Moonlight on Monterey Bay (23 page)

When he raised a brow and flicked his eyes pointedly at the old wood-framed screen door, Mercy instantly unlatched it and held it open, pleased it didn’t squeak for once. “Oh, sorry. Come on in. You can’t get anything done standing on the porch.”

Without meaning to, Mercy held her breath as he stepped across her threshold, brushing so close to her that she could almost feel the heat from his body. Swallowing, Mercy decided “stepped over the threshold” was too passive a description. He didn’t exactly invade her house, but he sure filled up a room. Mother Nature was indeed playing one of her little jokes—sprinkling hormones around indiscriminately.

“I’m sorry to call you away from”—Mercy gestured to his pleated, khaki slacks and starched white shirt—”your evening. I hope you have everything you need in your car. You’ll probably want to change, too, after you see the mess in the kitchen. The downstairs bathroom is just past that antique telephone table.”

He frowned as though he were puzzled and then said, “I’ve never minded a little cooking mess in the kitchen. Papa Jack said never trust a precise woman. They spend too much time measuring and not enough time enjoying. I think I agree.”

His eyes gently inventoried her from top to bottom, and his voice flowed through her like hot coffee, thick with cream and sweetened just right.
Get a grip, Mercy May!
Irritated at her train of thought, she put her hands on her hips. “Cooking? Measuring? What are you talking about? I told your service everything. Didn’t they give you my whole message?”

“Guess not.”

“I have a leaking water pipe in my kitchen,” she reminded him. At his blank look, she tried again, “Water everywhere? Frankly, I’ve long since run out of towels. If you don’t get this fixed pronto, I’m afraid I’m going to have to donate my chenille bathrobe to the cause, Mister …” She paused delicately.

“Devereaux. Dr. Nick Devereaux.” He spoke the words softly, intimately, like a secret shared. “Devereaux?”

Nick listened as Mercy experimentally rolled the name off her tongue and admitted that he’d wanted to hear her say it for the last two weeks. Even if she threw him out when she realized he wasn’t the plumber, at least he’d have the satisfaction of having heard his name on her lips. Perhaps if he pulled the Cajun charm out of mothballs, he wouldn’t have to worry about being thrown out. Truth be told, he had no intention of being sent on his way.

Not now. Not until he got to know Mercy Malone. She surprised him, made him curious about her. He expected a celebrity and found a wonderfully real woman with a leaky pipe. He hadn’t wanted to grab hold of anything in a long time. Now he did. Not her body, although God knew it was worth grabbing hold of. He wanted to hold on to the spark of interest she’d struck inside him.

“
Doctor
Devereaux?” she repeated, this time with the accent.

“N’Awlins, Lou’siana,” he answered in response to her unspoken question, blending the two words of the city’s name together. His accent had softened with years of practice, but he’d never managed a generic, white-bread pronunciation of either New Orleans or his name. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but if it isn’t flesh and blood, I don’t plumb it.”

Mercy’s lovely mouth dropped open and she asked, “Then
why
did they send you?”

Crossing his arms, he said, “
They
didn’t send me.”

“You’re not the plumber?”

“No,
chère
. I’m the doctor.”

“But I called for a plumber!” She rubbed her bare arms, which the shawl of damp hair had cooled. Better to believe that explanation than admit his earthy accent gave her goose bumps. “Don’t tell me the service got the messages mixed up.”

Nick fought a smile at the look on Mercy’s face. Even disconcerted, she looked sexy. He wondered if the plumbing situation unsettled her or if the energy he felt flowing between them jumped her train off the track. Either way he enjoyed watching her massage parts of her body as she tried to figure out a solution to her predicament.

“I’m here,” Nick pointed out, hoping to sidetrack her. “Maybe I could help?”

“What do you know about plumbing?”

“Only what I read in the papers,” Nick answered solemnly.

“Well, that’s more than me. The sum total of my knowledge is that the faucet goes on top, which is why I need a professional. No offense. Someone who can get the job done.”

Nick shrugged and leaned his shoulder against the wall. “Darlin’, I do have a reputation for getting the job done.”

Mercy pressed her lips together. Now, why did she believe him? Clearing her throat and with a raised eyebrow, she suggested, “Let’s start over, shall we? Who the heck are you?” She grinned at him as she said, “I know you’re not a doctor, ‘cause doctors don’t make house calls anymore. Not even in a small town like Haunt, Kentucky. Especially to people who aren’t patients.”

Nick grinned back and decided he liked Mercy Malone as much as he was attracted to her. Wet hair, long legs, barely dressed, and a sense of humor. What more could a man ask from a celebrity fund-raiser? Or a woman for that matter, Nick added, surprising himself as he realized that Mercy’s most attractive quality was her sense of humor. That’s why he instinctively responded to her. Listening to her made him feel good.

“I really am a doctor,” Nick said, and pushed away from the wall. “I recently joined the emergency-room staff at a hospital in Louisville.”

“Things must be slow if you’re roaming the countryside in search of emergencies,” she quipped.

Nick ignored the remark and dropped the other shoe. “You probably know the hospital. Mercy Hospital? I understand you were born there.”

Startled, she almost backed through the screen door. “How do you know that?”

“Sister Agatha still runs the hospital. She remembers you and your parents quite well. Even tracked down your address for me. Told me that when I saw you, I was to request—strongly—that you get your butt over for a visit.”

“Sister Aggie?” Mercy smiled, using the childhood name she’d called the nun. She lowered her head in contemplation, fondly remembering the no-nonsense woman. “I haven’t seen her since I was nineteen and having impure thoughts about one of the residents.” Suddenly Mercy’s head jerked up, and she took a couple of steps toward him. “Has she seen the show?”

Nick nodded once, but didn’t volunteer a word.

“What did she say?”

With a straight face, Nick tactfully edited Sister Agatha’s comment and merely said, “She thought perhaps now that your show is a success you could afford to buy more material for your costumes.”

Laughing, Mercy said, “Sister Aggie has either mellowed or you’re trying to spare my feelings. Which is it?”

Nick shifted uncomfortably and rubbed his chin. “Mellow is not exactly the word I’d use to describe Sister Agatha.”

“Not
exactly
the word? Why do I get the feeling you’ve given a lot of thought to the matter of describing her in one word?”

“It’s a habit of mine.”

Mercy put her hands on her hips and studied him for a minute. “What’s the definitive word for Sister Aggie?”

“Perceptive.”

“Agreed. What did she say about my show?”

“She said she was praying that you’d find a husband soon so you could stop advertising.”

“She said
what
!” Mercy’s body went rigid, her hands falling to her sides in small white-knuckled fists.

“She said—” Nick began helpfully.

“I know what she said!” Mercy eyed him suspiciously, opening and closing her hands in an obvious attempt to control her temper. “What the hell are you supposed to be? The answer to her prayers?”

“Actually, darlin’, I was kind of hoping you were the answer to mine.” Nick recognized the real truth in that statement.

“Of course.” Mercy nodded and stepped closer, folding her arms across her midriff. She checked for a wedding ring. He wasn’t wearing one, which led her to an interesting conclusion: Sister Agatha was matchmaking. “Dr. Devereaux, you are one smooth son of a gun, but you go right back and tell Sister Aggie I’m a damn sight smarter now than I was at nineteen. I can spot a heartbreaker fifty yards away.”

“Ah no, I’m a doctor,
chère
,” Nick argued gently, remembering Sister Agatha’s insistence that he make the trip instead of phoning. “I don’t break hearts. I mend ‘em.”

“But my heart doesn’t need mending. By you or anyone else,” she told him with a toss of her head, giving him a taste of the provocative Midnight Mercy. “Sister Agatha should realize that. Don’t you two ever watch television? Mercy Malone is in the business of breaking hearts, not the other way round.”

“Now,
that
I believe, but it doesn’t scare me off.”

“My breaking your heart doesn’t scare you?”

“No, being the first man to break yours doesn’t scare me,” he deadpanned. For a second he saw surprise flare in her eyes and knew, however unintentionally, he’d scored a direct hit. Mercy Malone was off balance, and she wasn’t used to being off balance. Nick decided he liked her that way.

Mercy felt as though the gauntlet had just been flung, that her honor was at stake. She wanted to wipe that smug, sexy, irritating smile off the doctor’s face.
Doctor!
That certainly explained a lot about his attitude. She had grown up with surgeons for parents and knew exactly how futile it was to argue with doctors who thought they were right. But that never stopped her from trying.

“I’m twenty-nine years old, Dr. Devereaux. Trust me,” she said in a confidential tone. “I’ve had plenty of opportunities for broken hearts.”

“Aw, darlin’,” Nick said with a shake of his head. “But how many of those … opportunities did you take advantage of?”

Irrationally, Mercy wanted Devereaux to leave so she wouldn’t have to answer the incriminating question, and she wanted him to stay until she found out exactly what Sister Agatha had told him! Never before had anyone questioned Midnight Mercy’s experience, even in jest Usually people tended to mix up her television persona with her private self. As she studied him Mercy drew attention to her bottom lip with one long red fingernail.

“You’re
so
sure that I’ve never suffered a broken heart,” she mused, infusing her voice with the same teasing sexuality she used on television. “Is that a professional diagnosis, Doctor?”

“Oh no. I haven’t asked the question.”

“What question?”

“A simple one. Who broke your heart?”

Nonplussed, Mercy floundered for a snappy reply, and then just tried to figure out something he’d believe.

As the silence stretched, Nick briefly considered letting the subject drop, but only briefly. The sexy, confident Mercy Malone he’d seen on television seemed perfectly capable of telling him to go to hell, and she hadn’t. So he didn’t back off. “What’sa matter,
chère
? Don’t remember the details?”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re stalling,” he corrected, and turned away from her, walking toward the wide carpeted stairway that led to the second story. “I’d think twice about getting a dog if I were you. This newel post looks like a giant, hand-carved fireplug.”

Exasperated, Mercy gave a small huff, and not just because he’d insulted her post. “How am I supposed to think with you talking all the time?”

“You shouldn’t have to think. Any woman who’s had her heart broken knows every little detail. She knows who, and where, and when. The lady can even tell you the moment it happened. But not you.” Nick ran his hand along the highly polished banister. He missed her widened eyes, and the way she followed the motion of his hand. Nick paused for a heartbeat and then added, “Now, why is that?”

The sharp ring of the telephone caught them both by surprise, breaking the spell of intimacy that had been weaving itself around the two of them. When Mercy didn’t move, Nick said, “I believe someone is callin’ you.”

“I can hear,” she replied, and walked past him to the phone table. Snatching up the black bone-shaped receiver, she answered more sharply than she intended and silently swore she’d wipe that self-satisfied look off Devereaux’s face if it was the last thing she did on this earth. “Oh … Sophie, hi. No, nothing’s wrong.”

Nick chuckled and wandered toward the opening into the living room, which looked comfortable but still reflected the century-old character of the house. Without sacrificing any of the architectural flavor, Mercy had managed to make an inviting home—something he hadn’t been able to do with his apartment even though he’d hired an interior-design firm.

“No, he’s not the plumber,” Mercy patiently explained to her elderly neighbor as she eyed her guest. “He’s a doctor. No, I’m not sick. Devereaux. Dr. Devereaux. No, not France. He’s from New Orleans. Yes, the one in Louisiana.”

When he heard his name, eavesdropping became too great a temptation for Nick, but he salved his conscience by facing her so she’d know he was shamelessly snooping. Fleetingly, Nick wondered if she’d forgotten her plumbing problems as completely as he’d forgotten about being tired.

“No!” Mercy’s answer to the unheard question was sharp. Suddenly she clenched her teeth as though trying to hold out against pressure. She shot him a furtive glance, then turned away and lowered her voice. “No, I’m fine. Really. Now is not a good time, Sophie. Sophie … Sophie!”

Gingerly, Mercy replaced the receiver. She turned and announced, “We’re about to have company. Sophie would like to meet you. She’s never met anyone from New Orleans.”

Something in Mercy’s tone of voice straightened Nick’s spine. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Should I be worried?”

Mercy’s sense of humor began to surface and her mouth twitched. “I would. She’s afraid you’re ravishing me.”

“She’s afraid I’m
what
?”

“Ravishing me,” Mercy said pleasantly as she passed him on her way to the screen door to wait for Sophie.

“You can’t be serious,” Nick declared.

“Oh, I’m perfectly serious. Sophie says she saw you drive up and you’re just the sort of man who might, and I quote,
try something
.”

“And Midnight Mercy is just the sort of woman who could handle it if I did,” Nick replied sharply.