by Debra Dixon
Mercy pulled into the gravel parking lot right behind Nick’s Chevelle, cursing as her old Jaguar hit yet another pothole. When she got out of her car, she stared at the enormous weathered gray building that dominated the south side of the highway. A covered porch ran the length of the nightclub; barn-red double doors and shutters provided the only color on the drab-looking structure except for the big red neon letters across the roof. Unfortunately, a couple of letters were out, so the sign read AD BO ’S instead of BAD BOB’S.
What kind of band did Nick expect to find in a roadside honky-tonk that probably paid the band twenty-five dollars a night plus drinks? Her instincts had warned her the minute he told her the band was playing in a nightclub halfway between Haunt and Louisville.
As Nick walked up beside her she stated the obvious, “This is a roadhouse.”
“Yeah, I know.” Nick noted the tapping of her fingernails. “You got somethin’ against sawdust and beer?”
“I’ll let you know.”
A couple came out the red doors, and Mercy studied the woman’s clothes. Short, short, blue-jean cutoffs, cowboy boots, and a halter top. “At least you were right about there not being a dress code.”
“Stop fishing for compliments,” he told her as he took her by the elbow. “You look great.”
Mercy rolled her eyes. She’d dressed to go straight home after her meeting at the hospital, not for going out—white jeans, a white men’s cotton T-shirt, and white sneakers. “As compared to what? The Good-Humor man?”
“As compared to anything I’ve seen all day.”
“Oh, right! You’ve been looking at nurses all day.”
Nick hauled her around to face him. “I don’t look at nurses. At least not the way I look at you.”
To prove his point, he took his time perusing her from head to toe. His eyes burned into her each time they paused in their journey, making her want to pull away, but the anticipation fluttering in her stomach kept her rooted in place.
Nick noticed the way her jeans hugged her calves, the way the stark white T-shirt enhanced her slight tan even in the artificial light, and the way the belt called attention to her waist. The belt. Now, there was that one item of her attire that bothered him. “The belt I could live without.”
Looking down at her slender, turquoise-studded belt, Mercy asked, “What’s wrong with my belt?”
“It’s the way you’ve got the excess looped back over the belt and hanging down. The tip of it’s pointy and silver. It reminds me of a snake.”
“Good,” Mercy told him firmly, more in command of that flutter in her belly now that he’d criticized her. “Then maybe you’ll be afraid to touch.”
Laughing heartily, Nick said, “Not on your life, darlin’!” and pulled open the red doors. “After you. You do dance don’t you?”
“With you? Only the fast ones.”
“Now, why is that?” Tonight was going to be fun, Nick could tell already. “You afraid to get belly to belly again?”
Mercy ignored him and soaked in the panorama before her. An explosion of color flooded her line of vision as the couples on the dance floor swayed and whirled and separated. Beneath the thin soles of her sneakers, she could feel not only the uneven texture of the sawdust, but also the rocking rhythms of the band’s music. The hardwood floors seemed to vibrate with life and energy.
Somewhere in the crowd she caught the sound of a beer bottle breaking. Immediately, everyone within hearing distance shouted “Ho!” like a two-syllable word and offered up a round of applause for the unfortunate waiter. Bartending noises—the whir of a blender, the rattle of glass and ice, and the sound of the cash register being slammed shut—echoed on her right, drawing her attention. Three men behind a ridiculously long slab of polished wood juggled liquor bottles and caused mixed drinks to appear magically almost before the patrons could finish ordering them.
The smells of beer, honest sweat, and smoke filled the air. Everything about the place teased her senses. She was amused by the contradiction in the club’s dreary exterior and lively interior.
“How ’bout a drink?” Nick asked as he started for the bar.
“Bloody Mary, lots of salt, no stalk.”
“Salt’s bad for you.”
“So are you, but I haven’t given you up yet either.”
“Good point,” he agreed as he turned away. “Bloody Mary, lots of salt, coming right up.”
Looking at his back, she made a bet with herself that Nick was most likely a Jack and Coke man. When he returned, she asked. He was, and she followed him to a table.
Scooting into a chair in the corner was a mistake because she had no maneuvering room. The good doctor saw her predicament as an opportunity to crowd right in next to her. For once she didn’t mind, perhaps because they were on neutral ground.
While she nursed her drink, Nick cast his gaze around the room and his fingers through his hair. Mercy lowered her eyes, afraid she’d betray her thoughts, which were on the quick shower he took before leaving the hospital and how good he smelled when he came out. Sexy even, with his thick hair still slightly damp. He’d changed into chinos and a deep purple polo shirt, open at the neck.
Raising her eyes again, she was drawn to the gold chain and small medallion he always wore. It tantalized her as a ray of light caught it, making the lustrous metal wink at her, daring her to touch.
Giving in to the urge that she’d had since the morning he sat on the edge of her bed, Mercy reached out and lifted the medal. The underside was smooth against her fingertips and it was as warm as the skin she touched with the backs of her knuckles. She could feel Nick’s watchful gaze on her as she asked, “Do you ever take this off?”
“No. It was a gift.”
“It must mean a lot to you. I mean, if you wear it all the time.”
“Yeah, it does.”
She leaned closer to study the design on the gold circle. A man carried a walking staff in one hand and a small child on his shoulder. “St. Christopher, right?”
Nodding, Nick said, “Patron saint of children and travelers.”
For a second Mercy saw the sad, lost look in Nick’s eyes again. The fleeting shadow of melancholy came and went so quickly, Mercy might have believed she imagined it, except she hadn’t. She’d seen that look too many times before. Suddenly she felt like she’d invaded his privacy, and she let the medallion drop. Although she wanted to ask more, she knew that now was not the time.
“What do you think of the band?” Nick asked abruptly, wanting to change the subject. He wasn’t ready to tell her about the medal. Not yet.
“If you promise not to say I told you so, then I’ll admit there is something about these guys that makes my feet tap and gets the adrenaline started. Even this set of slow ballads has me swaying with the music.”
“I know. I found this place the night the chaoui came visitin’.” Nick swirled the dark liquid in his glass. “I felt like driving, so I stayed off the interstate and took the scenic tour back to Louisville. And there it was in the middle of this old highway. From the outside it reminded me of a fais-dodo.”
“What’s that?”
Nick raised a brow and considered how to explain. “Fais-dodo is Cajun baby talk. It means ‘go to sleep.’ ”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s how it translates, but what it is is a music hall. A place for the whole family to get together—aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, cousins, parents, everyone.” Nick gave her a crooked smile as he traced the edge of his glass with a fingertip. “Cajuns love extended family and any excuse to celebrate, even if we have to build a place to hold the whole family at one time.”
“Like a personal nightclub?”
“Sure enough. Complete with band. A couple of instruments, even if it’s nothing but an accordion and an old fiddle, constitutes a band in Lou’siana’s French Triangle. And you’ll always find a couple of impromptu spoon players to throw into the mix. Any Cajun family can muster a respectable
band.”
Grinning, Mercy said, “Must not be too respectable a band if the name of your music halls means go to sleep.”
“Aw, now, fais-dodo has nothing to do with the music! Anytime you get family together, chère, you gonna have kids. The old halls were places for the kids to go to sleep and the grown-ups to play. When you build a party house”—Nick drew a rectangle on the table with his finger and divided it into two long rooms—“you make sure there’s a room in the back to put all the kids to bed. The big, long room in front is for the music and the dancing.”
He sectioned off a small part of the children’s room. “Sometimes they make a second room in back for cards.”
“Is that where you learned to play the cutthroat card game?”
“Bourré. By the time I was old enough to join the card games, we’d been in N’Awlins a long time. Besides, the old-style fais-dodo as a family entertainment was already fading when I was a boy. By the time I was eighteen, only a few of the bigger halls were left, like the one over in Breaux Bridge, which catered to the tourist trade mostly. So I didn’t bother. It didn’t have quite the same feeling as the family places I remembered.”
“But what about your own extended family? Didn’t you go back to the bayou for visits … or celebrations, or whatever?”
“Didn’t have any family left to visit. Not blood family anyway.” Nick polished off his drink. “Just Papa Jack, Maman, and Catherine.”
“Catherine. That was your sister’s name?”
“Yeah. It was.”
Nick stood up and pulled her up so abruptly that Mercy grabbed his arm for balance. He lifted her chin and brushed his lips with hers. The sadness was back in his eyes again, and loneliness too.
“Dance with me, chère.”
Without words, Mercy agreed. How could she not? Maybe this would mean as much to him as hearing his voice in the crowd at the picnic auction and knowing that he’d come to lend moral support. As he drew her into his arms on the dance floor, Mercy knew somehow that Nick had never missed a single one of Catherine’s school plays, or piano recitals, or birthdays. Not this man.
Resting his cheek against her hair, he realized that for the first time he’d admitted out loud that he didn’t have any family left. Not real family. Not like the family he’d lost. Right now he needed her so much, it scared him. The old black hole inside him threatened to swallow his soul again, and the only way he could fight it was by holding on to Mercy.
For once, she didn’t fight him. She melted into his arms without a word, seeming to understand that—right now—the one thing he needed was her. Not witty conversation, not an argument, just her in his arms and next to his heart.
As they slowly glided around the floor, Nick knew he had fallen in love with Mercy, with her ramshackle house, and with her nosy neighbors. He’d gone looking for a woman to warm his bed and had stumbled over the woman who warmed his heart. Dieu, he’d fallen in love with a woman whose biggest emotional commitment to date had been the purchase of a house.
Regardless, he loved her. Whether or not Mercy loved him was another question entirely. He devoutly hoped that the answer would be yes, and considering the gentleness of the hand that rubbed his back, offering comfort, and the way she nuzzled her cheek against his chest, he had reason to hope.
“Chère, look up.”
He felt rather than heard the slight intake of her breath, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she raised her face to his. Nick kissed her then, in the middle of the darkened dance floor. A quick, openmouthed kiss that did more taking than giving.
Dazed, Mercy couldn’t open her eyes when Nick finally lifted his mouth from hers. Nick tasted of whiskey and passion, a heady combination. Seconds later she found Nick staring at her, waiting for her to make a decision. All of the longing of the past weeks had invaded her bones, making them rubbery and weak. All she could think about was Nick’s confession of insomnia. Suddenly she didn’t want him to go home alone, not tonight, but neither did she want him to mistake the change in their relationship for the promise of a future.
Shakily, she asked, “What about the band? Didn’t we come here to talk to them?”
“I’ll give them my card, and they can call me if they’re interested. Let’s go.”
Her indecision must have shown on her face, because Nick whispered, “I won’t take anything more than you’re willing to give, chère. It’s just you, and me, and tonight.”
“What about tomorrow?” she asked quietly.
“Tomorrow’s gonna take care of itself. Don’t you worry. It always does. It always will.”
The twenty-minute drive back to Haunt was the longest drive of Mercy’s life. Alone in her car, she had plenty of time to convince herself that she was making a mistake, but she wasn’t inclined to listen. In her heart she knew the point of no return had come and gone on that roadhouse dance floor. A woman’s libido was only designed to take so much teasing before nature took control of the decision making. As she reached her driveway her nerves were ready to snap from the anticipation of what would come next.
Mercy managed to get out of her car calmly enough and up the steps of the porch, but she struggled to get the key into the lock. Nick hovered behind her, making it impossible for her to concentrate long enough to stop her hand from shaking. Wordlessly, he took the key from her and unlocked the front door. Once inside, Mercy let the strap of her purse fall off her shoulder and tossed the small bag onto the entryway table.
When the dog didn’t meet them at the door, Nick asked, “Shouldn’t Witch be here barking or something?”
Too nervous to look at Nick, Mercy inhaled and exhaled slowly before she told him, “No. Sophie said she’d take Witch back to her house tonight in case I got tied up.”
Nick laughed, low and sensuous as he took her hand and led her up the stairs. “Now, that I can arrange. In fact, it’d be my pleasure. You did keep the stockings, didn’t you?”
All the precious air in her lungs left in a hurry, leaving Mercy feeling slightly dizzy as they reached the second-floor landing. She felt like too much was happening, too slowly. Nick was acting like they had all the time in the world to indulge fantasies, but she’d been counting on him to make love to her quickly, out of a fierce need to end the suspense and tension between them.
That’s what his kiss on the dance floor had promised, and now … now everything was different. Too much time to think, and not enough time to want. Mercy stared at her feet because she was afraid that if she looked at the overpowering man in front of her, she might embarrass herself by begging him to put her out of her misery.
“Nick—” she began.
“Hey.” With a thumb and forefinger, Nick brought her chin up. He gave her a confident grin as he asked, “You don’t have to worry. What kind of doctor would I be if I wasn’t prepared for emergencies? I’ve got it covered, so to speak.”
When concern still clouded her eyes, Nick realized that protection wasn’t all she was worried about. “Mercy Alay Malone, you’re taking this whole deal much too seriously. This is Nick, darlin’. I know you’re not Midnight Mercy, and I don’t give a damn. I want you. I have wanted you since your sexy mouth fell open the first time I saw you. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven right there on your porch.”
Mercy opened her mouth to protest, but Nick silenced her by laying two fingers across her lips. Despite his reassuring smile, she noticed the deep need in his eyes, like the hot coals of a carefully banked fire. He whispered, “Don’t say anything. I’m trying to take this slowly. And I gotta tell you, it ain’t easy.”
When Mercy’s tongue brushed deliberately against his fingertips, Nick cursed and replaced the fingers with his mouth. He had no other choice, not if she didn’t want to take things slowly. They wanted each other, and within that passion there was no room for doubts or tomorrow or gentleness. He curled one hand around the nape of her neck and walked backward, still kissing her, into the bedroom. His other hand was already unfastening her s
tudded belt, sliding it out of the loops with one smooth pull.
Its silver tip and buckle hit the hardwood floor a second later, and with it fell Mercy’s inhibitions. Her hands returned the favor by removing his belt, and Nick broke the kiss only long enough to pull off her soft cotton T-shirt. Both hands cradled her head as he nipped her bottom lip and then sealed his mouth to hers, thrusting deeply when she opened for him.
His hands slid down her throat and over her shoulders, catching her bra straps and slipping them down. His mouth followed the trail of his hands, leaving a moist path along one collarbone as he worked loose the bra clasp in the back. Impatiently, he stripped the sheer undergarment away, freeing her breasts to his gaze and touch.
Mercy’s breath came in ragged fits and starts as his wet mouth sucked one nipple. When he started to tip her onto the bed, Mercy refused. Right now, she wanted as much of him as he had of her. Grabbing fistfuls of his shirt at the waist, she pulled it out of his trousers, but Nick took over and lifted it over his head, flinging it to the floor.
“Are we even now?” he asked as he scooped her into his arms, against his bare chest, soaking up the softness of her curves.
“Not quite,” Mercy told him as she kicked off her shoes and let her mouth retrace the steps his had taken earlier. She could taste the salt of his skin, and his nipple pebbled as she drew a circle around it with her tongue.
Nick groaned as he pushed her away. “Easy, chère. We’re not half through, and you’re trying to do me in.”
While he took her mouth in another kiss, he undid her jeans, slipping a hand between the thin fabric of her panties and her belly. Knowing what he wanted and wanting it just as much, Mercy widened her stance, arching a bit into his searching fingers. When he found the curls at the apex of her thighs, a tiny moan began to form in the back of her throat.
