Authors: Debra Dixon
“Ah,
chère
, I was afraid of that. So I bought one of those too. It’s in my back pocket.” He turned slightly as he explained, “I couldn’t carry everything.”
Dangling from the pocket of his jeans was a thin black elastic strip that he hadn’t quite managed to shove inside with the rest of the belt. The weight of the hanging clasp caused the garter to sway with his movements, hypnotizing her. She closed her eyes, removing the temptation to linger over Nick’s physical attributes, which he made absolutely no attempt to hide.
His jeans weren’t actually tight, but they were low slung, a soft well-worn blue, hugging places she’d
rather not be caught staring at. His T-shirt could be described as a second skin, and she’d be lying to herself if she denied the instant physical attraction she felt for the man.
Ironically, the garter belt worried her more than the stockings. Never before had a man seen through her so easily. She wasn’t the kind of woman who had drawers of sexy lingerie with which she enticed her lovers. Without saying a word, Nick made it very clear that he wanted her and that he knew Midnight Mercy wasn’t the real Mercy Malone.
Expelling a heavy breath, she opened her eyes and said, “Damn you. Why can’t you be like other men?”
“Don’t tell me that men haven’t brought you gifts before?”
“Oh, sure.” She nodded. “Roses and chocolate. Occasionally Chinese take-out, but never stockings.”
“Did you ask them in?”
“No.”
“Are you gonna ask me in?” Nick bounced the pink ball once more, teasing the Lab.
“It’s either ask you in, or replace the screen when she charges through it to get that damn ball.”
“Then I’d have to say I’m glad I’m not like other men.”
“You are an original,” Mercy allowed as she flipped the screen-door latch and let go of the dog’s collar. Immediately, Witch bumped the door frame with her nose, squeezing through the opening. “If I were you, Nick, I’d throw that ball into the yard or prepare to lose your hand.”
Instantly, Nick complied, and Witch sailed off the porch, never touching the steps. For the moment
Mercy ignored Nick and watched the fluid motion of her dog as she ran for the rolling tennis ball. At first it looked as if she’d overrun the ball, but in the next second she turned and scooped up the fuzzy pink sphere. Without a wasted motion, she unerringly streaked toward Nick.
“She wants to play, and since you started it, you finish it. By the way, Witch normally won’t stop until you’ve thrown a ball twenty-five times or so. Have fun,” Mercy suggested as the dog spit the now soggy ball out on Nick’s leather running shoes.
Without a backward glance, Mercy headed for the kitchen. Witch’s impatient bark sounded behind her a split second before Nick laughed and said, “Go get it!”
Twenty minutes later she’d made iced tea, cleaned the kitchen, and Nick still hadn’t come inside. Giving up, she went back to the front door. Nick and Witch weren’t in the front yard. Puzzled, Mercy pushed opened the noisy screen and stepped out onto the large, old-fashioned porch.
“Over here,
chère
,” Nick instructed from her left.
He sat in her porch swing, slowly pushing it with one foot as he flicked his gaze over her from top to bottom. Even though only a small portion of stretch leggings extended beyond her oversized T-shirt, Nick still managed to find every curve with his piercing gaze. Since his hands were empty, Mercy could only guess the stockings were safely tucked in the pocket with the garter belt.
“Why are you still out here?” she asked.
“Witch and I were too worn-out to walk all the way across your yard to my car and get my tools.”
He didn’t look worn-out, but he did look a little sad, like someone who’d been examining old memories. Mercy glanced down at Witch, who lay by the railing, contentedly napping, her muzzle propped on top of the tennis ball. She asked, “What do you need tools for?”
“To fix that screen door. Your dog might be able to sleep through that awful fingernails-on-a-chalkboard noise, but I refuse to listen to the door caterwaul every time I walk through it.”
She pointed out, “If I’d wanted my screen door fixed, I could have done it myself.”
Nick brushed an imaginary piece of lint off the knee of his jeans. “How’s that?”
Irritated, Mercy put her hands on her hips. “Even I can replace a worn-out spring.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Ed down at the hardware store didn’t have the right size spring. He’s got it on special order with his wholesaler.”
Sagely, Nick nodded his head. “I bet Ed loves you.”
“And why is that?”
“You’re a hardware-store owner’s dream come true, Mercy. Everything in this house is a special order, and the only thing you know how to do is replace. Trust me, Ed would make a lot less money if you learned how to repair instead of replace. I don’t suppose he suggested you buy a small can of spray lubricant and simply oil the spring every once in a while?”
“No,” Mercy answered, making a mental note to ask Ed the exact same question.
“I didn’t think so,” Nick commented as he stopped the swing and stood up. “Like I told you, you need to buy a set of those home-improvement books. I’ll get the can out of my toolbox.”
Since the solution was so simple, Mercy couldn’t refuse without sounding like a complete jerk, but she didn’t have to like the fact that she owed Nick another favor. To add to her irritation, Witch leaped up the minute Nick patted his leg. Together they strolled across the yard to the glossy black Chevelle.
Dammit!
Not only did Nick like dogs; dogs liked Nick. Babies probably did too.
In no time the door was as good as new. “There you go,” Nick said, and handed her the can while he tested the spring one last time. He cocked his head and listened intently as he swung the door back and forth. “No squeaks now.”
Mercy shook her head. “Not a one. Thanks for the tip.”
“So do you feel grateful enough to actually invite me in?” he asked, although he already had one foot inside the door. “We do need to figure out a theme for this fund-raiser.”
Facing him squarely, Mercy said, “I don’t know. Are you going to behave?”
Nick laughed and reached out to trace a section of hair that lay against her breast. “I doubt it, but I can try.”
By stepping back, Mercy avoided his hand. “Try harder.”
“I’m not makin’ any promises,
chère
. I warned you before. I’m not near through with you. Especially after that kiss.”
“That kiss was a mistake, and you know it! We should both forget it and concentrate on the fundraiser.”
“You gonna stand there and tell me that you can forget a kiss like that?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Mercy gripped the can so tightly she knew her knuckles had to be white.
“Mercy Malone, you are a very pretty coward and a terrible liar,” he whispered softly, and stepped out of her way.
She walked past him, shaking her head. “Heavens, don’t you ever stop?”
“Not until I get what I want,” he warned as he and Witch followed her in.
Carefully, Mercy set the can on the small half-moon table against the entrance wall. Then she turned around and met his dark gaze, more than a little angry. “And what is it you want? You hint. You insinuate. You tease. But you never play it straight. Exactly what do you want from me, Nick? I don’t do one-night stands, and I’m not looking to play house!”
Nick studied her, surprised at the edge in her voice. Not for the first time he wondered what had Mercy running scared. He had a feeling that his being a doctor was only part of it. So he crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Then I guess I’ll have to settle for something in between.”
“Like what?” Mercy asked, startled by his answer.
“Something like friendship and honesty.”
Frustrated, Mercy paced a small circle. “You make it all sound so simple. And it’s not.” She stopped to
stare at him again. “What am I supposed to do with all these confusing feelings?”
“Sort ’em out one at a time, just like everybody does.”
Unexpectedly, Mercy’s sense of humor surfaced. “And I suppose you’re going to do your dead level best to help me sort them out. Aren’t you?”
Grinning broadly, Nick admitted, “Now you’re talking,
chère
. I thought I might help. What are friends for?”
Mercy groaned. “With friends like you, who needs enemies?”
Nick laughed and then, like a gunfighter disarming himself at the city limits of a “no weapons” town, he pulled the stockings and garter belt from his back pocket and placed them carefully on the table alongside the small spray can. While he held his arms up in surrender he asked, “What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?”
“First you have to promise not to insult the sheriff’s iced tea,” Mercy told him, hands on her hips.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nick assured her as he followed her toward the kitchen.
Swirling the melting ice cubes around the bottom of her empty tea glass, Mercy started to make a suggestion and then shook her head without saying anything. They’d been in her office for the better part of an hour trying to come up with a decent title for their fund-raising evening. “Nothing we’ve come up with is really right. And … You’re not paying attention again!”
Nick looked up from the pages of one of Mercy’s numerous movie-trivia books. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind the desk was filled with star biographies, histories of the “B” and horror movies, trade books on special effects, poster and movie-still photograph collections intended as coffee-table books, three different movie video guides, and the Silver Screen Edition of Trivial Pursuit. “You expect me to pay attention with all of this at my fingertips?”
“Yes, I do.”
“All right,” Nick said as he closed the book, rested his arms on the desktop, and concentrated on her. She’d claimed a corner of the well-used couch—as far away from him as possible, he noted. “You’ve got to make up your mind, Mercy. First you chew me out because I pay too much attention, and then you accuse me of paying too little.”
“I don’t want you to pay attention to me, Nick! I want you to concentrate on the fund-raiser! That
is
what you came here for.”
“Is it? I thought I came to fix your screen door and to spend some time with you.”
“You thought wrong,” Mercy told him bluntly. She sucked on a piece of ice for a moment and then added, “I thought you understood. I don’t
spend time
with doctors.”
“Not even with your parents?” Nick asked, remembering Sister Agatha’s comment about Mercy losing interest in the resident because he’d been like her doctor parents—all medical talk and no action.
“I usually only see them on holidays, birthdays, and, of course, at The Weddings.”
Nick could actually hear her capitalize the words.
Intrigued, but knowing better than to betray anything more than a casual interest, he kept his voice carefully neutral as he said, “You make weddings sound like a quirky family tradition.”
“Yeah, I guess you could say they are,” Mercy acknowledged a tad flippantly. “It’s so hard to keep up with who’s marrying who that we need scorecards.”
“Scorecards?” Nick abandoned his spot behind the desk and took the other corner of the couch.
“All together my parents have been married six times. Only once to each other,” Mercy clarified.
Nick lifted a brow. “Six?”
“Well, Mother’s engaged again. If she actually marries Vaughn this Thanksgiving, that will make it seven. Of course you can’t get married that many times unless you get divorced on a regular basis.” Mercy plucked at the arm of the sofa. “What about you, Nick? Are your parents divorced?”
“My parents weren’t ever married,
chère
.”
“Oh God.” Mercy’s cheeks turned a fiery red as she apologized. “I’m sorry, Nick.”
“Don’t be. My mother wasn’t. Eventually, she married a man she loved. That’s when we moved to Baton Rouge and then to N’Awlins.” Nick anchored an ankle over one knee and spread his arms out. “You know, N’Awlins isn’t really Cajun country. I always missed the bayou, but Papa Jack was a good man. Raised me like his own.”
Mercy wondered at the past tense and the bittersweet tone in his voice. “Is he the one who said precise women spent too much time measuring and not enough enjoying?”
“Yeah. He did. He said a lot of things worth remembering.” Not quite sure why, Nick shared something with her that he hadn’t told anyone in years. “My parents and my little sister died in a boating accident while I was in medical school.”
Mercy closed her eyes and wanted to take back time, wanted to go back to the beginning of this conversation and erase it. She didn’t want to feel the compassion she felt for him. She didn’t want to know his pain.
I don’t have anybody who asks anymore
. That’s what he’d said when she wanted to know why he hated answering personal questions. How was she ever going to be able to tell the man to go away when he as much as said he didn’t have anywhere else to go? She opened her eyes and repeated what seemed to be her own special litany around Nick. “I’m so sorry.”
Leaning toward her, Nick took the glass from her hand. “It’s okay,
chère
. I wanted you to know. It was a long time ago. I’ve learned to live with it.” Slapping one jean-sheathed thigh, he banished the sadness he knew was in his eyes and got up. “Look, you want to get something to eat? I’m starved.”
Mercy checked the clock on her desk. Almost six o’clock. “Maybe a rain check? I’ve got to finish viewing next week’s movie and get started on my comments for the show. I usually do that on Sunday afternoons.”
“Fine.” Nick started to walk away. “You finish that, and I’ll cook.”
“No!” The abrupt denial stopped him on his way out the door. Mercy felt like a heel, but the last thing she needed was to let Nick keep helping and fixing.
Ignoring her feelings for him would only become more difficult with every confidence and intimacy they shared. As he looked over his shoulder she offered the first excuse she could think of, “I haven’t been to the grocery this week. There’s nothing here.”