Midnight Hour (3 page)

Exasperated, Mercy gave a small huff, and not just because he’d insulted her post. “How am I supposed to think with you talking all the time?”

“You shouldn’t have to think. Any woman who’s had her heart broken knows every little detail. She knows who, and where, and when. The lady can even tell you the moment it happened. But not you.” Nick ran his hand along the highly polished banister. He missed her widened eyes, and the way she followed the motion of his hand. Nick paused for a heartbeat and then added, “Now, why is that?”

The sharp ring of the telephone caught them both by surprise, breaking the spell of intimacy that had been weaving itself around the two of them. When Mercy didn’t move, Nick said, “I believe someone is callin’ you.”

“I can hear,” she replied, and walked past him to the phone table. Snatching up the black bone-shaped receiver, she answered more sharply than she intended and silently swore she’d wipe that self-satisfied look off Devereaux’s face if it was the last thing she did on this earth. “Oh … Sophie, hi. No, nothing’s wrong.”

Nick chuckled and wandered toward the opening into the living room, which looked comfortable but still reflected the century-old character of the house. Without sacrificing any of the architectural flavor, Mercy had managed to make an inviting home—something he hadn’t been able to do with his apartment even though he’d hired an interior-design firm.

“No, he’s not the plumber,” Mercy patiently explained to her elderly neighbor as she eyed her guest. “He’s a doctor. No, I’m not sick. Devereaux. Dr. Devereaux. No, not France. He’s from New Orleans. Yes, the one in Louisiana.”

When he heard his name, eavesdropping became too great a temptation for Nick, but he salved his conscience by facing her so she’d know he was shamelessly snooping. Fleetingly, Nick wondered if she’d forgotten her plumbing problems as completely as he’d forgotten about being tired.

“No!” Mercy’s answer to the unheard question was sharp. Suddenly she clenched her teeth as though trying to hold out against pressure. She shot him a furtive glance, then turned away and lowered her voice. “No, I’m fine. Really. Now is not a good time, Sophie. Sophie … Sophie!”

Gingerly, Mercy replaced the receiver. She turned and announced, “We’re about to have company. Sophie would like to meet you. She’s never met anyone from New Orleans.”

Something in Mercy’s tone of voice straightened Nick’s spine. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Should I be worried?”

Mercy’s sense of humor began to surface and her mouth twitched. “I would. She’s afraid you’re ravishing me.”

“She’s afraid I’m
what
?”

“Ravishing me,” Mercy said pleasantly as she passed him on her way to the screen door to wait for Sophie.

“You can’t be serious,” Nick declared.

“Oh, I’m perfectly serious. Sophie says she saw
you drive up and you’re just the sort of man who might, and I quote,
try something
.”

“And Midnight Mercy is just the sort of woman who could handle it if I did,” Nick replied sharply.

A shiver raced up her spine. He had used her nickname. “Why did you call me that? I mean—Midnight Mercy. Why’d you call me that?”

“
Chère
, I look at you and see two incredibly sexy women who excite the hell out of this poor Cajun.” He joined her by the door and leaned against the jamb. Mercy Malone was a complicated woman; not what he had expected, and she fascinated him. He gently lifted her chin and forced her to look at him as he explained. “One woman breaks hearts so easily while the other seems to be very careful with her own.”

This time the shiver raced through her entire body, and a flush of heat quickly followed. The new intensity in his eyes belied the shadows beneath them. Nick no longer looked like he needed sleep; he looked dangerously intent on getting what he wanted.

“Mercy dear!” Sophie called out as she started up the porch steps. As usual in the summer, Mercy’s neighbor wore a comfortable and brightly embroidered Mexican sundress. “I just needed to borrow a little brown sugar. You don’t mind, do you?” Sophie crossed the wooden porch and affected surprise, “Oh, dear me! I see you’re busy at the moment.”

Startled, Mercy realized that Nick’s thumb was slowly but surely tracing her collarbone as he slid her soft, white cotton shirt off the shoulder. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Mercy ground out, and shrugged off Nick’s hand. “Come on in, Sophie.”

This time when she opened the screen door, it screeched its usual banshee protest. Once the sprightly octogenarian scooted inside, Mercy made the introductions. “Sophie Jensen, Dr. Nick Devereaux. There. All introduced.”

Without rushing, Sophie tapped the plastic measuring cup against her thigh, sized Nick up, and said, “So how long have you known our Mercy?”

Nick laughed, crossed his arms, and gave her an equally careful once-over. “Not quite long enough to ravish her, but don’t you worry. I’m wearing her down.”

Mercy choked and muttered hopelessly, “Oh God, what else can happen today?”

“My!” Sophie exclaimed as though nothing embarrassing had transpired. “Don’t the floors look nice. This entrance hall seems enormous now that you’ve gotten all that nasty old green carpeting out of here. Mary Jane Hiller, rest her soul, did so like shag carpeting. But this is much better, dear. More spacious.”

“You think so?” Mercy took the cup from Sophie and looked pointedly at the two of them. “I was just thinking how crowded it felt. You two get acquainted while I swim through the kitchen and get some sugar.”

“Oh dear, your plumbing problem!” Sophie snatched her cup back from Mercy’s hand. “I wouldn’t think of borrowing sugar at a time like this. I’ll just run down the street to Joan’s and get some sugar there.” She whisked the door open before Mercy could protest. “Nice to have met you, Doctor.”

“A pleasure to be met, I assure you,” Nick said,
and reached to flip on the porch light. “It’s beginning to get dark. I wouldn’t want you to slip before you got that sugar.”

“How thoughtful,” Sophie murmured as she toddled off. “Now, Mercy,” she said, “you call me if you need me.”

Mercy shook her head. “What I need is a plumber.”

“I offered to help,” Nick reminded her.

Without taking her gaze from the receding figure of Sophie, Mercy asked, “And which of us do you want to help? Midnight Mercy or Mercy May Malone?”

“Now why do I feel like I just entered the bonus round of Truth or Dare?” Nick asked, and walked away, shaking his head. “Not being stupid, I think I’ll let that sleepin’ dog lie a bit longer. Which way to the kitchen?”

Mercy shut the wooden door and leaned against it. To his back she primly said, “I haven’t said you could help.”

Nick chuckled and kept walking toward the rear of the house. “You haven’t told me to leave either. Besides”—he paused and opened a door, finding the downstairs bathroom mentioned earlier—“if I left now, you’d have Sophie over here in five minutes wanting to know why you ran off such a promising young man.” He flashed her a confident grin. “Careful. I think that one kinda likes me,
chère
.”

Following him, Mercy grumbled, “She can afford to be generous with her opinion. Sophie has lower standards and sounder plumbing than I do.”

“Ah, getting warmer,” Nick announced, and stepped into the dining room, glancing first at the elegant cherry table and sideboard. Then he noticed the eight mismatched chairs. As he passed through on his way to what he assumed would be the kitchen, he discovered that not only was every chair of a completely different style, but the needlepoint seats were mismatched as well. “What you runnin’ here, darlin’? A home for orphan chairs? Nice rug, though. Persian?”

“Chinese silk,” she snapped. “And don’t talk like that about my chairs. I’ll have you know that each and every one of these babies probably has a better pedigree than you.”

Nick pivoted and bumped the swinging door open with his backside while he made a point. “Well now, maybe they do, but I can keep you warm all night, and that makes me the better bargain, no?”

Only the fact that he disappeared into the kitchen stopped Mercy from informing him that she had a perfectly adequate electric blanket upstairs. Of course, he would have had something to say about that too. Something devastating like “Ah,
chère
,” which he’d say with a sad shake of his head, as though having to use an electric blanket was a poor substitute for having a man in her bed. A man like Nick Devereaux to be exact. Unfortunately, Mercy was beginning to agree with him.

“Get a grip,” she whispered to herself. She wasn’t in the market for a man, didn’t need her hormones all screwed up. Besides, her bed was warm enough without Nick Devereaux’s hot body sliding between the sheets. There she went again! What on earth was
it about this take-charge Cajun that had her mind constantly on the bedroom?

The man was too damn clever for his own good. Too damn sexy for her peace of mind. She stared at the kitchen door and knew that if she had an ounce of common sense, she’d march right back to the phone and try to get a real plumber over here fast. Someone with grungy overalls and a fully loaded tool belt. Someone named Ralph. Someone who didn’t have dark, smoldering eyes and thick black hair begging for her fingers.

However, pride kept her from making the call. Good ol’ St. Nick wouldn’t have been offended by her lack of confidence in his plumbing skills. Oh no, not him. He’d interpret a call to the real plumber as a cowardly way to get rid of him. And he’d be right, her conscience added. Face it. The man had her pegged. She was beginning to wonder if he didn’t have some voodoo magic charm in his pocket.

How else could he know that she
never
encouraged relationships? What was the point of encouraging them anyway? Judging from the marriages of her friends and their parents, and her own parents, the vows should be changed from “until death us do part” to “until we get a better offer.” Nope, relationships that began brilliantly and ended bitterly were not her style. She liked her heart in one piece, thank you very much.

The men who’d come her way over the last few years had been either intimidated by Midnight Mercy, satisfied just to be seen in public with her, or civilized enough to take a simple hint that she wasn’t interested. Unfortunately, she doubted much of anything
intimidated Nick or that he’d be satisfied by anything that could be done in public. Heck, she wasn’t completely sure he was civilized. Which meant that hints wouldn’t work on the man either. That much was obvious, if the noises in her kitchen could be believed. She hadn’t known Nick Devereaux an hour yet, and he was poking around under her sink, making himself right at home.

Steeling herself for another round with the Bayou Bomber, Mercy entered her kitchen warily and told herself that Nick and Sister Agatha probably had something more than matchmaking in mind, or he wouldn’t have driven an hour to see her. All his charm and the Mr. Helpful routine were most likely part of his plan to soften her up. She sighed, knowing the plan was working.

Just as she’d left them earlier, all the cleaning supplies normally stored under the cabinet covered the top of the oak table by the picture window, and the huge, orange plastic bowl was still under the pipe. Nick was hunkered down in front of the open cabinet, shining a flashlight in a thoroughly competent way. Unhappily, she acknowledged the fact that Mr. Helpful looked pretty good to her right now.

“The first thing we gotta do is shut off the water,” he told her as he inched closer, reaching inside to run his hand over an old copper pipe.

“But I already did that,” she told him. “I shut off those valves under there before I called the plumber. Obviously, they don’t work.”

“For this, they aren’t supposed to. Your leaky pipe is a supply line.” He waved her over, pointing at the two valves separating the incoming pipes from the
copper tubing leading to the fixtures. “When you turned those, all you did was cut off the supply to the faucet. Water still comes right up to the valves from the main line. First, we shut off the water at the street. Then we fix your pipe.”

“We can do that? You really know what you’re doing?” Mercy asked, amazed that Nick hadn’t been overwhelmed at the thought of wielding a wrench. Her father always had been. His motto had been that doctors, by reason of higher education, were above manual labor. Pretty funny considering both her parents were surgeons and, technically, performed manual labor all day.

Flicking off the flashlight, Nick looked up and enjoyed the view of long shapely thighs disappearing into a fringe of frayed denim. “Give me a little time,
chère
. I’ll get the job done. All I need is the key.”

Mercy straightened and scooted away, aware that his voice made promises that had nothing to do with her plumbing. Nervously, she brushed her long hair back from her face with her fingers and fought back another urge to tug on her shorts. Instead, she cleared her throat and tucked her hands in her back pockets, coincidentally shoving the material down to cover more of her thighs. “I don’t think I have one. When I bought this place, all they gave me was the house key.”

“Not that kind of key,” Nick explained as he stood up and placed the light carefully on the spotless counter.
Mon Dieu
, Mercy jumped like he was a ’gator trying to snap a bite out of her. Nick reined in his disappointed libido and turned his attention to the plumbing problem. “The key we need is a long,
heavy, metal gadget that looks like the letter
T
. You got one of those around here?”

With a short laugh, Mercy rolled her eyes and held up fingers as she counted off her meager tool supply. “I’ve got a hammer, a screwdriver, a wrench, some sandpaper, which has seen better days, and a big yellow book full of phone numbers for electricians, painters, plumbers, and roofers. Get the picture?”

Scanning the outdated kitchen with its limited counter space like a contractor calculating profit, Nick said, “You’re gonna need more reliable phone numbers or some better tools if you plan to drag this kitchen into the twentieth century.”

“Who the hell are you?” Mercy asked with some irritation. “A spy for
Better Homes and Gardens
? You’ve insulted my newel post, my chairs, and now my kitchen. Why on earth did you come here?”