a
galérie
across the front and rain on the tin patched roof.”
The air Mercy had been storing up for her nextblistering retort sort of whooshed out. Quietly, she said, “That’s no excuse for barging into my bedroom uninvited.”
“I guess not, but you asked.”
Silently, Nick admitted that invading her bedroom had been overstepping his welcome a bit, but truth be told, Mercy Malone was a magnet that drew him. The moment he entered her room and saw her sleeping, he’d felt his gut stirring with protective instincts as old as time.
Dieu!
This woman felt right. This house, this room felt right.
Like every other room in her house, her bedroom was filled with an odd collection of furniture, and each probably had a story. There was an old wood-and-leather domed steamer trunk, a small sheepskin rug at the foot of the bed, which he assumed was for the dog, a bentwood rocker, a skirted vanity table in front of a round gilt-framed mirror, and a full-length cheval mirror. A fancy interior decorator hadn’t been anywhere close to this house, and all of it reminded him of home.
Mercy drank her coffee and stared at him, waiting for some act of contrition.
“I can see that I owe you an apology of sorts.” Nick rubbed his neck again, pacing toward the door.
“Of sorts?” Mercy snorted and shifted her legs under the sheet. “How charming of you. I let you get some sleep—which you desperately needed, by the way—and the thanks I get is a lecture on safety tips for the single woman.”
“The thanks you got was hot coffee in bed,” Nick pointed out. “Although I don’t know why you bother to drink such a weak excuse for coffee. It has no bite,no soul.” He shook his head in disappointment. “That coffee can’t warm a man that’s been all day on the bayou, wet and chilled from a drizzle of rain. Next time I’ll bring my own chicory blend and show you what a real cup of coffee tastes like.”
“Next time?” As usual with Nick, Mercy found herself forgetting what she wanted to say and focusing on the time bombs he dropped into the conversation.
Next time he spent the night?
That set off warning bells in Mercy’s head. The only foolproof way to ensure that a relationship didn’t turn nasty and bitter was never to start it in the first place. “Next time” wasn’t a good sign. Phrases like “next time” were how relationships got started. Situations like this had to be dealt with ruthlessly. Mercy made what she thought was a valiant attempt to pretend nothing was happening between them.
She took a casual swallow from the mug and suggested, “Next time let’s meet at the hospital. I really should see Sister Aggie anyway.”
“Don’t you worry. We’re gonna meet in lots of places,
chère
,” Nick assured her as he turned the crystal doorknob and pulled. “Places where you’ve never been. I promise you that.”
“Where are you going? Wait—” Mercy ordered, but the master of innuendo was already out of her bedroom, and her gut told her he’d keep right on going out the front door. “Dammit!”
Quickly, she shoved the coffee onto her nightstand and flung off the covers. Racing to her closet, she grabbed a pair of black jeans and dragged them on while listening for the piercing screech of the screen-door hinge. She had to catch Nick before he left andmake sure he understood that she only promised to help with the fund-raiser. Nothing else.
Mercy zipped on the run, and the screen door slammed closed behind Nick as she flew down the staircase. “Nick, wait! I cannot believe this. You can’t just turn your back and walk away. I’m not through with you!” she called as she burst through the door.
Stopping on the bottom porch step, shirt still open, Nick turned. “Then that makes us even,
chère
. ’Cause I’m not through with you either. Not near through.”
Nick swept back up the steps and pulled her against his bare chest in one motion. Shamelessly, he snugged her body next to his, slowly
galérie
across the front and rain on the tin patched roof.”
The air Mercy had been storing up for her nextblistering retort sort of whooshed out. Quietly, she said, “That’s no excuse for barging into my bedroom uninvited.”
“I guess not, but you asked.”
Silently, Nick admitted that invading her bedroom had been overstepping his welcome a bit, but truth be told, Mercy Malone was a magnet that drew him. The moment he entered her room and saw her sleeping, he’d felt his gut stirring with protective instincts as old as time.
Dieu!
This woman felt right. This house, this room felt right.
Like every other room in her house, her bedroom was filled with an odd collection of furniture, and each probably had a story. There was an old wood-and-leather domed steamer trunk, a small sheepskin rug at the foot of the bed, which he assumed was for the dog, a bentwood rocker, a skirted vanity table in front of a round gilt-framed mirror, and a full-length cheval mirror. A fancy interior decorator hadn’t been anywhere close to this house, and all of it reminded him of home.
Mercy drank her coffee and stared at him, waiting for some act of contrition.
“I can see that I owe you an apology of sorts.” Nick rubbed his neck again, pacing toward the door.
“Of sorts?” Mercy snorted and shifted her legs under the sheet. “How charming of you. I let you get some sleep—which you desperately needed, by the way—and the thanks I get is a lecture on safety tips for the single woman.”
“The thanks you got was hot coffee in bed,” Nick pointed out. “Although I don’t know why you bother to drink such a weak excuse for coffee. It has no bite,no soul.” He shook his head in disappointment. “That coffee can’t warm a man that’s been all day on the bayou, wet and chilled from a drizzle of rain. Next time I’ll bring my own chicory blend and show you what a real cup of coffee tastes like.”
“Next time?” As usual with Nick, Mercy found herself forgetting what she wanted to say and focusing on the time bombs he dropped into the conversation.
Next time he spent the night?
That set off warning bells in Mercy’s head. The only foolproof way to ensure that a relationship didn’t turn nasty and bitter was never to start it in the first place. “Next time” wasn’t a good sign. Phrases like “next time” were how relationships got started. Situations like this had to be dealt with ruthlessly. Mercy made what she thought was a valiant attempt to pretend nothing was happening between them.
She took a casual swallow from the mug and suggested, “Next time let’s meet at the hospital. I really should see Sister Aggie anyway.”
“Don’t you worry. We’re gonna meet in lots of places,
chère
,” Nick assured her as he turned the crystal doorknob and pulled. “Places where you’ve never been. I promise you that.”
“Where are you going? Wait—” Mercy ordered, but the master of innuendo was already out of her bedroom, and her gut told her he’d keep right on going out the front door. “Dammit!”
Quickly, she shoved the coffee onto her nightstand and flung off the covers. Racing to her closet, she grabbed a pair of black jeans and dragged them on while listening for the piercing screech of the screen-door hinge. She had to catch Nick before he left andmake sure he understood that she only promised to help with the fund-raiser. Nothing else.
Mercy zipped on the run, and the screen door slammed closed behind Nick as she flew down the staircase. “Nick, wait! I cannot believe this. You can’t just turn your back and walk away. I’m not through with you!” she called as she burst through the door.
Stopping on the bottom porch step, shirt still open, Nick turned. “Then that makes us even,
chère
. ’Cause I’m not through with you either. Not near through.”
Nick swept back up the steps and pulled her against his bare chest in one motion. Shamelessly, he snugged her body next to his, slowly
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