Midnight Hour (12 page)

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.

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 was 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.”

“Good. But you and I both know the real test is whether or not I can make gumbo. The only direct route to Mercy Malone’s heart is straight through her stomach.”

“Sad, but true,” Mercy agreed, glad the conversation was back in safe territory. She made a beeline for the stove and pulled the lid off the pot. “I cannot believe you found anything in my kitchen that could produce something that smells this heavenly!”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Nick accused. “Sister Agatha told me that you were long on doubt and short on faith … where men were concerned. I’ll have to see what I can do about changin’ that.”

“Sister Agatha told you that about me?” she questioned sharply.

“Yeah.”

Mercy was more convinced than ever that the nun was subtly egging Nick on, offering him a challenge, making sure he stayed interested. Worried, she reached for the large spoon beside the pot as she asked, “What else has she told you?”

“That you always had a good heart even if you kept it on a short leash.”

Embarrassed by the unexpected compliment, Mercy stirred the thick, fragrant mixture and inhaled deeply before she answered. “I wouldn’t believe everything Sister tells you. She won’t be happy until every single person she knows is married with children.”

Nick opened a couple of cabinets, looking for bowls, as he asked, “Is that your way of telling me you don’t believe in marriage, or kids, or both?”

“Marriage and children are just fine as long—” Mercy stopped abruptly, biting her lip. Somehow she always said too much in front of Nick.

“As long as you’re not the one with the husband, and the kids aren’t yours,” he finished for her, and slowly retrieved two bowls before turning around.

Meeting his gaze squarely, Mercy denied his interpretation. “I didn’t say that.”

“But I did. You’re a pretty hard case,
chère
. You’ve got a lot of rules—no doctors, no marrying men, no children. I’m sorry, but I just don’t buy it. You’ve already got the house and the white picket fence.”

“I’m not asking you to buy anything!”

“Does that mean you do think about marriage and kids?”

“Are you sure you went to medical school and not to law school? Let it go, Nick. I’m not going to let you twist me up and confuse me. All I said was that Sister Agatha had marriage on her mind.” Mercy gave the gumbo a good hard stir. Marriage was the problem, not children. “I will admit, however, that you can raid my kitchen anytime if the result tastes half as good as this concoction smells.”

“Does that mean you’re hungry?” Nick took the spoon from her.

“Do alligators live in the bayou?” Mercy asked sarcastically as he spooned rice from another pan into their dishes.

“Indeed they do, darlin’. And you’d best be nice to this ’gator or he’ll take a bite of you to keep for himself. Now go sit down.”

“Gladly!” Mercy took a seat at the oak table and waited for Nick to scoop up dinner. She didn’t mind Nick tossing out orders as long as he stopped asking questions. Of course, she thought, she could always start asking a few. “Is this domestic demonstration for my benefit or do you actually cook for yourself?”

“I’m more of a microwave gourmet,” he confessed as he ladled gumbo over the rice in her bowl.

“You can make a supper like this appear out of thin air, and you don’t cook much?” Mercy asked as she accepted the steaming gumbo. “That’s a shame. Don’t you know that a great cook is a terrible thing to waste!”

Nick licked a spot of rich Cajun stew off his thumb. “Cooking for one isn’t nearly as much fun as cooking for a crowd.”

“Why’s that?” Mercy pretended not to notice the way his tongue laved the side of his thumb.

“No applause when you’re finished,” he joked, and then gave her a half smile. “I’d rather nuke a frozen dinner and toss the tray when I’m done. Besides, setting and clearing off a table for one seems so sad.”

Silently, Mercy agreed and ignored the little twinge in the area of her heart. Aloud, she asked, “Did you cook much in New Orleans?”

Nick returned to the stove and served his gumbo before he said, “Mercy, if you want to know if I walked away from a relationship back in N’Awlins, all you have to do is ask.”

Mercy, who’d been about to take her first bite, put the spoon back down. “Your ego is incredible. I wasn’t asking about your past relationships! I just thought you might have had more friends in New Orleans. More occasions to cook for people.”

“Cook for a woman, you mean.” Nick settled himself across the table and held out a paper towel for her to use as a napkin. “And the answer to all your questions, spoken and unspoken, is no. I didn’t cook romantic candlelit dinners in N’Awlins. I didn’t much feel like it before, but I may give it a try now.”

He waved the towel slightly since she seemed to have stopped in the middle of reaching for it. “I’ve never been married, and I didn’t move to Louisville to get away from a bad relationship.”

Pulling the towel from his grasp, Mercy said, “I wasn’t going to ask any of those questions!” She paused and worried her lip with her teeth. “But since you’ve brought it up yourself, don’t expect me to believe you’ve been leading the life of a monk!”

“I didn’t say I was celibate,” Nick pointed out. “I just wasn’t involved with anyone on a steady basis. I wasn’t much of a long-term bargain in those days.”

The first to look away, Mercy chastised herself for letting his confession get to her. Only a sucker would want to ask questions or delve into his past. She sternly reminded herself that she didn’t want to know anything else about the man. Besides, she didn’t need to ask why he hadn’t been “much of a bargain.”

Nick Devereaux was a doctor, and that was all the explanation she needed. Living with doctors had taught her a lot about long hours, emotional on-and-off switches, preoccupation with patients, canceled vacations, and beepers going off. While she could admire and even understand her parents’ commitment to medicine, she couldn’t understand how their careers made up for all the lost happiness in their lives.

If you know so much about doctors, then why does Nick seem to have plenty of time on his hands? Time he appears to be happy to spend with you?

Unable to answer that question and determined to maintain some distance, she dug into the gumbo with a vengeance. One bite and flavor exploded in her mouth. She closed her eyes to savor the experience. “Mmm. This is heaven.”