Love's Miracles (24 page)

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.