Georgie's Heart (4 page)

“He couldn't have chosen anyone better,” Zane said with feeling.

He directed his thoughts toward methods of spending more time with Georgeanne Hartfield and wondered how long it would take her to realize his interest in the Saturday Clinic took a back seat to his interest in her.

*

Georgeanne led the way back out to the parking lot, where the bright spring sunshine cast a glow over the neglected building. Glancing up at Zane, she registered once more how tall he was, but she refused to let herself dwell on the fleeting thought that he was among the few men who were taller than she was. Nor did she allow herself to entertain the thought that his dark hair called for feminine fingers to fork it into order. She refused to consciously notice the thick, dark lashes that framed those incredible smoky eyes, or the slashing black brows above them.

Looks were not important in this case, she told herself. Compassion for sick children counted for everything.

And Dr. Baghri depended on her to explain his idea to other doctors and gain more volunteers to help those sick children.

“Dr. Baghri has been treating lots of children in the hospital emergency room during the past few years,” she began, “simply because they were too poor to see a family physician for routine medical care. When a child finally got so sick he had to see a doctor, the parents had no choice but to bring him to the emergency room because they didn't have a family doctor.”

“I've seen a lot of that myself,” Zane said in grim tones. “When it comes to a choice between regular medical checkups or eating, parents nearly always choose eating.”

He took Georgeanne's arm and walked her around the side of the building. His action surprised her and she ignored the speedier beat of her heart. Half the physicians in Southeast Texas probably ran when they saw her coming because of Dr. Baghri's efforts to push her charms before his colleagues.

Georgeanne felt her pulse accelerate a bit more and told herself not to be a fool. She'd known Zane Bryant would resemble the handsome Hunter Howell. She just hadn't allowed for the man's sheer physical impact on her impressionable senses.

Why a fairly young doctor like Zane Bryant wanted to spend his rare leisure time examining a charity clinic in her company when he could be sailing or playing golf was not for her to question. She — and Dr. Baghri — needed him.

Dr. Bryant, she told herself, might be the doctor who would turn the tide in her struggle to recruit doctors for the clinic. She ignored the feminine jitters his presence provoked and strove to remember her talking points.

“Dr. Baghri remembered his own year of practice in India before he came to America,” Georgeanne went on. “When he graduated from medical school he went home to his own little village in India, rented a single room, and screened off an examining room with bed sheets. He charged the poor people a small fee, and the rich people a larger fee, and everyone got the same consideration from the doctor. So he thought, why couldn't he do this in America?”

She felt Zane squeeze her arm, and then his fingers cupped around her elbow. His warm, supportive grip gave her an unaccustomed feeling that she was protected and cared for.

“But in America, it was not easy to do that,” Georgeanne went on. “In America, you either pay a set price, or you pay nothing at county charity clinics. There are no allowances for differences in income.”

“In America,” Zane said in dry tones, “the doctor usually doesn't know which patients are rich and which are poor. During my residency, I treated a few millionaires I thought were bums and some bums who dressed like millionaires.”

“Exactly,” Georgeanne said, pleased with his ready understanding. “In America, free clinics exist for poor people, but the workers are so overwhelmed with the problems of the poor, they often fail to treat the patients with compassion. What's more, the fact that the clinics are free robs the patients of what little dignity they have left. So Dr. Baghri came up with the idea of charging everyone twenty dollars. Even poor people can usually afford twenty dollars.”

Georgeanne made this point with great earnestness, punctuating it with a sweeping gesture of one of her graceful hands. Her hand struck the trunk of an encroaching tallow tree.

“Ouch,” she exclaimed and jerked her hand back. “That's another little item I'll have to see to — tree removal.”

Zane reached for Georgeanne's injured hand and examined the reddened area. “It just so happens that I worked as a tree removal apprentice one summer during my youth.”

“You did?”

Conscious of a peculiar, winded feeling, Georgeanne stood there and let him study the minuscule scratches on the edge of her hand. His hands were big and blunt, but possessed the deft gentleness she had come to expect of physicians' hands. Her hand looked small and delicate sandwiched between Zane's, an unusual event for Georgeanne.

He looked up and smiled at her. “Of course it was a good fifteen years ago, but I still remember all the rope tricks necessary to cutting a tree down limb by limb without damaging the building beneath it.” Zane turned her hand over and examined the strong lines marking her palm. “Now there's a life line to be proud of.”

Georgeanne's breath wheezed out. Her heart pounded so furiously, she could hardly speak. How silly, letting herself get all worked up because a good-looking man held her hand.

“You're a palm reader, too?” she asked in choked tones.

“It doesn't take any training to recognize a hand filled with promises of long life and love.” He lifted her palm and kissed the center. “A palm like this is a rare find indeed.”

Georgeanne stood stock still a moment, staring down at her own palm. She felt hot and cold all over, and her heart fluttered with a beat quite unlike its usual calm rhythm. Perhaps, she thought, with wry humor, she ought to see a doctor.

Recovering herself with a jolt, Georgeanne looked up and laughed. “What you mean is this palm would be very welcome at certain upcoming events in Houston, especially where cleaning skills are needed.”

“Miss Hartfield — Georgeanne — you have a palm that would be welcome anywhere, cleaning skills or no.”

Georgeanne sighed with relief. She had managed to extricate herself from that one without making a total fool of herself. She needed to get herself — and him — back to the office before she did something really stupid, like twist her ankle.

Rather than suggest an immediate return to the Gant Clinic, Georgeanne dwelled with considerable pleasure on what Zane Bryant's large strong hands would feel like on her ankle. She progressed from there to imagining herself riding high in his arms as he carried her back to her car. Worse, he held on to her hand, which added fuel to the fantasy.

Zane bent his arm and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. Then he walked her slowly around the building, pointing out the tallow trees that ought to go. Georgeanne concentrated on not tripping over any of the debris in her way and refused to let herself clutch his arm.

“Am I making you nervous?” he asked and glanced down at her hand. “How can you possibly be nervous of a man who first greeted you from a prone position on the floor?”

“Me? Nervous?” Georgeanne prided herself on her lack of nerves. “I'm just thinking about everything that needs to be done in the next week or two. What do you think about these three trees that have sprung up against the building?”

“They have to go, or they'll interfere with the building's foundation.” Zane paused to study the three slender tallow trees.

“When the excess trees are cleared away, this will be a peaceful country clinic once again.” Georgeanne felt enthusiasm bubble inside her as she gazed on the site, and thought of the culmination of her work. “I can't wait to get started on the cleaning and painting.”

Zane looked at her in such a peculiar way, she wondered what she'd said to bring on that expression.

“Neither can I,” he said.

*

“Georgie, you make big splash with Dr. Bryant,” Dr. Vijay Baghri called from the door of the old Scott Clinic building. “He will help with this clinic all the way.”

Georgeanne smiled, pleased. She stood in the center of the floor in the old laboratory, rake in hand, and called back, “He's a very nice man. He says he knows how to saw down trees.” She laughed and added, “He shouldn't have told me that.”

“Because you will put him to work?” Dr. Baghri's head appeared around the corner of the door. “But Georgie, he wants you to put him to work. He says he will work all day, any day for you.” The doctor gestured at something behind him. “We will soon have plenty of doctors to help us.”

Dr. Bryant appeared behind Dr. Baghri. He hadn't gone back to Pasadena after all. Georgeanne's eyes widened, and she knew a moment of panic. Of all the times to be wearing her oldest, baggiest jeans and a T-shirt that had been accidentally washed with bleach.

Then she remembered that she had no business thinking she could attract a man who probably had every society beauty in Houston chasing him. She wanted to get this clinic ready to open as fast as possible. If Dr. Zane Bryant was willing to work, then she had plenty of work for him to do.

“Hello, Georgie.” Zane adopted the friendly diminutive everyone addressed her by. “Are you out here all alone?”

The austere tone he used let her know that fact displeased him. Georgeanne gripped her rake as she assimilated that and wondered what he meant by it. Everyone knew she preferred to do certain jobs alone.

“I just got here,” she said. “I thought it would be a good idea to get the floors raked before the real cleaning starts. Hi, Raza.” She nodded at Dr. Baghri's wife, who carried a broom and a mop. “In another few minutes, I'll have the floor cleared of all this junk.”

“In the future, don't come out here until Dr. Baghri or Dr. Gant arrives,” Zane said sternly. “You're out here in the middle of a rice field, with no telephone service and no way to get help if something should happen.”

“I have my cell phone in my purse.” Georgeanne raked trash into a huge pile. “And I knew Dr. Baghri and Raza were due at any minute. In fact, I was hoping to be through raking before they got here.”

“In the future, don't do it,” Zane said, in stern tones. “Vijay, I want you to see to it that she isn't out here by herself anymore.”

Dr. Baghri said something to the effect that Georgeanne operated on her own timetable and always got things done with efficiency. To Georgeanne's astonishment, Zane interrupted with a passionate discourse on a man's responsibility to look out for a woman's safety. She and Raza Baghri exchanged amused glances.

For a moment, Georgeanne thought about pointing out that she was not the sort of woman who required manly protection. She thought better of it. Zane Bryant thought she did, and who was she to argue?

Dr. Baghri gave in. “I will see to it. Georgeanne shall not work here alone any longer.”

“See that she doesn't.” Zane looked satisfied, although he grinned when he caught the expression on Georgeanne's normally serene countenance. “Too bad, Georgie. I know you intend to do exactly as you please. Just so you know, I'm prepared to enforce my dictates.”

Georgeanne noted the expression of anticipation on his face and wondered how he planned to obtain her obedience. For a brief moment, her spirit rose to the challenge and she considered finding out.

Zane waded through the trash on the floor and held out his hand. “Here, Georgie. Give me that rake. You can start sweeping off the counter.”

Georgeanne realized she stood in the presence of a man who intended to see she didn't strain herself. The idea stunned her into unaccustomed meekness. She handed him the rake and went to fetch a whisk broom from the boxes she carted in her vehicle.

“Now I see why you own an SUV.” Zane raked with vigor. “You use it to haul cleaning supplies around.”

“I do tend to do a lot of hauling.” Georgeanne found herself in what amounted to an alternate universe.

“That's what I figured.” He sounded satisfied.

She whisked off the counter in silence and pondered the meaning of that remark, then glanced over her shoulder. Zane raked a large pile of trash through the door to the outside with great energy. She let her eyes dwell with pleasure on his broad shoulders and his well-shaped backside.

He had changed into khaki trousers and a madras plaid shirt, and Georgeanne thought he looked twice as handsome in casual clothing. But that was because the blue plaid shirt made his eyes look blue, she decided. Or maybe the dingy walls that caused the newly restored electrical lights to cast a less powerful glow were what darkened his eyes to blue.

It was no business of hers what color his eyes were.

Georgeanne whisked at the counter with renewed vigor and wondered what color those eyes would be if she could see them really close up. Say, within six inches of her face.

What a delicious fantasy. It almost banished from her distracted mind the phone call that had awaited her when she arrived home from work that afternoon.

Fritzi Field was so much in demand that Alice Anson, Georgeanne's agent, claimed a pending nervous breakdown from having to turn down so much money.

“So put on a wig, kid. No one will know it's you. Think of the commission I could be making. Think of the publicity. Think of the money you could be making.”

“Bear up, Alice.” Georgeanne felt like a wicked agent-torturer. “If the fans can't hear what Fritzi has to say, maybe they'll fork over more money and buy their own copy of her book so they can read what she says.”

Alice groaned. “You're ruining my bank account, Georgie.”

Georgeanne felt cruel, although reasonably satisfied. Alice would never jeopardize their relationship by revealing Georgeanne's identity. But according to Alice, an enterprising investigator would uncover the truth eventually, no matter what steps Georgeanne took to remain anonymous.