Nocturne

MICHAEL ENTERED, flipped on a light switch, and stood aside, motioning for her to join him. Nicole had no idea what to expect, nor any time to reflect on it. Entering the room, the first thing she became aware of was the pungent, fresh aroma of new wood, as if she’d entered a grove of trees. Looking about, she caught her breath in surprise.

It was a woodworking shop. Like the rest of the house, the spacious room was meticulously clean, and it was outfitted with a wealth of woodworking equipment—dozens of machines, saws, presses, and other things she didn’t know the names or functions of—some that looked new, and some that looked quite ancient. An array of cabinets and drawers was built in along one wall, and beside it—somewhat incongruously—stood a full-size refrigerator. A large pegboard held a neat display of tools hanging on hooks. New wood of various sizes, lengths, and types was racked against the wall on the opposite side.

Scattered throughout the shop were several woodworking projects in different stages of completion. Among them were a small end table with scrolled legs, similar to the table and chairs in the kitchen, and an elegantly carved picture frame that appeared to be ready for painting or staining. Overwhelming all this was the delectable, balsam-flavored scent of cut wood, a fragrance that seemed almost visible, as if the trees were still alive and breathing around her.

Her gaze fell on an object that lay atop the large workbench in the center of the room, and she crossed to it with a little gasp. It was a music box—at least, it would be a music box when it was completed—she felt certain of that. The bottom of the box was fully formed of unstained hardwood with delicately curved sides and corners. The lid was as yet unfinished and lying in pieces. She recognized the style of the craftsmanship and looked up at Michael in astonishment.

A tray on the workbench held a variety of little templates and pieces of multicolored, precut wood. Nicole picked up a colored pencil sketch and studied it. “Is this the design for the lid?”

The design featured a quill pen and ink pot in the center, surrounded by a rectangular border of alternating geometric shapes enclosed between thin black-and-white stripes.

He explained what he was doing as he worked. First, he glued together three long, thin strips of wood in three different colors, melding them together like a sandwich.

“Now we cut this strip at a 45 degree angle into a few dozen small segments.” Fitting a hand saw into a contraption he called a miter box, Michael cut through the wooden strip as if it were butter.

Nicole stood beside him, her eyes drawn to his hands. They were beautiful, his fingers long and slender and uniquely masculine. Each slow, precise movement was the practiced effort of a skilled artisan.

Michael picked up the first product of the saw in his fingers, took Nicole’s left hand in his, and dropped something into her palm. The firm pressure of his hand on hers sent a shiver dancing up her arm, rearranging her heart rhythm, distracting her from the object she was supposed to be admiring.

She’d never felt such immediate, all-encompassing physical desire for a man before, and it was both startling and disconcerting. Yet she knew this desire was more than physical. She’d had a fierce crush on Patrick Spencer ever since she was a girl, based on the man she’d imagined him to be, inspired by his writing—and the man in the flesh was even more attractive and fascinating than she had envisioned.

Freed from his touch, she gave her attention to the tiny mosaic piece in her palm. It was no larger than her little fingernail, pyramid shaped, and made up of three ultrathin stripes of the different colors of wood.

“We have to make a few dozen more just like that.” Michael flipped the wooden band over and sawed through it again and again, creating a succession of the tiny pieces.

Nicole watched him work, captivated—not so much by the activity but by his proximity, which was so intoxicating that she had to remind herself to keep breathing. Trying to distract herself through conversation, she asked, “You inherited this place from your grandfather, right?”

He hesitated before answering. “The Tyler who homesteaded this place—my great-great-great grandfather—emigrated from England. My own father was born here. One day, he decided to follow his roots. He went to England, where he met my mother. She disappeared soon after I was born. Dad raised me and taught me the woodworking skills he’d learned from my grandfather.”

“It’s in the past. I don’t think about it.” Michael had sawed off more than two dozen little wooden pieces by now and paused, looking at her. “Would you like to try?”

Michael handed her the small saw, which felt sturdy in her grip. Nicole fit what was left of the wooden band into the miter box, guessed at the proper point to begin, and started sawing. It took more arm strength than she’d anticipated—he’d made it look so simple—but it was such a little piece that she cut right through it.

Nicole flipped the band over and continued sawing. She felt his eyes on her, studying her in a steady way that made it difficult to focus on the task at hand. Careful, or you’ll saw your finger off, she silently warned herself.

When she’d added several more pieces to the pile, Michael said, “I think we have enough. Now we sort them.” Spreading out the tiny wooden pyramids on the workbench, he added, “We just want the ones with the white stripe at the bottom and the bit of brown walnut at the top.”

As Nicole helped him sort through the pieces, their hands came close to touching several times. The mere anticipation of that contact caused a fluttering in Nicole’s stomach that mimicked the rapid cadence of her heart.

When they’d set aside the pieces he wanted, Michael showed her how to clean off the fuzz on the edges that had been left by the saw blade. “They have to be nice and smooth so there aren’t any gaps.”

Following his lead, Nicole picked up a tiny triangle and rubbed off the little wood fibers with her fingernails. Michael worked immediately beside her, his body inches from hers. Did Michael feel the same riot of sexual tension that was threatening to destroy all rational thought in her head? If so, he gave no indication of it. She wanted to throw down the bits of wood, wrap her arms around his neck, and kiss him senseless.

Nicole blushed at the thought, which was most unlike her, and sought relief in conversation again. “So where did all these tools come from? Some of them look really old. Did they belong to your grandfather?”

“No. That would require far more time and skill than I possess. I stick to furniture and music boxes. The box you were looking at yesterday, with the red rose design? That was one of the first boxes I ever made.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he responded quickly. “I was thinking of another box I made. Okay, these pieces are ready to go. The next part—the final step—is the best part.”

Michael glued together two more thin strips of wood—one white, one black. At his instruction, Nicole interlocked the tiny striped, triangular pieces in a straight line atop one of these wooden bases, creating a lovely pattern of alternating shapes and colors. Michael stood just behind her as she worked, looking over her shoulder and reaching around with his right hand to dab drops of glue in between each tiny pyramid as she added it.

He moved even closer now. Her breath caught as she felt the hard length of his body press up against her back, the weight of his muscled arm against hers, and the cool caress of his breath on her cheek. Rattled, Nicole struggled to concentrate on the delicate process at hand. He drew a zigzag of thick white glue across the entire geometric band they’d created, then placed the other band of white and black wood on top of it.

“Push all the pieces together now and hold them,” he murmured against her ear, his voice rough and deep, “until they’re nice and tight and locked in position.”

Still nestled against her, he reached around with his other arm, and both hands closed over hers. They sandwiched the fragments and strips of wood together, holding them in place for a long moment—a span that might have been a minute or two, but was so awash with erotic sensation, it felt to Nicole like a dizzying eternity. Her fingers were wet with glue. His fingers, pressed tightly against hers, were equally moist and slippery. She felt the warm roughness of his cheek pressed against hers. Against her back, she could feel each breath he took, each tightening of the muscles in his arms and chest, each thudding beat of his heart. Even the fluorescent lights above seemed to brighten, pulsate, and whirl, in rhythm with the pounding in her ears. She wanted to feel his lips on her neck. She wanted to turn and melt into his arms.

Without changing his body position, he grabbed two small clamps from the workbench and expertly fitted them around their little creation, locking it in place with two supporting pieces of wood.

“You can let go now.” His voice was low and husky against her ear. Nicole let go of the piece as instructed—but Michael didn’t let her go. Still pressed against her from behind, his arms still wrapped around her, he picked up a soft, clean rag and, with gentle strokes, methodically wiped all the glue from her fingers.

Nicole swallowed, light-headed from his touch and the effort not to show it. Forcing herself to look down at the intricate wooden mosaic band inside the clamps, she said, “I can’t believe we just made this.” She’d only seen the like in exceptionally crafted pieces and fine antique furniture. “It’s . . . a work of art.”

Michael dropped the rag on the workbench, then brought his right hand up to caress her shoulder. “It has to sit for several hours.” His hand massaged up and down the length of her arm, finally dropping to her waist and moving sensuously forward to graze across her midriff. “Or better yet overnight.”

Even through the layers of her clothes, his touch on such an intimate part of her body made Nicole quiver in response, and the tips of her breasts began to tingle. She felt a heat rise within her and couldn’t prevent a small, low sigh from escaping her lips.

“That’s . . .” she began, but was incapable of further speech. His fingertip lightly traced the outline of her ear, across her cheekbone, to the curve of her chin. Then his broad hand lifted her long, wavy hair away from the side of her neck.

His lips were against her hair now. She felt their pressure, at first with the gentleness of a butterfly’s wings, then more strongly as they moved lower until they came to rest against the tender flesh behind her ear.

Nicole began to sway under the powerful feelings he stirred in her, her head falling back slightly, her eyes closing. Her heart thundered violently in her chest. Her breath came in little gasps as she felt him plant kisses along the sensitive skin at the side of her throat. Heat suffused her. Perspiration broke out on her brow. She was just about to spin around and fold herself into his embrace when suddenly, to her dismay, she heard him curse under his breath.

Disappointment cut through her like a blade. Why had he stopped? Nicole felt hot, flustered, bereft, abandoned. Her eyes flew open. He was already clear across the room, leaning one palm against a woodworking machine, the other hand covering his eyes. As he stood there, breathing heavily, between his spread fingers she saw that his cheeks and forehead were flushed and red.

“No, it’s . . .” she began. She couldn’t finish the thought. Why was he apologizing? His touch had made her dizzy with yearning and need. He’d felt the connection, too, she felt certain of it; she’d heard it in his voice, sensed it in his fingers. Maybe he was too much of a gentleman to continue—was afraid she’d think he was taking advantage of her, the helpless female guest with nowhere to run.

At length Michael dropped his hand. As he glanced at her, the thwarted longing she’d heard in his voice was visible on his face. He said, “I promised myself I wouldn’t do that.”

Unable to think of an appropriate reply, Nicole took a few steps back, trying to collect herself. She was hot. So hot. She’d give anything for a cold drink. She looked around desperately, searching for some way to cool down, some words to alleviate the tension in the air.

Her glance fell on the nearby refrigerator. In a few quick steps she was there, grabbing the door handle, striving for a light tone as she said, “I hope you keep soda in here.”

The refrigerator contained only one thing—or rather, nine things—and they were all identical in size and nature. They lay side by side in three neat rows on the shelves: the same clear plastic drip bags with IV catheter ports that she’d worked with at the hospital.