Midnight Hour by Debra Dixon Page B

making sure every possible inch of contact was made. The rush of sensation was incredible and Mercy didn’t fight it. She leaned into the embrace, admitting to herself that she’d wanted this kiss since yesterday, since the first moment she’d gotten a look at his sensual mouth. For a heart-stopping moment she thought he was finally going to kiss her, but then he smiled and released her.
    “Wave to Sophie,” he advised as he descended the steps again.
    He waved once at the older woman who was crossing the quiet tree-lined street and then walked calmly across Mercy’s small yard to his glossy black Chevelle and got in. The engine kicked over instantly, sounding as rough and dangerous as Nick Devereaux. When the car pulled away from the curb, Mercy closed her mouth.
    “Hello, dear!” Sophie shouted. “How’s the plumbing?”
    Mercy marveled at her neighbor’s ability to completely ignore the fact that Nick’s car hadn’t moveda millimeter since last night, that he’d wandered out of her house at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning looking considerably worse for wear, and that he’d all but kissed her on the porch. “My plumbing’s fine, but my nerves are completely shot.”
    “Oh, dear.” The exclamation sounded more delighted than concerned, but Sophie climbed the steps and linked arms. “Then you’ve got to tell me everything. Is that coffee I smell?”
    “Not according to Nick.”
    “Let’s have some anyway, shall we?”
    As she sat at the kitchen table, stirring her second cup of coffee, Mercy wished she could turn down the wattage on Sophie’s bright yellow Mexican dress. The hem of this one was decorated with entwined blossoms in purple, turquoise, and pink. Sophie resembled nothing so much as a cheerful canary, and Mercy found the image distracting when she was trying to carry on a serious conversation.
    Sophie—her sweet, gentle, grandmotherly neighbor—never directed a question at her that wasn’t fully loaded. “So tell me, dear, is he good with his hands?”
    A large gulp of coffee went down the wrong way, and Mercy grabbed for her napkin.

FOUR
    When the coughing fit subsided, Mercy looked at Sophie through watery eyes and croaked, “Excuse me?”
    “Is he good with his hands? On the phone you told me he was a doctor.” Sophie rolled her eyes. “Some doctors just can’t cope with the real world, you know. Did he take care of your plumbing problem with a minimum of fuss?”
    Mercy breathed a sigh of relief, sniffed, and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, that. He was very capable.”
    “Yes,” agreed the older woman sagely. “He did strike me as the sort of fellow one could count on.”
    “I said he was capable. Not reliable.”
    “Isn’t that the same thing?”
    “Not even close.”
    Sophie set her cup carefully on the saucer, worry creasing her brow. “You don’t sound as though you like the boy very much.”
    “Boy? Nick Devereaux can hardly be called a boy!The word implies youth and uncertainty.” Mercy tapped her fingernail against the cup edge. “I don’t know how old Nick is, but he’s years past being young and uncertain.”
    “Good. Then it’s not totally hopeless.” Sophie beamed and clasped her hands. “Joan and I were beginning to worry.”
    “Excuse me?” Mercy asked again, unable to keep the stunned expression off her face.
    “Well, dear, we’ve tried to fix you up with every eligible male in these parts without much luck.”
    Mercy’s mouth fell open. Finally, she sputtered, “You haven’t! Tell me you haven’t.”
    “Of course we have, dear. What are friends for?” Sophie patted her knee in an attempt to alleviate her distress. “We tried everyone—handsome, passable, widowers, even a few unemployed men. Only, you see, this is a small town. None of the men wanted to fail in front of his friends. You intimidated them.”
    “How could I intimidate them? I haven’t even spoken to most of them!”
    “That racy young woman you play on television