He was quiet for a moment, apparently going around the table in his mind. “Let’s see, on my right was Thea Braddock and next to her was her husband, Peter. He’s the architect for the pediatric center, you know. Great guy. And I really liked Thea. She was on the quiet side, but radiant, if you know what I mean. She has a wonderful laugh.”

  Ainsley smiled, remembering Thea before she’d married Peter, grateful for the friendship she and Thea had built since then. “They’re a wonderful couple, a true love match.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about her own part in bringing that match about, but remembered—just in time—that discretion was important. Especially as she was trying to work her way around to introducing Ivan to the possibility of a match with Miranda. Or at least, to laying the groundwork for it.

  “And on your left?” she prompted.

  “Julia Butterfield?” he suggested, as if he weren’t sure he’d gotten the name correct. “A statuesque young lady, who told me a great deal about the difficulties in being a vegetarian.”

  “She’s something of a health nut.”

  “But not much of a regular nut, apparently. Does she have a sense of humor?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” Ainsley said. “I can’t think of anyone who could say with certainty that she has a wonderful laugh.”

  “Maybe she’s saving it for a really funny moment.”

  “Let’s hope. Who was next to her?”

  “Who was next to her,” he repeated, his brow furrowing in concentration. “An older man. Nice-looking, with glasses. He did laugh, as I remember. Henry…McCarter.” Ivan smiled, pleased with himself for remembering. “He’s in banking. Then on the other side of him was a delightful little woman with tangerine hair and enough diamonds on her person to finance a small revolution. She kept the whole table in stitches, telling us about her various husbands. I think there may have been a dozen or so. The minute she discovered I wasn’t married, she leaned right across the table and propositioned me. Her name I won’t forget.”

  “Lizzie Abrams,” Ainsley announced confidently. “And I do hope you turned her down, Ivan, because besides being old enough to be your grandmother, she’s way more woman than you can handle.”

  He tried to look wounded by the remark. “Now, Ainsley, I believe you may be underestimating my experience with older women.”

  “I’ve learned better than to underestimate Lizzie. Isn’t she fabulous? She’s the kind of woman I want to be when I’m eighty-four.”

  “You don’t have to wait, Ainsley. You could proposition thirty-four year-old men starting right now. As I didn’t take Mrs. Abrams up on her generous offer, I’m still
available.”

  The laughter bubbled up in her throat. “I have other plans for you,” she said, the words out before she quite realized how much they gave away.

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Now that’s an intriguing possibility.”

  She gave him a blithely mysterious smile, as if she wasn’t frantically trying to figure out a way to cover her tracks. “I think so, too.”

  “Are you going to tell me your plans, or do I have to guess?”

  “You’ll never guess,” she assured him.

  “Ah, a challenge. Let’s see…you need a burly hunk of man to move your furniture?”

  “Move it where?”

  “I don’t know. That could be part of the plan.”

  “It could be, but it isn’t, although I can see where you’d want to picture yourself as the burly hunk kind of furniture mover.”

  “I’ll be happy to show you my muscles, if you have any doubts about that.”

  He was teasing, she knew, but the image of him, bare-chested and flexing his biceps for her inspection, brought a flush of heat to her cheeks again. “Tell me who you’ve danced with tonight,” she said, swiftly changing the subject.

  “Miranda. And you. But I’m still hoping to get to use my ‘old football injury’ before the night is over.” He smiled and steered the conversation back. “Now, tell me about those plans.”

  “Can’t,” she said. “You’ll just have to be patient.”

  “That’s no fun. How about a clue? I’ll make it easy for you—are these plans just for me or do they involve somebody else?”

  She looked at him, lips pressed tightly together to make her point.

  “Aha. I’m guessing these plans aren’t just for me, are they, Miss Secret-Keeper? So…” He drew the word out, contemplating the possibilities. “Okay, I’ve got it—you’re planning a part for me in the puppet show at the center’s grand opening. That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she agreed readily. “I’ve written you in as Elton’s straight man.”

  “I’ll be good at that.” The dance ended, but he showed no inclination to let her go. “But I don’t think that’s the plan we were talking about.”

  “Yes, it is,” she replied, widening her eyes in feigned innocence. “It is.”

  “Oh, come on, Ainsley, you used to love guessing games. Remember that time you filled the Tiffany vase with jelly beans and made us all guess over and over again how many there were? Then when anybody got close, you changed the rules so we had to guess how many of each flavor there were.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “Remember how Miranda kept saying she didn’t even like jelly beans? And she accused you and Andrew of eating them to manipulate the count. But really she was just frustrated because I kept saying ’wrong!’ every time she made a guess.”

  “You did say it with rather obnoxious glee, as I recall. So, how many guesses do I get before you start bellowing out ’wrong!’?”

  She should have remembered how persistent he could be. “Guess away,” she invited. “But I’m not giving you any hints like I did with the jelly beans.”

  “You gave me jelly beans, not hints.” The band started another song, a zippy fast dance, and Ivan saw Bucky heading toward them, purpose written on his face. Grabbing Ainsley’s hand, he pulled her with him toward the open terrace doors. “I could use a breath of fresh air. How about you?”

  “Wait a minute, this isn’t a version of that old football injury excuse, is it?”

  “Nope, just a displaced Texan’s need to see the sky.” He kept hold of her hand, feeling brave and daring for luring her away from Bucky yet again. He didn’t like that guy. Hadn’t liked the way he’d been looking at Ainsley earlier. Or the condescending tone of his voice. Or the way he combed his hair, for that matter. Stepping onto the terrace with Ainsley in tow, Ivan kept moving quickly out into the balmy night. But the gardens were pleasantly lit for fresh-air-seeking guests and Ivan suddenly wanted more privacy. He didn’t stop, but found and followed a wandering path through the flowering shrubs until they reached the lawn.

  “The air’s pretty fresh right here,” she said, obviously wondering what he was doing, where he was leading her.

  “Let’s see how far we can walk before we fall into the Atlantic.”

  “That seems a little drastic.”

  “Why? Don’t you feel like a swim?”

  “What is this, Ivan, really? A last-ditch effort to avoid dancing with someone other than me?” She laughed.

  The sound was as sweet in his ears as the distant tumble of surf. “You forget, I’ve already danced with Miranda, too.”

  “And how was that?” Ainsley tried to sound disinterested, as if she really didn’t care.

  Ivan glanced at her, but kept moving, although he did slow the pace now that the night was deepening around them. “What do you mean, how was that? It was Miranda.”

  “Exactly.”

  Stopping, he turned to face her. “And what does ‘exactly’ mean?”

  She looked almost startled at the question, then offered a teasing shrug. “Nothing,” she said. “What else is there to say about my sister except exactly?”

  But he knew every tone in her voice, every nuance of her face, and he recognized her expression for what it was. A caught-in-the-act look if he’d ever seen one. And he’d seen enough to know she was now trying to back-pedal her way out of a conversation she wished she hadn’t started. “I’d say, you’ve summed it up nicely.” He let her off the hook for the moment, but only because he wanted a minute or two to think about what, exactly, she was up to.

  And what he thought she was up to was matchmaking.

  “Miranda is pretty great,” he offered up as a test of his theory. “I’d say she’s exactly perfect.”

  Ainsley hesitated for a moment, as if taken aback. “I don’t know that I’d say she was perfect, exactly, but then she is my sister.”

  The stress on the possessive was pointed and the underlying meaning hard to miss. Which was that Miranda wasn’t his sister. “I’m surprised she hasn’t been swept off her feet by some lucky fella,” he said, leading her on.

  “I know,” she agreed eagerly. Too eagerly. “It’s almost as much of a mystery as why some pretty great female hasn’t nabbed you.”

  “Don’t forget I was propositioned just a little while ago.”

  She laughed easily, probably believing she was making progress with her plans. “Lizzie—” she said with feigned consideration “—would be more than a match for you, I’m afraid, Ivan. I think you need to look for someone a little younger and perhaps not so worldly wise.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Do you think Miranda…?” It was as close to trapping her as he could get without flat out asking the question.

  The silence stretched, and he could almost sense Ainsley’s racing thoughts. “Miranda?” Her voice came out pitched with surprise, as if the idea had never occurred to her. “I can’t say I ever thought about you and Miranda like that.”

  Bingo. “Can’t say I ever have either,” he said. “Which is a good thing since she told me not five minutes ago that she’s involved with some guy.”

  “She is?” The words practically exploded out of Ainsley’s mouth
. “She told you that?”

  He lifted his shoulders in a shrug that could have meant anything. It was a lie, of course, but he felt Ainsley deserved a little hitch in her getalong for plotting his future behind his back.

  “Who is he? Why don’t I know about him? When did she have time to meet…” The questions dwindled away as logic caught up with her. “Miranda didn’t mention another guy,” she said, with a wry look. “She wouldn’t admit that, even if it were true.”

  He shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting in a gotcha kind of smile. “Matt told me about the connections you make at IF Enterprises, that it’s a matchmaking business.”

  She sighed. “Well, it’s not a complete secret. I just try not to blab it to everyone I meet.”

  “I didn’t think you considered me everyone.” He didn’t want to make her feel guilty, though. He simply wanted to set the record straight about one match she wasn’t going to make. “It would never work with Miranda,” he said. “We’re too different.”

  “But that’s exactly why it will work. Opposites attract. They complement each other.”

  He was tempted to laugh, because she was so passionately wrong. “There’s more to it than that, Ainsley.”

  She drew herself up. “I’m the matchmaker,” she said. “I think I know what I’m talking about.”

  It was not the sort of thing he wanted to argue. She was struggling to find herself in this family of overachievers. They’d protected her, sheltered her, made her feel she had to fight for their respect…and she was finally making strides toward finding her true identity. He wanted to encourage her, not shake her new confidence. Even if he was certain—in this case, anyway—that she didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. “You’re right, Ainsley. I apologize. You have great insight into what makes people tick and you’re a lot better at reading people than anyone else I know. I have no doubts you’re a wonderful matchmaker.” He gave a smile to affirm that belief, as well as to soften the coming qualification. “It’s just that I can’t see anything happening between Miranda and me. I’m fairly certain she’d be horrified at the prospect.”