***
A breeze wafted through the open sliding glass door of the workshop. Margo had been right, Zane decided. It was too hot for another hike this afternoon. Of course he knew a few places where they could cool off, like the pools in the bend of the river, but Zane had a feeling things would get a lot hotter there and it wouldn’t have anything to do with the atmospheric temperature.
His fingers curled around the piece of burl he was carving. Memories of that moment in the grove haunted him. He had come so close to grabbing the woman and making love to her right on the spot. He couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t.
Across the room, Margo shifted on the bench he’d set up for her. From under lowered lashes he took in the sweep of her hair that curled around her cheek. He wanted to finger the strands and see if they would feel as fine as they looked.
Uncomfortable, Zane returned his attention to the hawk taking shape in his hands. He wanted to make love to Margo, and from her reaction this morning he didn’t think he’d get much resistance. His fingers tightened on the knife, making him cut deeper than he’d planned.
He muttered a curse as he set the chipped wood down on the workbench.
Why didn’t he just go over and grab her hand, lead her back to the cabin, upstairs to the loft, and toss her into his bed where he’d been dreaming of her for nights? It’s what he’d planned to do after she first showed up.
Zane braced his elbows on the bench and leaned forward. The light poured in from outside to highlight the fine features on her face. The problem was, he was beginning to care about Dr. Margo Devaull. He couldn’t just take her like he wanted to. It complicated matters. He didn’t want to have to consider her feelings, but he would if he was going to figure out a way to convince her to return. He hadn’t asked her why she’d made the decision not to. If the reason was acknowledged, he might make it change.
Her brow furrowed slightly as she concentrated on making a cut in the soft wood he’d given her to carve on. She moved restlessly to get a better grip. Drawn to her, he slipped off his stool and strode to her side.
“Problems?” he asked.
Her eyes widened when she noticed his nearness. They were such big, dark eyes that he forgot his excuse to come over.
“I’m not sure. I thought I could carve away this piece, but it doesn’t seem to want to cut through.”
He had no idea what she was talking about. All he could focus on was her.
“What do you think?” She held out the piece of wood. “I’m not getting the hang of this.”
She glanced away, avoiding his stare. Zane gave himself an inward shake. Cool it, Zanelli. The silent reprimand, however, didn’t keep him from sitting next to her on the bench.
“What exactly do you want cut out?”
“Right here. I need to take that nick out along this line.”
He hardly heard the catch in her voice as if his nearness affected her. The small clue to her feelings pleased him, as did the wildflower scent of her.
“You angle the blade like this.”
A swift flick of the knife sent the piece flying. He handed her the wood.
“Now you try it.”
Her grip was awkward.
“Here. Like this.” He reached around her shoulder and placed his fingers over her hand. The minute he felt the soft skin he knew he’d made a mistake.
***
Margo inhaled sharply when his arm came around hers. He held her hand in the correct position for carving, but she knew she’d never cut a splinter. Her fingers had gone numb.
His voice rumbled in her ear with the close proximity of his broad chest. His scent wrapped around her; it was male, primal. She had no idea what he was telling or showing her.
The knife slid from her fingers and clattered on the floor. He froze. She dared not move. For long moments they sat like that – his breath heating the skin of her neck, his arm tense and strained around her.
All she had to do was tilt her head at a slight angle and her lips would meet his. The strong need to do so took control. She started to swing her head around when Zane suddenly stood.
He strode to the workbench he’d been at earlier. His fists clenched, causing the muscles in his arms and back to ripple. Margo clenched her own fists while she admired the golden tan of his skin. She knew she should feel relieved that he’d broken the tense moment, but she had no desire to consider why she didn’t.
“Maybe we’d better talk some more,” she offered.
“Right,” he said with a humph as he picked up his burl and started carving again.
Margo ignored the caustic tone and continued to speak as if nothing had happened. “Tell me about your year at university. Didn’t you say you went to Stanford?”
“That’s right.” His tone had changed again.
Margo considered the strained sound and then dismissed it. They were both still tense.
“What were you studying?”
“Biological sciences.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Did you always want to live like this?”
He wiped his brow. “No. I wanted to teach.”
“At university level or high school?”
He shrugged. “I hadn’t thought that far along. The war came before I graduated.”
“You could still do that. They need teachers. There’s a shortage in the fields of math and science.”
His interest perked and he stared at her. Then he shrugged away the idea and continued carving. “I’d have to go back to school to take education courses in order to get a certificate.”
“You’re not too old. Plenty of adults go back to study for new careers.”
“But I’d have to move away from here and live with all those idealistic young people.”
Margo laughed. “Sometimes you’re idealistic yourself.”
He set down his tool and selected another. “It’s been years since anyone accused me of that.”
“That’s because you don’t allow anyone close enough to know.”
Zane stilled. She could sense his withdrawal and decided to move on before he shut the gate.
“I can see why you stay here, though. It isn’t so bad.”
“You’d miss the city?”
She thought about it. Would she miss her life in the city? She would miss her mother and her practice. There were no theaters, no concerts, no stores with the latest fashions. And then again there were no late phone calls, locked doors, and rush-hour traffic. Margo smiled at Zane.
“I really don’t know,” she told him in all honesty.
“You know what my life’s like.” He gestured around the workshop. “Tell me about your social life this past year.”
Margo laughed. “I told you before, I don’t have much time for social activities. Most of my life is full of work.”
“Sounds dull, yet you strike me as a happy person.”
“Basically, I am.” She wondered if he remembered his accusation of loneliness this morning. She decided not to remind him.
He shifted his position on the stool and began carving again. “When you do have free time what do you like to do? Obviously you don’t go on picnics in the woods,” he observed. “Do you ever go to the opera?”
Surprised and pleased with the question, she put down her carving and moved toward him where she could watch him work while they talked. “I go with my mother every season.”
He smiled. “I used to go with mine.”
“Recently?” she asked, wondering how she’d missed noticing him at the theater.
“I started when I was a kid. Dad and Vinnie hated to go, so I’d take her.”
“I bet you caught a lot of flak for that.”
His expression grew serious. For a few moments Margo thought he’d closed up on her, but he surprised her further. “My father was the only one. He thought it made a man effeminate. But he let me go because it got him off the hook.” He shrugged. Then his face brightened. “Ma was a different story. She’s quite a buff.
Has to fly to New York and Europe to see all the major performances.”
“And you would go with her?”
He nodded.
No wonder she hadn’t seen him at the San Francisco Opera House. “Don’t you miss it?”
He shrugged. “I sing to the birds once in a while.”
Margo laughed. “That must be something. What do you sing?”
“I do a great aria. Listen.” He began to sing, softly at first, and then his rich baritone spilled out of the workshop.
Stunned, Margo listened. He had a beautiful voice, one too dramatic to keep locked up within his isolated walls.
When he finished she clapped. “Bravo. Bravo.”
He bowed. “I sang opera at Stanford. Do you sing?”
“Not like that,” she admitted with a rueful laugh.
“Tell me about the last opera you went to. Where was it? Who was performing?”
Thrilled that he was interested, Margo told him everything she could remember about Carmen, but because she hadn’t been too impressed with the performance, she decided to tell him about the last performance of the season. “It was Euripides at the San Francisco Opera House.”
“The last time I saw that the warriors wore absurd costumes with a large pleat in the front.”
“This company did too, and they sang the same bawdy chorus.” She started a few bars and he joined her until they were both laughing too hard to carry another note.
“And what did you wear?” he asked.
Again he surprised her, but she was glad. It sounded like he missed it and wanted to transport himself there. It would be easy to oblige him. She closed her eyes and let her imagination flow. “I dressed warm. I remember it was foggy and windy that night. You know how it can get.”
He nodded.
“I wore my black high-heeled boots and a calf-length wool plaid skirt.”
“What color was the skirt?”
“Purple and black. The silk blouse was gold.”
“Was it ten sizes too big?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “It is the fashion, you know. And I wore my llama wool poncho and a hat.”
“I hope it wasn’t a big one that blocked one’s view.”
“It’s very chic with a small brim, and a silk scarf that drapes from it to enfold your neck.” She demonstrated as best she could. “Can you picture it?”
“I’m afraid so.” Humor and something else danced in his eyes.
She stiffened in mock indignation. “Afraid so? Don’t you think it sounds marvelous?
His smile and the “something else” in his eyes grew. “You’re marvelous.”
Margo realized immediately that the “something else” stemmed from desire. She quickly spun away. “The opera house was packed. Let me think of who performed…”
She rattled on about every detail she could think of until his expression had returned to interest. It was what she wanted, but the accomplishment left her frustrated. If she were honest with herself, she’d admit she wanted to see those lights in his eyes. She needed to express feelings that were building inside, but it was forbidden and against her professional ethics.
Zane returned to his carving as he talked. “I like that singer. He usually performs the phraseology so perfectly that he really captures the character.”
Margo agreed. “What’s your favorite opera?”
Zane paused from his work to think for a minute. “There’re several I enjoy, but the comedy in Mozart’s Così fan tutte appeals to me.”
“Opera buffa, comic opera. I usually enjoy that, but the chief soprano role is extremely difficult.”
“Mozart wrote the role for Adriana del Bene whose voice had remarkable flexibility and range.”
Impressed, Margo studied Zane, who had continued his carving. For the first time since meeting him, he looked relaxed. Without the stiff and expressionless pose, he appeared younger and more personable.
“I suppose you enjoy the charades and the pranks,” she commented, hoping he’d continue in this mood.
“That’s what I like about it. The action presents a real challenge to the performers. They go through all sorts of elaborately choreographed high jinks on stage, and all the while they have to sing.”
“It’s a voice-taxing score,” Margo agreed. “I suppose that’s why I enjoy Bizet’s Carmen. Not only because it’s in French and I can understand it, but the soprano’s role is very difficult. So many singers think they can get the lusty quality by simply wiggling their hips. But the good singers capture that sensuality with their eyes.”
Caught up in the explanation, Margo batted her lashes until she saw the color darken in Zane’s eyes. Abruptly, she straightened and spoke again of the various singers they both were familiar with.
After they’d exhausted their store of details, silence settled over them. Margo drifted over to the window where she looked out across the meadow. It was almost time to leave. Stalling for time, she glanced up at the clear blue sky. A hawk circled overhead and she mentioned it to Zane.
To her surprise, he stopped carving and came up beside her. Shading his eyes with his hand, he peered up at the bird.
“Come on,” he told her as he stepped out, grabbed some items that were stacked against the wall, and headed for the open space in the meadow. “Come meet Big Red.”
The hawk swooped down and passed low overhead.
“Don’t make any sudden moves,” Zane warned. “Very slowly now – step back a couple of paces and stand very still.”
Margo’s focus shifted from Zane to the bird and back to Zane as he unfolded a thick piece of leather. Carefully, he took the gauntlet and wrapped it around his left forearm. She held her breath.
Zane held his arm up and whistled, loud and shrill. “Big Red. Come down here, fella, and meet my new friend.”
The hawk swooped by again.
“Don’t tell me he’s a pet?” she whispered, careful not to move.
“I found him when I first arrived. He was injured – shot in the wing. I nursed him.” Zane kept his arm outstretched. “Every once in a while you come to see me, don’t you, fella? He’s probably curious about you.”
“Come to check me out? Right?”
Zane smiled. Big Red flapped his huge wings and settled down on Zane’s arm, his lethal-looking talons curving around the leather. Zane’s muscles flexed as he took the bird’s weight. In slow motion, Zane reached up and ruffled the bird’s breast with his finger.
“This is Margo,” he said.
The hawk blinked. Margo blinked back. Zane chuckled.
“He’s a red-tailed hawk. A male. They’re a third of the size of a female.”
Margo didn’t think she’d want to see a bigger hawk perched on Zane’s arm. This one looked deadly.
Zane kept talking while he continued to stroke the wild bird. “He can soar at high altitudes and see a mouse to eat. Then, fast as lightning, he swoops down and captures dinner.”
“Sounds gross,” she said with a shudder.
“But nature’s way,” he reminded her. “He hunts to survive.”
Margo stared from the hawk to Zane. Both were strong and powerful. Zane’s hair shone black as a raven’s and the hawk reflected the colors of the earth. Their eyes were different colors, but both sets pierced with clarity and mutual respect.
The hawk took one last glance at Margo before he flapped his powerful wings, ready to take off. Zane tossed him high and watched him soar for several minutes. Margo watched Zane.
When he turned to her, she spoke. “The hawk kills to survive. Did you kill to survive also?”
The question hit him like a blow. She saw the sudden flex of muscle and tightening of his features. She stayed several feet away from him.
Anger flared for a second in his eyes, and then he shuttered them into his familiar stoic mask. “I killed.”
“Have you talked about it?”
“Talking won’t change the fact that men and women are dead because of me.”
He paused and faced her, his gaze probing as he worked to cover the hint of surprise. Margo had her own difficulties getting her composure back. Finally he smiled, and it broke the threads of tension.
Zane spoke, shaking his head in mock amazement. “You aren’t going to give up, are you?”
Margo started to remind him that, in fact, she already had, when his next words stopped her.
“It’s late today and you need to get back to town before dark. Can you return tomorrow? We’ll sit down and have a long, serious talk.”
Margo couldn’t speak.
“In fact, bring a swimsuit. We’ll go to the river. There’s a beach. It’s comfortable.” He cast her one of his rare but winning grins. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a long session.”
What could she say? If she abandoned him now, he’d retreat into isolation, but she had no right to come. “We won’t be able to talk. Remember the letter to Vinnie? You can’t consider me your therapist.”
“Does that mean I don’t need therapy?”
“Therapy will work for you. What won’t work is for me to be the therapist.”
“Am I that bad off that you can’t handle it?”
Margo closed her eyes and willed patience. “You aren’t ‘bad off’ at all. You’ve gone a long ways toward working out your own solutions.”
He relaxed his features until her next words registered.
“There’s something between us,” she told him. “I react to you physically. I’ve tried to control it, but it just happens.”
He sat very still, intent on every word. When she stopped talking he remained silent.
Margo could imagine his mind must be spinning with the implications of such a bold statement. She forced herself to remain cool. In her code of ethics, it was mandatory to be up-front.
“In California they recently passed a law forbidding dual relationships between patients and doctors.” She went on to explain the two-year limit and the implications of the law.
Love's Miracles Page 17