What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (26 page)

“Oh, really.”
What the hell would she think of me if she knew my dad and I run an oil company?
Zack couldn’t mask the defensive edge that’d crept into his voice. “So you were part of a self-appointed police force?”

Emerald fire flashed into Miranda’s eyes. “We only have one planet, Zack. All creatures deserve respect.”

Zack laughed.

“I’m sorry you find it amusing.”

“No! No, Miranda.” He touched her hand across the table. “It’s just that … I’m trying to imagine the elegant woman in front of me standing on the deck of some ship, sketching whales in a gale-force wind. And it’s easier to picture than I thought.”

She shook her head. “When the wind was at gale-force, I was photographing actually.”

“My point is, you’re not an experienced mariner, yet you put yourself in harm’s way. Can’t you respect creatures from a distance?”

“I can’t paint a creature unless I can see it. And I need to paint them so other people can see what I’ve seen. Nature photography and wildlife art … it’s why I paint. If I can make people connect with something they see … well, like you connected with the Cove.”

A sudden tightness gripped Zack in the chest. “The Cove? Why would you say I’m connected to the Cove?”

“Well, you wanted my Cove painting at the gallery. And now you’ve commissioned me to paint that same place for you. So we went out there to—”

“Of course! Of course,” he cut her off, feeling sweat begin to bead beneath his collar.

“It’s just that when we went there yesterday, you said the Cove looked familiar.”

“Oh. Well, must’ve been some childhood memory.”
Why did I say that?

“A childhood … but I thought you said you’d never been to—”

Zack cut her off again. “Actually I
might’ve
been to Milford-Haven when I was too young to remember. My folks might’ve brought me up the coast.”

“I see.”

He watched as Miranda grasped the edge of her napkin that now rested next to her dessert plate, twisting it until the fabric resembled a spiral shell. Awkwardness hung over the table like a sudden low fog overtaking the coastline. “Is your wine okay? Oh, that’s right, you don’t drink.” He poured himself another half glass.

She swirled her spoon once more around the edges of the now empty mousse ramekin. “The food was delicious, Zack.”

Her mother must’ve trained her well,
he thought.
Change the subject. Pay a compliment
Zack used his own napkin to wipe his mouth and moved his chair back enough to cross his legs. “Glad you enjoyed it.” He heard the flat tone of his own voice.

“So your parents took trips along the coast when you were little?” she asked too cheerfully.

“My … parents, yeah.” He uncrossed his legs, crossed them the other way. “Did you start painting when you were a child?”

“Yes, when I—” Miranda choked on the word, then took a sip of water. “When I was a child.” The choking escalated.

Zack sat there feeling helpless. He lifted his water glass, offering her some.
That’s stupid, the woman’s choking on water!
Miranda continued to cough. Zack stood, crossed to her, and began patting her on the back. By now other patrons in the restaurant had noticed her difficulty, and a silence was beginning to ripple out from their table.

Miranda looked up imploringly at Zack. “I’m okay, really,” she said, her voice thin. “Please.”

Remembering how much she disliked being the center of attention, Zack sat down. “Are you?” Suddenly, he wanted to protect her, wanted to sweep her up and get her out of the place. “I hope I haven’t upset you.”

Miranda laughed weakly. “They say if you choke when you’re trying to say something, it means you’re having trouble saying it.”

“Or it could just mean you choked. You didn’t catch a fish bone, did you?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

When she turned her now-vulnerable gaze on him, he felt something catch in his own throat.
Something about her beauty
… and a certain willingness in her eyes
. “Would you like to go?” he asked.

“Thought you’d never ask.” she murmured so quietly that he was glad he’d been listening carefully.

Zack Calvin stepped into Miranda’s foyer, waiting while she turned on lights and greeted the gray tabby cat now meowing and winding between her ankles.

“Have a seat in the living room. I’ll feed Tab Hunter.”

“Pardon me?”

“Sorry, that’s the cat. I’ll feed him and warm the cider. Do you mind turning on that table lamp by the sofa?”

“Sure,” he answered.
I’m amazed she even invited me in, she seemed so shy at dinner. Nice of her to offer the cider, since, with her choking, we had to leave the restaurant before coffee was
served He walked into the living room he’d seen by daylight the previous afternoon, turned on a pottery lamp and seated himself on one end of Miranda’s sofa.

A few minutes later, he watched as she arrived with two mugs of cider and placed them on coffee table coasters. She kicked off her shoes, padded in stocking-feet to her fireplace and flipped a wall switch. Instantly, flames ignited and began lapping decoratively at the faux-logs. Through the chain-mail curtain she pulled across the opening, the fire seemed real.

“Doesn’t put out a lot of heat,” Miranda said, “but it’s still nice.”

“Very nice,” he reassured.

She situated herself at the opposite end of the three-cushion sofa on which he sat. She took a sip of her cider, then
folded her legs to one side and turned to face him.

I think she’s enjoying my company. But even now, she seems skittish. I’ll need to read her carefully
.

She grabbed a throw-pillow from behind her and, holding it across her abdomen, curled into the corner.
Something about the way she’s sitting there, hugging a pillow, hiding at the far end of the sofa … she seems suddenly shy
. Yet as the firelight glinted in her emerald eyes, he sensed a fierce independence.
She’s so hard to read, like a wild creature… will it flee, or will it pounce? Talk about mixed signals. Am I supposed to touch her?

Miranda shifted position to unfold and extend her legs across the middle cushion. Her long limbs—sensuously covered in the slinky green dress—stretched toward him until her toes were almost reaching his thigh.

That’s the signal I needed
. Zack kicked off his own shoes and swung his legs up to parallel hers. She tucked his feet under the pillow she was holding.
I can’t tell if that was a friendly—or an intimate—gesture
. He responded by resting his arm on her shin, his hand cupping her knee.

He reached for his mug and took a sip of cider, while she did the same.
She’s swallowing carefully
. “Mmm, that’s just right on a chilly autumn evening. Throat feel better?” he asked. “No more choking?”

“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“So, what was it?”

She hesitated as though trying to avoid his question, then answered, “It’s just this business of being a painter that got stuck in my throat.” Suddenly, Miranda began to knead his toes.

Trying not to moan in pleasure, Zack squinted and did his best to concentrate on what she’d just said. “You’re kidding—about
the painting, I mean. It’s your passion. You’re a natural.”
That massage …oh, what is she doing to me?

“That’s not how my parents saw things.”

When she glanced over at the fire, Zack saw tension in her jaw as she stared into the flames. She squeezed his foot harder now.
She’s finding knots I didn’t know were there
. “What, your parents didn’t approve?”

Miranda shook her head.

“Why? Not enough profit potential?”

Miranda looked at him, said nothing and moved her strong hands to his other foot.

“Not the right sort of activity for a young lady?”

“Mmm.”

“Did they thinking painting in the wild is too dangerous?”

She blinked. “All of the above. Very perceptive, by the way.” She pressed her thumbs along the length of his sole.

“Well—” He stifled the moan that was rising up his throat.
If she keeps doing that, I … I won’t be able to keep from touching her for much longer. But if I do, I’m afraid she’ll fly away like a little bird … the moment will be shattered
. “Well, you showed them,” he said.

“I did?”
can tell she isn’t being coy. Her question’s genuine
.

She worked his foot diligently, focused on her task

He felt he’d have to respond now, or explode. He looked above the fireplace and found a means of escape by focusing on her painting of a woodland clearing.
Was this the forest we walked through? Maybe. And hiding in the ferns, that might be a fox
. “Any artist as successful and as talented as you are … well, you’ve got it all.”

“Mmm.” Miranda looked up at the painting, and seemed to
lose herself in some faraway memory. The fire hissed and flickered.
The woman’s mind is far away. But her body’s right here
.

Moving his hand along her leg, he began caressing the top of her thigh. As a murmur escaped her lips, he felt a surge of electricity pulse through him, propelling him forward. As he ran his hands up her long silky curves, her smokey green eyes told him everything he needed to know.

Samantha Hugo sat at her kitchen desk. Pale sunlight filtered through the venetian blinds while an exuberant California Thrasher sang its song outside the window. Unable to resist a glimpse of the rare bird, Sam pushed aside the blinds and couldn’t help but chuckle when she saw it sitting on a nearby branch—its fat, brown body a picture of health, its long, curved beak parting as a complex series of notes warbled up through its throat.

Not a pretty creature, but what it lacks in beauty it makes up for in song
. Already in a pensive mood, Sam thought another moment about the unexpected visitor singing its heart out.
Loud and persistent, chirps and trills, and some mimicry thrown in. Some might find its song intrusive. Sometimes we forget… each being has its unique gifts
.

Sam returned to her stool, took a sip of coffee and looked down at the note she’d jotted yesterday. Following Miranda’s
suggestion, she’d called the Southern California Associated Adoption Agencies for a recommendation.

“Yes, we can help you with that,” the woman had said, “but let me just clarify. We don’t actually recommend any particular agency, but we do have listings of members in good standing.” After checking her database she’d come back on the line. “Is Morro Bay close to you?”

“Yes,” Sam had replied.

“We have a listing there for the Chernak Agency, run by Mr. and Mrs. Chernak—Wilhelm and Stacey. I can give you their number and address.”

Writing down the information, Sam had thanked the woman and hung up. She’d let the information settle overnight, and now she pulled out her Central Coast phone book. Not only did she find their listing in the business section; she also found their print ad in the Yellow Pages with a graphic: a cherubic baby’s face placed inside a line-drawing of a heart. “Bill and Stacey,” it read. “Ten years of experience. Dedicated to helping you find long- lost family members.”

She stared at the ad and took another sip of coffee.
Those words … they could’ve been written to me. I want to call them immediately. I’d call right now if it weren’t so early
.

She wanted to work with people who knew what they were doing, And she wanted their assurance of absolute confidentiality—something they would no doubt guarantee. But as she thought it through yet again, she couldn’t get around the stickiest problem.

I’ll have to call them from my office—that’ll be fine
. But sooner or later, they’d call her back with information. Since she was practically never at home, they’d have to call back to the
office number—where Susan would most likely answer the phone.

How long can I keep something like this secret from Susan? Not long … not with that curiosity of hers
. And if Sam failed to tell her assistant … and if Susan somehow found out something on her own—even a shred of information—she’d probably mention it to someone and thereby start the very rumor Sam was so eager to avoid.

There was another issue too. If Sam failed to take Susan into her confidence, what would it do to their already unsteady relationship? Sam worked hard to create a sense of trust with Susan. How, then, could she break that trust with this—a heart-matter that started at the core of Sam’s being and had the potential to change everything in her life?

Reluctantly, Sam faced the fact.
I have to tell her. It’s far better Susan hears this from me. I’ll have to take her into my confidence
.