About Last Night

“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.”

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.”