The Wedding Chase (50 page)

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.”

Without meaning to, Mercy held her breath as he stepped across her threshold, brushing so close to her that she could almost feel the heat from his body. Swallowing, Mercy decided “stepped over the threshold” was too passive a description. He didn’t exactly invade her house, but he sure filled up a room. Mother Nature was indeed playing one of her little jokes—sprinkling hormones around indiscriminately.

“I’m sorry to call you away from”—Mercy gestured to his pleated, khaki slacks and starched white shirt—“your evening. I hope you have everything you need in your car. You’ll probably want to change, too, after you see the mess in the kitchen. The downstairs bathroom is just past that antique telephone table.”

He frowned as though he were puzzled and then said, “I’ve never minded a little cooking mess in the kitchen. Papa Jack said never trust a precise woman. They spend too much time measuring and not enough time enjoying. I think I agree.”

His eyes gently inventoried her from top to bottom, and his voice flowed through her like hot coffee, thick with cream and sweetened just right.
Get a grip, Mercy May!
Irritated at her train of thought, she put her hands on her hips. “Cooking? Measuring? What are you talking about? I told your service everything. Didn’t they give you my whole message?”

“Guess not.”

“I have a leaking water pipe in my kitchen,” she reminded him. At his blank look, she tried again, “Water everywhere? Frankly, I’ve long since run out of towels. If you don’t get this fixed pronto, I’m afraid I’m going to have to donate my chenille bathrobe to the cause, Mister …” She paused delicately.

“Devereaux. Dr. Nick Devereaux.” He spoke the words softly, intimately, like a secret shared.

“Devereaux?”

Nick listened as Mercy experimentally rolled the name off her tongue and admitted that he’d wanted to hear her say it for the last two weeks. Even if she threw him out when she realized he wasn’t the plumber, at least he’d have the satisfaction of having heard his name on her lips. Perhaps if he pulled the Cajun charm out of mothballs, he wouldn’t have to worry about being thrown out. Truth be told, he had no intention of being sent on his way.

Not now. Not until he got to know Mercy Malone. She surprised him, made him curious about her. He expected a celebrity and found a wonderfully real woman with a leaky pipe. He hadn’t wanted to grab hold of anything in a long time. Now he did. Not her body, although God knew it was worth grabbing hold of. He wanted to hold on to the spark of interest she’d struck inside him.

“
Doctor
Devereaux?” she repeated, this time with the accent.

“N’Awlins, Lou’siana,” he answered in response to her unspoken question, blending the two words of the city’s name together. His accent had softened with years of practice, but he’d never managed a generic, white-bread pronunciation of either New Orleans or his name. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but if it isn’t flesh and blood, I don’t plumb it.”

Mercy’s lovely mouth dropped open and she asked, “Then
why
did they send you?”

Crossing his arms, he said, “
They
didn’t send me.”

“You’re not the plumber?”

“No,
chère
. I’m the doctor.”

“But I called for a plumber!” She rubbed her bare arms, which the shawl of damp hair had cooled. Better to believe that explanation than admit his earthy accent gave her goose bumps. “Don’t tell me the service got the messages mixed up.”

Nick fought a smile at the look on Mercy’s face. Even disconcerted, she looked sexy. He wondered if the plumbing situation unsettled her or if the energy he felt flowing between them jumped her train off the track. Either way he enjoyed watching her massage parts of her body as she tried to figure out a solution to her predicament.

“I’m here,” Nick pointed out, hoping to sidetrack her. “Maybe I could help?”

“What do you know about plumbing?”

“Only what I read in the papers,” Nick answered solemnly.

“Well, that’s more than me. The sum total of my knowledge is that the faucet goes on top, which is why I need a professional. No offense. Someone who can get the job done.”

Nick shrugged and leaned his shoulder against the wall. “Darlin’, I do have a reputation for getting the job done.”

Mercy pressed her lips together. Now, why did she believe him? Clearing her throat and with a raised eyebrow, she suggested, “Let’s start over, shall we? Who the heck are you?” She grinned at him as she said, “I know you’re not a doctor, ’cause doctors don’t make house calls anymore. Not even in a small town like Haunt, Kentucky. Especially to people who aren’t patients.”

Nick grinned back and, decided he liked Mercy Malone as much as he was attracted to her. Wet hair, long legs, barely dressed, and a sense of humor. What more could a man ask from a celebrity fund-raiser? Or a woman for that matter, Nick added, surprising himself as he realized that Mercy’s most attractive quality was her sense of humor. That’s why he instinctively responded to her. Listening to her made him feel good.

“I really am a doctor,” Nick said, and pushed away from the wall. “I recently joined the emergency-room staff at a hospital in Louisville.”

“Things must be slow if you’re roaming the countryside in search of emergencies,” she quipped.

Nick ignored the remark and dropped the other shoe. “You probably know the hospital. Mercy Hospital? I understand you were born there.”

Startled, she almost backed through the screen door. “How do you know that?”

“Sister Agatha still runs the hospital. She remembers you and your parents quite well. Even tracked down your address for me. Told me that when I saw you, I was to request—strongly—that you get your butt over for a visit.”

“Sister Aggie?” Mercy smiled, using the childhood name she’d called the nun. She lowered her head in contemplation, fondly remembering the no-nonsense woman. “I haven’t seen her since I was nineteen and having impure thoughts about one of the residents.” Suddenly Mercy’s head jerked up, and she took a couple of steps toward him. “Has she seen the show?”

Nick nodded once, but didn’t volunteer a word.

“What did she say?”

With a straight face, Nick tactfully edited Sister Agatha’s comment and merely said, “She thought perhaps now that your show is a success you could afford to buy more material for your costumes.”

Laughing, Mercy said, “Sister Aggie has either mellowed or you’re trying to spare my feelings. Which is it?”

Nick shifted uncomfortably and rubbed his chin. “Mellow is not exactly the word I’d use to describe Sister Agatha.”

“Not
exactly
the word? Why do I get the feeling you’ve given a lot of thought to the matter of describing her in one word?”

“It’s a habit of mine.”

Mercy put her hands on her hips and studied him for a minute. “What’s the definitive word for Sister Aggie?”

“Perceptive.”

“Agreed. What did she say about my show?”

“She said she was praying that you’d find a husband soon so you could stop advertising.”

“She said
what
!” Mercy’s body went rigid, her hands falling to her sides in small white-knuckled fists.

“She said—” Nick began helpfully.

“I know what she said!” Mercy eyed him suspiciously, opening and closing her hands in an obvious attempt to control her temper. “What the hell are you supposed to be? The answer to her prayers?”

“Actually, darlin’, I was kind of hoping you were the answer to mine.” Nick recognized the real truth in that statement.

“Of course.” Mercy nodded and stepped closer, folding her arms across her midriff. She checked for a wedding ring. He wasn’t wearing one, which led her to an interesting conclusion: Sister Agatha was matchmaking. “Dr. Devereaux, you are one smooth son of a gun, but you go right back and tell Sister Aggie I’m a damn sight smarter now than I was at nineteen. I can spot a heartbreaker fifty yards away.”

“Ah no, I’m a doctor,
chère
,” Nick argued gently, remembering Sister Agatha’s insistence that he make the trip instead of phoning. “I don’t break hearts. I mend ’em.”

“But my heart doesn’t need mending. By you or anyone else,” she told him with a toss of her head, giving him a taste of the provocative Midnight Mercy. “Sister Agatha should realize that. Don’t you two ever watch television? Mercy Malone is in the business of breaking hearts, not the other way round.”