by Debra Dixon
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.”
With a laugh, Nick waved aside her concerns. “Then it’s gonna have to be gumbo.”
“I hope you have the recipe memorized, because I don’t have a cookbook.”
“Darlin’, gumbo’s not a recipe. It’s a scavenger hunt.”
“I’m telling you. You’re not going to find anything fit to eat in my refrigerator.”
“Well, you relax and let me be the judge of that.”
“You can’t possibly know how to make gumbo. You’re a man,” Mercy said as if that would settle everything.
“The secret to gumbo and every other Cajun dish is—first, you make a roux. Anybody born in South Lou’siana can make a roux. All you need is a little butter and a little flour. Are you gonna tell me your cupboard’s so bare that you haven’t got butter and flour?”
“Gumbo’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Not really. I don’t know how you do it here, but in Lou’siana, we bring everything to a boil, and then cut back the heat.” A glint in his eyes and the husky tone of his voice warned Mercy that he wasn’t talking about cooking anymore. “We let it simmer real slow. Until your mouth waters every time you take a breath. Until the only thing on your mind is tasting what you’ve been waiting for.”
Mercy managed to force out an answer, but the words stumbled over one another in a nervous rush, betraying the effect Nick’s words had on her. “I guess you do know what you’re doing.”
“That”—Nick gave her a wink as he walked out of the room—“I guaran-damn-tee.”
With one hand Mercy reached for the VCR control. With the other she rubbed her chest as if that would stop the thumping of her heart and the racing of her pulse.
SIX
Pleased that he’d overcome Mercy’s objections to sharing dinner, Nick thumbed on the radio in her kitchen and got to work by inspecting the contents of the refrigerator. He discovered that Mercy truly hadn’t been to the grocery store. There wasn’t much of anything, but there was a little of everything. And that was all right. A little of everything would make a wonderful gumbo.
As a flour-and-butter mixture bubbled in an electric skillet, he began piling an odd assortment of ingredients on the counter to wait their turn: a couple of foil-wrapped, leftover chicken breasts, a package of frozen okra, a couple of tomatoes, Polish sausage, Worcestershire sauce, and Tabasco sauce. In another frying pan he began sautéing a yellow onion, celery that had seen better days, and half of a red bell pepper he found in a plastic sandwich bag. He hadn’t been especially neat with the chopping, but then gumbo didn’t require painstaking preparation. A traditional gumbo just required a big pot and time to simmer.
Time to simmer was just what Mercy needed too, he thought. Romancing her was turning out to be a lot like Cajun cooking, and he silently thanked his mother for drumming the basic concepts—of Cajun cuisine, and of life—into his head. Never rush a roux. Never rush a woman.
He kept her advice in mind as he stirred the bubbling roux, making sure it didn’t burn. A roux had to “earn” its brown color slowly. Then he had to add water and put everything in a pot to simmer for an hour.
Since he didn’t intend to rush his roux or Mercy Malone, Nick figured the gumbo wouldn’t be ready until she’d had enough time to watch her movie and finish her work. Once they sat down to dinner, she’d have no excuses. The rest of her evening belonged to him. Whistling, he reached for the broiled chicken and began pulling meat off the bone.
By seven-thirty, Mercy’s stomach began to grumble, encouraged by an incredible aroma that had begun as faint cooking smells and had now coalesced into a delicious promise that filled the house. She pulled her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. Nick was fighting dirty, hitting her right in her lumberjack appetite. For a few more minutes she uselessly shuffled her notes and then gave up.
Honesty compelled her to admit that the desire to be in the same room with Nick’s potent sexuality was as real as the desire to assuage her hunger. Both cravings, in equal measure, sent her downstairs. She suspected that the adrenaline surge she got every time Nick looked at her might be addictive. It was as if her brain and body clicked into high gear anytime he walked into a room.
As she trailed downstairs she wondered when she had abandoned her carefully cultivated principles for a safe, happy life. Number one: Avoid attraction because it leads to lust, which leads to love, which leads to bitterness and ugliness. Number two: Don’t let a man get comfortable in your house, because that’s only a step away from letting him into your life. Number three: Never trust your heart to a doctor because doctors care more about medicine than about people and relationships.
Mercy pushed open the door into the kitchen and admitted that if she hadn’t ignored the first two rules the moment she saw Nick Devereaux standing on her porch, he wouldn’t be worming his way into her life right now. Thank God for rule number three. If it weren’t for that, she’d be headed for real trouble. After seeing him in the emergency room, she shouldn’t have any trouble remembering that he was a doctor.
Turned away from her, Nick stood in the open doorway across the room, shoulder propped against the back doorjamb and staring out into the yard. Everything about him was a contradiction. He was tough and gentle. Dangerous and safe. Rough and smooth. More than anything else, she knew he was alone, and she hated knowing that. The first night he walked into her house, she’d jokingly told Joan that she was a sucker for a good cause.
Right now she didn’t want to be a sucker. She’d give anything if Nick hadn’t told her about the death of his family. If he hadn’t pretended he was okay because the passage of time had erased his hurt. If she hadn’t seen that world-weary look in his eyes when he sat at her kitchen table, eating pizza and thumbing the label of his beer bottle.
Mercy knew she w
as in trouble, because she wanted to be Nick’s friend. He needed one. And she didn’t know if she could do that without the chemistry getting in the way. Nick had made it very plain that the only thing standing between them and a nice soft bed was time and her resistance.
Friends spent time together. How long could she resist the sexual pull between them when friendship made her want to put her arms around him and show him he wasn’t alone?
“You going to stare at my butt all night?” Nick asked without turning around.
Startled out of her thoughts, Mercy defended herself. “I was not staring at your butt!”
Nick turned around slowly, making her pulse jump when his gaze wound its way up her body and rested on her mouth. He had a way of looking at her that she was beginning to recognize as his way of making love without touching. Finally, Nick said, “Not the buns? Guess you’re a leg woman.”
“Shoulders. I like very broad shoulders,” Mercy corrected, well aware that Nick had maneuvered the conversation toward the physical attraction between them.
His laughter left no doubt that he took great pleasure in stirring up her sexual awareness. It seemed to be his purpose in life. Unfortunately, she’d begun to like matching wits with him. She liked the way he challenged her with words, daring her to top him, laughing when she did, and backing off until the next time.
Suddenly she realized that their verbal dance was what flirting was meant to be—not that insufferably cute chatter exchanged at cocktail parties, but an exchange of words that promised everything sensual and forced nothing. Flirting, in the hands of someone dedicated like Nick, was extended foreplay. Dear God! And she wanted to be Nick’s friend?
“Broad enough for you?” Nick asked, obviously unconcerned about whether his shoulders would make the grade. When he crossed his arms, his T-shirt barely covered the waistband of his jeans. Another half inch and skin would be showing.
Mercy eyed the edge of his shirt for a moment as Nick shifted and then said, “You’ll do.”
