O DIANA'S INTENSE RELIEF, THE MINOR FLURRY CREATED BY their late and conspicuous arrival soon died down. Waiters began serving the first course of the dinner that was included in the $1,000 cost of a ticket to the ball, and the events of the last half hour finally began to sink in.

She could hardly believe the forceful, sophisticated male in the elegant black tuxedo who'd materialized out of the shadows on the balcony was actually the same jean-clad youth who'd talked with her while he curried the Haywards' horses… and teased her while they played cards… and greedily dug into whatever food she brought along.

She reached mechanically for a crusty roll and broke it open, her hands then going still… The Cole she'd known before had always been hungry, Diana remembered fondly. A smile touched her lips—judging from the adult Cole's tall, muscular physique, he'd undoubtedly been hungry because he'd still had some growing and "filling out" to do.

A politely insistent voice near her ear intruded on her reverie as two bottles of excellent wine appeared in her peripheral vision. "Would you prefer red wine or white wine, miss?"

"Yes," she murmured absently.

The confused waiter hesitated, looked helplessly at her and then at Spence, who was on her left and who came to the waiter's aid. "Perhaps both," Spence suggested blandly.

Another waiter followed in his wake and slid a bowl of shrimp bisque in front of her; animated conversations and bursts of laughter swirled around her, blending with the soft clink of flatware against china, but Diana noticed none of that. Cole had changed a great deal, she decided as she absently spread a rosette of butter onto the roll, then laid it on the plate without touching it and reached for a glass of wine instead. She picked up the one closest to her hand, a chardonnay, smooth and mellow.

The years had not mellowed Cole, she thought a little sadly, just the opposite. As a youth, he'd had an aura of hard-bitten strength, but he'd seemed approachable and kind, even gentle at times. Now there was a cynical edge to his voice and a coldness in his eyes—she'd witnessed both when she objected to entering the ballroom with him. He was battle-hardened, toughened. But he was still kind, she reminded herself. When the photographer had appeared on the balcony, he was kind enough to rush to her rescue. He was also quick enough and smart enough to instantly devise a plan that turned a negative situation into one that would work in her favor. To accomplish that, he had kissed her…

Diana's hand shook as she reached for her wineglass again and took another hasty swallow. She should never have let that happen! What a foolish, uncharacteristically impulsive thing for her to do. And what a kiss! Soft at first… awkward for her as she came into unexpected closeness with the legs and chest and mouth of a stranger— an old friend, whose mouth had covered hers with casual expertise and then with teasing insistence… and then with increasing demand. He'd lifted his head, ended the kiss, stared into her eyes… and then he'd kissed her again… almost reluctantly, and then almost… hungrily.

Diana's cheeks reddened with embarrassed heat, and she drained the rest of the chardonnay, trying to steady her nerves. She shouldn't have let that second kiss happen. Other women got jilted, and they didn't throw themselves into the arms of the first available man who offered sympathy.

Or did they?

Now that she thought about it, maybe they did!

In fact, now that she thought about it, she realized she was overreacting to everything and making far too much out of a simple, meaningless kiss enacted purely for the benefit of a spying reporter. While she was obsessing on a kiss, Cole had probably forgotten the entire trivial incident. For all she knew, he had escorted a woman to the ball who was with him now. Either way, he was undoubtedly being showered with attention at the head table and having a perfectly pleasant time.

She tried to resist the impulse to find out for herself and failed. Cole's table was two rows in front of Diana's and a little to the left, directly in front of the auctioneer's podium, which was on a raised platform. By looking slightly to the left or the right, she could see between the shoulders of the group at the next table and see most of the people at Cole's. Casually, she lifted her glass to her lips and looked to the right. The head table was larger and seated more people, two of whom made Diana's heart sink the instant she saw them.

Franklin Mitchell was the chairman of this year's ball, and he and his wife were naturally seated at the head table—but so was their son, Peter, and his wife, Haley, formerly Haley Vincennes. The other couple were friends of Peter and Haley's. The elderly woman with blue-tinted white hair, with her back to Diana, was undoubtedly Mrs. Canfield, whose ancestors had founded the White Orchid Ball. The balding man beside her had to be her son Delbert, a middle-aged bachelor.

Franklin Mitchell said something that got a loud burst of laughter from the others at the table, and Diana shifted her gaze to the left. Conner and Missy Desmond were also at the table, and everyone was laughing except—Diana's searching gaze collided with a pair of piercing gray eyes that locked on to hers, refusing to break the glance. Clearly disinterested in both his meal and the people at his table, he was leaning back in his chair, openly watching her, his expression strangely speculative.

Diana couldn't imagine why he was looking at her that way, but a polite smile seemed appropriate and she gave him one.

He answered with a slow nod and a smile that was as warm as it was bold, but what disturbed Diana was the odd, almost calculating look in his eyes.

Hastily, she yanked her gaze from his and joined the conversation at her own table, but her mind was on Haley Mitchell and what she was likely to say to Cole if she'd seen him arrive with Diana. Haley thrived on vicious gossip; she created it and then used it like a weapon against anyone she didn't like, and there were many she didn't like—nearly all of them women.

She particularly despised Diana because one evening several years earlier, when Peter was still single and particularly drunk, he'd stood up during a wedding reception where he was a groomsman and Diana was a bridesmaid, and instead of proposing a toast to the bride and groom, which everyone thought he was going to do, he proposed marriage to Diana. She had tried to pass it off as a joke, and everyone else let it go at that—except Peter himself and Haley, who'd been in love with him for years.

He'd married Haley soon after that, but Haley never forgot that she was Peter's second choice, and Peter never forgot that Diana had turned him down. Haley despised Diana with a jealous loathing that seemed to grow stronger with each year, as did the rumors that Haley's marriage was in trouble. Diana knew beyond a doubt that if Haley imagined there was anything between Cole and Diana, she'd launch a hate campaign right there at the table in front of him.

That possibility added yet more stress to the evening that lay ahead of her, and Diana couldn't cope with it. Instead, she looked across the table at Doug and Amy and asked what plans they'd made for the rest of Amy's visit in Houston; then she picked up a fresh glass of wine and forced herself to concentrate on every word they said.

She was so determined to participate and distract herself that she didn't notice that Spence, who was on her left, had a clear view of Cole and that he was watching the other man in frowning silence. Corey noticed his grim preoccupation, however, and when the main course was being cleared away, she leaned close to him. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

He waited until a waiter had finished filling his coffee cup, then tipped his head toward the head table. "Harrison's looked over at Diana several times tonight, and I don't like it."

Corey was surprised but far from displeased. In Diana's present predicament, Corey thought that a little flattering attention from a highly desirable male couldn't do anything but help lift her status and bolster her pride tonight. "Why don't you like it?"

"Because I don't like Harrison."

"Why not?" Corey asked, stunned.

He hesitated for a suspiciously long time, then tried to dismiss the matter with a shrug. "Among other things, he has a reputation for being devious and single-minded. Diana is in a very vulnerable state right now, and her guard is down."

"Spence, Cole is an old friend, and you're being overprotective!"

Laying his hand over hers, he gave it a reassuring squeeze "You're right."

Corey would have pursued the subject, but she was prevented from doing that by the auctioneer, who'd walked onto the stage to open the auction. He rapped his gavel on the podium, and excitement surged through the huge ballroom, silencing conversations and causing everyone to turn and look in his direction.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he proclaimed, "when we're through here, you'll have an additional half hour to enter your final written bids on those items being offered at the silent auction in the Empire Ballroom. That brings us to the moment you've all been waiting for. Without further delay or further comment, I invite you to open your hearts and your checkbooks, and to remember that every dollar of the proceeds from this auction will go directly to cancer research. Now, if you will refer to the individual catalogs at your table, you will find a complete listing of the items being auctioned off, along with a description of each."

There was a general rustling as people reached for their catalogs. "I know many of you are eager to get to the Klineman sculpture," he said, and jokingly added, "in an effort to minimize your wait and heighten your tension and desire, we have placed that article partway down the list at number ten."

Laughter rippled around the room, and he waited until he had everyone's complete attention before he spoke again. "Item one," he proclaimed. "This is a small pencil sketch by Pablo Picasso. Who will open the bidding at forty thousand dollars?" An instant later, he nodded with satisfaction. "Mr. Certillo has offered forty thousand dollars. Do I have forty-one thousand dollars?" Within a few minutes, the sketch was sold for $66,000, and the next item was introduced.

"Item two is a splendid Tiffany lamp, circa 1904. Who will offer fifty thousand dollars?…"