About Last Night

by Ruthie Knox

  She pulled off her front wheel, uncomfortably aware of Tom’s eyes on her. This was a test, then. At least she knew she could pass it. She’d changed a lot of flats over the years. Stripping the damaged tube from the tire, she inspected it but couldn’t find a puncture. A thorough scan of the tire itself finally yielded the culprit—a small protruding shard of glass.

  It was when she started rummaging around in her tail bag for a new tube that she started to get a sinking feeling in her stomach. Because this wasn’t the bike she’d been planning to bring on the trip. She’d changed her mind at the eleventh hour and switched to the Salsa, which offered fewer hand positions but was more comfortable than her designated touring bike. She’d packed the tail bag weeks ago, though, which meant she’d brought the wrong size tubes. Which meant she couldn’t change the tire.

  Which meant she was going to look like a fool in front of Tom before they’d even managed to ride two miles.

  “Bad news. I, uh, I have the wrong tubes. I need two-niner tubes, and I don’t have them, so I can’t change the flat. But listen, you go ahead, and I’ll find a bike shop. And after it opens”—in three or four hours—“I’ll buy another tube and meet up with you this afternoon.”

  “Or you could patch it.”

  Another catastrophic failure of planning. Lexie hadn’t brought a patch kit. She’d carefully considered whether she needed one and had concluded that since she was going to be carrying plenty of extra tubes, it didn’t make sense to tote a patch kit as well. Also, there was the fact that she’d never patched a tire before. The whole process had always struck her as rather arcane, and she hadn’t seen any reason to bother learning how to do it. Tubes were cheap, after all.

  “I don’t know how,” she admitted, knowing he would frown and glare at her, and that he would be justified.

  He did frown and glare at her. But then he took the tube from her and started looking for the puncture.

  “I already did that.”

  Tom ignored her. He used his hand pump to put some air in the tube, then stuck it next to his ear and turned it slowly, listening for the hiss of escaping air. Two full revolutions later, he put a little more air in the tube. And then he stuck out his tongue and licked it.

  “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t answer her, just kept running the tip of his tongue slowly along the rubber tube and staring at her with those intense dark eyes. And God help her, it turned her on.

  She felt her cheeks heat up and looked away, mortified. Almost thirty years old, and she was getting off on the sight of a guy licking a tube. A hot guy licking a tube, but still. She obviously needed to get out more.

  When she glanced back at him, he had his patch kit open and was using the sandpaper to rough up the rubber. Apparently he’d found the leak. With his tongue. Jesus.

  Thank goodness sex was already off the table. Considering how hot she was for her ride buddy right now, the fictitious Mr. Marshall might turn out to be a blessing. The catastrophe of her last failed relationship had made her more than a little wary of climbing into bed with the wrong guys, and Tom Geiger couldn’t have been more wrong if he’d tried.

  Though he was patching her tire for her.

  Tom smeared on some glue, applied the patch, and handed her the tube.

  “Hold that on there for five minutes. Then you can put it back together and pump it up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she just pressed on the patch and waited, deeply uncomfortable. So far, her grand adventure was not turning out remotely like she’d imagined it would. So far, it kind of sucked.

  He pulled the water bottle off his bike and took a drink, swished, spat. “Next time, you lick the tube,” he said. “It tastes fucking awful.”

  Lexie laughed. Risking a glance at Tom out of the corner of her eye, she caught him smiling at her—and nearly fell over.

  A broad grin had transformed those fine lips, erasing every trace of Angry Tom and replacing him with a Tom she hadn’t met yet. But she wanted to. Oh, man, she wanted to. He had an amazing, engaging smile. His eyes seemed to sparkle with his amusement, and deep laugh lines appeared at the corners. There was a dimple in his chin she hadn’t noticed before. His teeth were bright white against his dark skin. This Tom was utterly delicious.

  Miracle of miracles, he also looked like a lot of fun.

  They stood there like that, smiling at each other for just a few seconds longer than was called for, before Tom frowned slightly and turned away to put his water bottle back in the cage.

  Lexie let out a breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding. Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad.

  Read on for an excerpt from Debra Dixon’s

  Midnight Hour

  ONE

  As soon as the little girl on his emergency-room table was out of danger, Nick Devereaux stripped off his latex gloves and allowed himself one small moment of celebration. He’d beaten death again. He smiled at the child.

  “You’ll be all right, chère,” he said, his Cajun accent creeping into his speech.

  His smile faded as he thought of the two hotshot paramedics who’d brought the girl in. Tonight confirmed his hunch that a pattern was forming. Those two boys kept turning up in his emergency room with patients they should have taken to another hospital. An official reprimand seemed a little too much like an arrogant power play from the new doctor in town, so Nick decided a little heart-to-heart chat was in order. As soon as possible.

  Checking his watch, Nick frowned. Paramedics didn’t hang around hospitals very long, especially not in the ER staff lounge at Mercy Hospital. The lounge was a spartan affair, boasting only a lumpy sofa, two chairs, a tiny refrigerator, and a primitive coffee maker. No radio. No television. Just yesterday’s paper.

  “I don’t suppose they hung around tonight?” Nick asked the nurse who’d come in to check the IV.

  “Bobby and John? They might have. They just brought in Mr. Peterson. I think he really did break his hip this time. We’ve got an orthopedic resident who’s been working nights with him.”

  “Good. I’ll be in the lounge having a little chat with Bobby and John.”

  “I’d check the waiting room first.” She grinned at him. “It’s after midnight on a Friday night. If they’re here, they’ll be clustered around the television set, trying to catch a few minutes of The Midnight Hour while they drink some coffee.”

  “Television,” Nick whispered with a shake of his head. He’d moved to Louisville, Kentucky, a couple of months ago and still didn’t understand the city’s fascination with The Midnight Hour. Of course, he’d never seen the show. “Doesn’t anybody in this city do anything else on Friday night except watch that show?”

  The nurse laughed. “Not if they can help it.” As he pushed aside the curtain to leave, she said, “Hey, Doc. You do good work.”

  Walking away, Nick looked over his shoulder and said, “Oui, but then we have no choice, you and I.”

  Rolling his shoulders eased the ache between them; he pushed open the door to the waiting room. He was bone-tired, only on his feet because he was too stubborn to close his eyes and too familiar with the wretched furniture that graced Mercy Hospital to sit down. He paused long enough to reassure the child’s parents and tell them they could see her before the staff moved her upstairs.

  The smiling couple hurried away, and Nick let his gaze sweep the depressing room. Drab green vinyl and chrome had never been favorites of his. Nor was he any fonder of gray speckled linoleum, patched so many times it resembled a crazy quilt. Institutional was the kindest adjective he could summon for the waiting room. Not warm, reassuring, or even comfortable. Just institutional. Considering the private, nonprofit hospital’s shoestring budget, the room was never likely to become anything more.

  Right now his problem wasn’t the waiting room, but the two paramedics huddled in front of the old television set. They jostled one another
for position and obscured the screen from Nick’s view as he approached. Bobby, tall and thin, swore softly at the screen. John, who looked more like a surfer than a paramedic, intoned reverently, “Have mercy on my soul.”

  “Hold that thought,” Nick advised drily. “You gonna need it by the time I’m through with you.”

  Both the men whirled, but John spoke first. “Hey, Doc! How’s the little girl?”

  Nick held on to his temper, deliberately making himself answer calmly. “She’ll make it. But if you’d gone down the road ten more blocks, you could have admitted that girl to a hospital better equipped for pediatric emergencies. Gentlemen, that’s the fourth patient you’ve delivered here who could have gone down the road. And I’d like to know why.”

  “The girl’s parents asked for Mercy Hospital,” John answered with a shrug. “We gotta go where the patients tell us.”

  “You expect me to believe that the parents wanted you to bring their child to this hospital?” Nick raised an eyebrow. “We can barely manage to scrounge up a pediatric blood-pressure cuff.”

  “We didn’t bring her here,” Bobby clarified with a grin. “What John’s trying to say is that the parents are from the neighborhood. The word’s out on the new doctor who likes working Friday-night shifts. The girl’s parents figured she had a better chance with you. Ten blocks up the road don’t have Nick Devereaux.” A tone from Bobby’s beeper put an end to the conversation, but as the young man backed to the door he added, “Face it, Doc, you’re beginning to get a reputation around here—a reputation for getting the job done.”

  About to sprint away, John called over his shoulder, “You look like hell, Doc. If you won’t go home, why don’t you take a load off, and let Midnight Mercy do the rest?”

  Nick waited until they’d gone before he dropped into the chair. He didn’t need to watch television. He needed eight solid hours of sleep. Closing his eyes, Nick leaned his head back against the seat. A low sigh escaped him as he finally admitted that moving away from New Orleans hadn’t changed a damn thing. He still never slept for more than four hours at a time, and he was no closer to finding a place to call home than he had been before.

  Life hadn’t felt right in a long time. Not since his world fell apart years ago. Not since a voice on a telephone informed him that his parents and his little sister hadn’t survived the accident.

  Slowly, seductively, a woman’s husky voice penetrated his thoughts of the past. It was the kind of voice that grabbed a man’s soul and turned him inside out. “I’ll do anything once, but even I won’t invite a vampire to dinner unless he promises not to bite the neck that feeds him.”

  Nick’s eyes flew open, and he stared at the water-stained tiles in the ceiling. Some masculine spark of self-preservation warned him to turn away from the siren’s voice while he still could. Laughing at the absurdity of the thought, Nick pushed himself to a sitting position and got his first look at Mercy Malone, Louisville’s hip horror queen, hostess of the Friday-night-movie showcase, The Midnight Hour.

  “Be still my heart,” Nick said aloud, and then Louisiana heat warmed his voice as he added, “Bon Dieu, chère, you could definitely raise the dead.”

  Spike heels supported legs that were probably outlawed in less progressive countries. Besides black fishnet hose, the woman wore only a tuxedo jacket, strategically buttoned somewhere in the vicinity of her waist and falling just past the sweet curve of her rump. No bra or at least not one that showed at the deep vee of the jacket.

  Nick wasn’t satisfied with guessing. It seemed suddenly important to know if she wore a scrap of sexy lace that pushed up the creamy flesh. Her hands slowly rubbed their way down her body, hinting at curves beneath the jacket before she tucked her red-tipped fingers into the pockets of the tux. Lost in the illusion she created, Nick leaned forward, resting his forearms on his wide-spread knees.

  Russet, he decided. Her hair was russet, a deep reddish brown shot with bits of gold. Definitely long russet hair, tumbled and mussed in an incredibly sexy way. Just the way he’d muss it when he made love to her. Mercy’s head was slightly tilted. One strand of hair fell artfully against her forehead and across one eye, as if begging him to reach out and push it away as he kissed her.

  When the camera zoomed in for a close-up of her face, she peered up from a tangle of eyelashes and sexuality as she said, “Don’t touch that … dial.”

  Nick let out a long slow breath. Mercy Malone was raising something, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t the dead. No wonder the male population glued itself to the television set every Friday night. He’d heard that half the female population did too.

  After seeing her, Nick understood why. Mercy might be a living, breathing male fantasy, but she didn’t buy into the fantasy. The half smile and the twinkle in her eyes appealed to anyone with a sense of humor. Unfortunately, Nick was both male and possessed of a sense of humor. He didn’t know whether to chuckle or take a cold shower.

  During the commercial, he hauled himself out of the chair, wanting to walk off some of the energy Mercy had managed to spark within him. Calculatingly, Nick scanned the waiting room as he paced, noting again the dilapidated condition of the place. To no one in particular, he announced, “If that blue-eyed angel can raise the dead, she can probably raise a few bucks for a worthy cause.” He stopped pacing. “And causes don’t get more worthy than this place.”

  Nick nodded, satisfied with the neat solution of his two newest problems—fund-raising and Mercy Malone. Engineering a meeting might take a couple of weeks, but he never doubted for a moment that he would pull it off. As he paced he began to plan his attack. First, he needed to talk with Sister Agatha, the nun who ran Mercy Hospital. If the gossip was true, that woman had incredible connections around town. She knew virtually everybody.

  Then with her approval, he’d talk to the hospital’s board members. How could they say no to any scheme that would raise money for the emergency room? Rubbing his hands together, Nick realized he was finally looking forward to the future instead of getting bogged down in the past. He had places to go and people to see, all because Mercy Malone had given him an idea and jump-started his emotional battery.

  Mercy stared at the disaster and thanked every one of her lucky stars that a new kitchen floor hadn’t made it to the top of her remodeling list. A half hour earlier she’d climbed out of a cool shower, completely relaxed. And then disaster had struck. Or more accurately, the plumbing from hell struck and flooded her kitchen floor. Her old kitchen floor, she thought with some satisfaction, and reminded herself that this sort of thing was to be expected when you lived in a hundred-year-old house. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Glancing at the clock over the stove, she debated calling the plumber’s answering service again. She felt a twinge of guilt for insisting they try to track him down at his niece’s dance recital, but she really hadn’t had a choice. This was the only plumber in town who advertised weekend service and had a real live voice at the end of his telephone line. The other four numbers in the phone book were answered by a recording.

  Why did disasters always happen after hours? She took some comfort from knowing that a disaster at six-thirty on a Saturday evening was probably less expensive than a Sunday-morning disaster. On second thought, any plumber pulled away from a family event was going to charge a fortune. It was either pay a fortune or stay up all night repeatedly emptying the bowl she now had under the pipe. When the doorbell sounded, Mercy smiled with relief. The cavalry had arrived! And none too soon.

  On her way to the front door, she flipped tendrils of still-wet hair out of her face, grimacing slightly in the gilded entryway mirror. Maybe the plumber wasn’t a fan. Otherwise he’d be disappointed to meet Mercy instead of Midnight Mercy.

  When she opened the heavy, oak-paneled door, she wondered if this situation might not be one of Mother Nature’s little practical jokes. The immaculate man in front of her had obviously come straight from the recital. While she stared at the plumber-
to-die-for, she remembered she hadn’t put on shoes or makeup. Her blue-jean cutoffs didn’t look sexy; they looked old, and she sincerely hoped she didn’t appear as scruffy as she suspected she might.

  She forced a smile when she couldn’t think of anything clever to say and stared. Somehow, Mercy May Malone never managed to be quite as good at making first impressions as “Midnight Mercy Malone,” who would have drawn attention to her bottom lip with a long nail and shamelessly run her eyes up and down the gorgeous masculine body on the porch. Instead, Mercy May couldn’t take her gaze from his full sensual mouth. Or the blazing sunset that haloed him. Finally, she found her voice.

  “I was just going to call your service again.”

  “Again?” A warm smile revealed perfect white teeth. As he smoothly pulled off a pair of wire-rim sunglasses, he uncovered almost black eyes that were every bit as expressive as his mouth, but the faint shadows beneath them made her wonder if he had gotten much sleep last night. And then she wondered what kept him up at night. He sure didn’t look like any plumber she’d ever seen. This was a plumber who could make a girl jealous of her own pipes.

  “I was afraid you hadn’t gotten the first message,” Mercy explained slowly, and resisted the urge to tug on the frayed edges of her shorts. Oh, for God’s sake, Mercy. Get a grip. He’s a tired plumber, and you’re a television celebrity! Only she never felt like a celebrity unless she was dressed for the part in spike heels with fake fog swirling around her. Right now Mercy’s bare feet rested flatly against the smooth surface of a newly refinished hardwood floor, and the only fog in the vicinity was swirling around her brain.

  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.”