Midnight Hour (4 page)

Nick rubbed the back of his neck and considered how best to answer the question. If Sister Agatha was right, the minute Mercy heard about the hospital’s need for a better emergency room, she’d jump at the chance to help and send him off with a promise to have her people call him. In the last half hour Nick had become interested in more than Mercy’s help with fund-raising, and he sure as hell didn’t want to spend his time talking to her people. If he’d wanted to do that, he would have tried a little harder over the last couple of weeks to convince that grizzly bear of a station manager to give him an appointment.

“I don’t suppose you’d believe I’m a devoted fan?” he asked.

“Not on a bet.” Mercy folded her arms and waited patiently. She almost tapped her foot against
the black-and-white vinyl floor, then wisely decided not to draw any more attention to her bare legs. “Dr. Devereaux, you may not think I’m an expert on broken hearts, but I do know fans. They gush, get terribly shy, find something for me to sign, or act too sophisticated for autographs. But you know what?” Mercy shifted her hands to her hips. “They hardly ever insult me.”

A slow smile worked its way onto Nick’s face as he dug in his pocket for a piece of paper. He found a gas credit-card receipt, which he held out. “May I have your autograph, Miss Malone?”

“Too little, too late,” Mercy informed him, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Subduing it, she said, “If you’re a fan, then I’m Tinkerbell. Since I don’t have wings, you must not be a fan. Now, exactly what is it that you and Sister want from me, Dr. Devereaux?”

“To begin, you could call me Nick.” He shoved the receipt back into his pocket. “And I am most definitely a fan. Devoted in fact. I never, ever, touch the dial.”

“What do you want,
Nick
.”

“A small favor.”

“Ah, I see. This is the part where you tell me that you’ll fix my plumbing if I do you a little favor.” Although she’d guessed as much, Mercy was still disappointed that Nick Devereaux had taken advantage of her situation. It was such a … a … typically
macho
scheme, and she’d begun to hope that Nick wasn’t typical at all.

He slanted a glance at her and shook his head. “No, darlin’. This is the part where I ask you if you
could finish grilling me on the way to the hardware store. That is, assuming you have one in this town, and it’s still open.”

“Of course we have a hardware store. Haunt, Kentucky, isn’t exactly a big city, but it’s not the back end of nowhere either. We hardly ever roll up the sidewalks at six o’clock.”

“Then find some shoes, Mercy Malone.” He dusted off his hands. “We need to visit the hardware man and find out if he has a shutoff key and a half-inch pipe sleeve.”

“Only if I drive,” she said quickly, as if being the driver magically gave her control of the situation. Not that it truly mattered. Right now she’d consider dancing with the devil if he’d fix her pipe. In comparison, a little car ride with Nick didn’t seem so bad.

“Of course you’ll drive,” Nick agreed smoothly. When she was halfway through the door, he added, “I figured that out from the get-go. I’m just coming along for the ride.”

Mercy stopped dead in her tracks, but didn’t turn around. All she’d find was an innocent expression and smoldering eyes, and she refused to give him the satisfaction.

Conversation on the way to and returning from the hardware store had been harmless enough, Mercy decided. They talked about the weather—unusually warm for the end of May; horse racing—they were both fans of the racetrack; cuisine—Nick chided her for never having eaten crawfish étouffée even though she’d been to New Orleans a number of times; and
cars—Nick’s restored ’67 Chevelle hot rod versus the classy styling of Mercy’s old Jaguar, both black and both beloved. They talked about anything and everything except why Nick had driven down to Haunt, Kentucky.

The longer the good doctor avoided the subject of his “little favor,” the more intrigued Mercy became. Now as she followed him through the house and into the kitchen again, she had to admit that he wasn’t typical at all. He fully intended to fix her pipe whether or not she agreed to do his favor.

Nick tossed the sack of plumbing parts on the counter and handed her the tool they had used to shut off the water. “Judging from the age of this house and the state of your plumbing, you’d better put this someplace handy. You’ll be needing it.”

“Thank you,” Mercy said as graciously as possible. “At least I’ll know how to use it
if
I do need it again.”

A deep, low chuckle accompanied Nick’s warning. “Oh, you gonna need it again.”

“Careful,” Mercy said pleasantly. “You’re insulting a woman with a heavy metal object in her hands.”

Nick waved off the danger and rummaged through the paper bag, grabbing the pipe sleeve. “I’m safe. I haven’t fixed your pipe yet. Afterward I’ll watch my mouth.” Mischief lit his eyes as he quickly looked at her. “I might even watch your mouth if you sweet-talk me.”

“I’ve never been much good at sweet talking,” Mercy said, and silently wished she were. With a clever script and in front of a camera, she could sweet-talk the best of them, but not in real life. Not in her kitchen staring at a man who knew the difference between
Mercy May and Midnight Mercy. He panicked even the butterflies in her stomach.

“Ah, talking sweet is easy,” he promised, leaning toward her. “All you gonna need is a willing victim and a little practice.”

Mercy swallowed and tried to ignore the heat rising in her checks. She knew that to sensual men like Nick, the chase was as instinctive as drawing breath, but the knowledge didn’t stop the flutter of anticipation or the feeling that she was special. Flirting with the doctor was a bit like playing with fireworks—lighting the fuse guaranteed an explosion. He created an unfamiliar sensation in her: he made her feel like Midnight Mercy, capable of holding her own with a dangerous man. Holding her own and more.

Uncharacteristically, Mercy struck a match and lit the fuse. In a sultry voice, she asked, “And I suppose you’re the willing victim?”

Very slowly and with a lingering glance on her mouth, Nick volunteered, “Absolutely ready, completely willing, and more than able.”

The air in the room vanished, leaving Mercy struggling to pull enough oxygen into her lungs. She understood the implied invitation to put him to the test. Silence hung in the air while she debated whether or not to RSVP. Although she still clutched the large metal key to her chest like a shield, she finally swayed toward him just as he winked and backed off.

“But first, I’ve gotta fix this damn pipe.” Nick turned away and carefully studied the undersink area, giving her time to get a grip on herself. He tugged on his trouser legs and crouched in front of the opening. Pulling away hadn’t been easy. If she’d been the
woman he’d expected when he rang the doorbell, he wouldn’t have pulled away. He’d have kissed her and let nature take its course.

Unfortunately, Mercy Malone was more and less than the heart-stopping woman on
The Midnight Hour
. His dandy little plan to mix business and pleasure had hit a snag—his conscience. Cursing the sudden appearance of the principles his parents had drummed into him, Nick said, “If you can get me an old shirt and a hair dryer, I’ll start.”

“A hair dryer? What kind of shirt?” Mercy asked, slightly dazed from having her lit fuse abruptly snuffed out. Her brain tried to work out why he needed a shirt and a hair dryer, as well as why she remained unkissed when she had been so certain she was about to be kissed!

“A big shirt. Something that’ll go over these shoulders,” he explained as he reached over to grab the dishtowel draped through the refrigerator handle. Carefully, he wiped down the pipe, which no longer trickled water into the orange bowl. “The cleaners have a hell of a time getting those green corrosion stains out of white dress shirts.”

As the silence grew he twisted around. “I’m not picky. Anything will do. An old jersey left by a beau, a flannel shirt—”

At her frown, Nick caught on. Mercy didn’t have any clothing trophies from the past, because she didn’t let men into her life. At least, not intimately enough to leave spare clothing. Instincts he relied on every day in the emergency room assured him of that.

Nick stood up and crossed the room. “What’sa matter,
chère
?”

“I don’t have any,” she confessed, and put the key down.

“Beaux or shirts?” The question was pushing his luck, and Nick knew it. So he wasn’t surprised at her frown. He didn’t expect Mercy to take the bait; he wouldn’t drag her into another discussion about her past this soon or this easily. Not as long as Mercy clearly wanted to avoid conversation about her history with men or lack thereof.

Her lack thereof bothered Nick more than he wanted to admit. Midnight Mercy had been fair game, but the woman in front of him was a different bowl of gumbo entirely. Judging from her response to every sexual innuendo he made, she knew how the game was played, but Nick was beginning to wonder how many she’d actually finished.

Mercy ignored the soft spoken question about her love life and pointed toward the sink. As sweetly as she could, she suggested, “Why don’t you show me what to do? I’ll do it, and you won’t have to worry about the cleaners.”

“No problem,” Nick assured her. “I’ll improvise.” Without rushing or taking his eyes off Mercy’s face, he began to unbutton his shirt. By the time he’d undone the cuffs and four buttons, Mercy visibly gulped. Her mouth opened and closed on an unspoken comment.

“I’ll get the hair dryer,” she finally blurted, and beat a hasty retreat.

When she left, Nick shook his head. “Ah,
chère
. How we gonna get anywhere if you keep running away?”

He tugged the shirt out of his pants, stripped it off, and draped it over a kitchen chair in one quick
motion. Smiling, he noticed that all four kitchen chairs were also unique in design. Didn’t the woman believe in buying sets of anything? Did she really like the eclectic look or was she simply a sucker for strays?

Isn’t that what you hope, Nick? That Mercy’s a sucker for strays? Strays like Nick Devereaux? That she’ll add you to her collection before you even have time to blink, and then you finally can stop feeling so goddamn lonely?

Frowning, Nick felt his jaw tighten and forced himself to relax. Where in hell had those thoughts come from? He was as tired of having this argument with himself as he was tired of counting the revolutions of the ceiling fan at two in the morning. He didn’t need someone in his life. Being alone and being lonely were two separate issues. The first did not necessarily cause the second.

Before he could settle the old argument, Mercy returned with the hair dryer, hesitating for a split second as she took in the sight of the half-naked doctor. She recovered nicely and pasted a smile on her face as she handed him the dryer. “I will admit to curiosity. What are you going to do with this?”

“Something kinky, of course.” He laughed at the expression on her face. “No,
chère
, I just want the pipe completely dry before I put the sleeve on,” Nick explained, plugging in the dryer. “And this will save me some time.”

While Nick worked, Mercy stood out of the way, quietly enjoying the play of light against his well-defined muscles as he flexed, stretched, and twisted his body. Even the dreary subject of plumbing repairs as he told her what he was doing and why didn’t rob
his voice of that earthy, seductive resonance. Too bad she didn’t want a man cluttering up her life. Nick almost made her wish she did. In fact, Sister Agatha had probably been counting on Nick’s appeal.

“Done,” Nick pronounced as he tightened the cylindrical rubber-and-metal clamp that securely gloved the faulty section of pipe. Standing up and tossing the towel onto the counter with a flourish, he leaned against the edge, arms folded. He grinned at her, obviously waiting for applause.

“I am suitably impressed,” she said simply, keeping her eyes above his collarbone despite the urge for a closer look at the small gold medallion he wore. “Thanks, Nick. I really do appreciate your help.”

“That wasn’t a standing ovation, but it was sincere. So, you’re welcome.” As he ran his fingers through his hair he offered a little advice, “If I were you, I’d order that set of home-repair books advertised on television.”

“My house is not that bad!” Mercy retorted. Giving him a sour look, she gathered up the empty sack and crumpled it into a tight ball. “This is a great house, a house with character and charm.”

“This
great
house is like a great car with ninety thousand miles on the odometer and no warranty. Trust me, Mercy. The fun has just begun. You can count on it. Take it from a man who restored a twenty-five-year-old car with a great deal more than ninety thousand miles of wear and tear.”

The wall phone by the backdoor rang in Mercy’s ear before she could argue. She held up an index finger, the international symbol that said “Stop: We’re not through yet.”

“Hello. Joan?” Mercy’s shoulders slumped and she sighed. “Sophie told you about my plumbing problem? No, the plumber never came. Never called. The car? It belongs to a … friend of mine who’s helping with the pipe. What friend?”

Nick shrugged into his shirt and grinned. He remembered small-town grapevines. Louisiana had its share of concerned neighbors. He pointed at the key on the table and then outside to let her know he was about to turn the water back on.

“His name is Nick Devereaux. Not long.” As he left, Mercy stared at a spot between his shoulder blades and lied, “Perfectly safe, Joan. He’s harmless.”

This time it was Nick’s turn to pause in the doorway for a half second. Mercy grinned to herself as he kept walking. While supplying yes-and-no answers whenever Joan paused for breath, Mercy untangled the long cord and walked across to the sink. “Hmm … No … Yes, of course … Did she?… You’re the chairman?”

When she judged Nick had had time to accomplish his mission, she turned on the faucet slightly, mixing cold and hot water evenly. Anyone looking at her would have thought a minor miracle occurred when the water poured through the faucet and none leaked through the patch. “It worked!… Oh, no. Not you, Joan. I was talking to myself.”