Coming Home To Wed

Coming Home To Wed Renee Roszel Life is good–if somewhat lonely–now that Marc Merit has returned to his family's island home. There's no eligible woman in sight until Mimi Bapiste literally crashes into him. A dependable doctor, set in his ways, he finds spirited Mimi bothersome…but oh, so beguiling!As aggravating as her temporary boss is, Mimi can't deny his devastating good looks. What Marc needs is to loosen up and enjoy life. But valuing her freedom as she does, can Mimi afford to be the one to show him how?The Merit Brothers–it takes three special women to win their stubbon hearts “You’re very cute, Doc, but you’re not my type.” Marc blinked and sat back. The fact that he wasn’t her type was certainly no news flash, but her bluntness startled him. Clearly she was feeling no pain. How ironic that her whispered vow was painful for him. Not that he’d wanted her to chase him around the office, but the idea of, well, a little mutual chasing had crept into his thoughts. “I—uh—appreciate your frankness.” “It’s like this,” Mimi whispered. “I won’t be here for long, and no matter what you think, I don’t jump into the sack for sport.” He clenched his teeth. Yes, he had made a crack like that, hadn’t he? Leaning forward, he started to speak, then saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. That stopped him dead. “You don’t like me, Doc.” It wasn’t a question. He cleared his throat. “I—of course I like you, Miss Baptiste.” I don’t want to like you, he went on mentally, and I’ll be relieved when you’re gone. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not my type, either.” Dear Reader, I had so much fun with my ENCHANTED BRIDES trilogy, I decided it would be exciting to write a series about three brothers. I envisaged each brother to be tough and successful in his own right, but lonely—whether he realizes it or not. Then I decided to place these men on a mountain of emeralds located on their own private island. The heirs to the Merit emerald dynasty, Jake, Marc and Zack are as different as brothers can be. But what they have in common is that they are all gorgeous men—each about to meet one special woman for him. I hope you enjoy Marc’s story, Coming Home to Wed. Once a doctor in a big city, he yearned for a simpler life. He’s returned home to Merit Island to settle down and the last person he expects to be attracted to is free spirit, Mimi Baptiste. All my best, P.S. I love to hear from readers so do, please, write to me at P.O. Box 700154, Tulsa, Oklahoma 74107. Jake’s story in Honeymoon Hitch #3599. Coming Home to Wed Renee Roszel www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) To Linda Fildew An editor with pizzazz CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE (#u91a93198-f3f6-5d9d-a8e0-b8336821928d) CHAPTER TWO (#u3a6c809d-4761-5cd8-a0ec-8dfb0f55626c) CHAPTER THREE (#ufa149562-bd83-52bb-b9d8-0312b6c2e268) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE THE fog that swept stealthily over the surface of the Atlantic didn’t bother Marc. He liked the fog, its cloistered quiet, after long days of taking care of patients. The hours of tending to his charges were endless, but he was content. Six months after taking over old Doc Fleet’s practice, he could make the crossings between Merit Island and the surrounding rocky islets with his eyes closed. Which was lucky, since his radar had gone out earlier that afternoon. Marc inhaled the damp sea air. He smiled. The night had closed around him like a comfortable old coat, and there wasn’t a sound except for the low growl from his cruiser engine as he slowly made his way home. The ocean was calm. His patients were all bandaged, medicated and reassured. Life was good, if a bit lonely. The only trouble with being back on Merit Island was the lack of eligible women. His latest nurse, Ursula, had been attractive and enthusiastic about making their doctor-nurse relationship more than it should be. But she hadn’t liked the isolation—or the fact that Marc was not as inclined toward an affair as she. So she’d quit, yesterday. Just like that. Poof! She was gone. He was overworked and shorthanded as it was. But what country doctor wasn’t? He made a small adjustment in course, sensing more than seeing his way. That morning he’d put an ad for a nurse in several national medical publications. The salary he offered was exceptional so he knew he’d have a new assistant in a couple of weeks. Three at the most. He winced at the thought of two or three weeks without help and exhaled wearily. Meanwhile— A jolt and a reverberating boom brought Marc out of his mental meanderings. “What the…?” Something had rammed his cruiser amidships, just behind where he sat at the helm. He flipped on the cargo lights and jumped off his seat to find out what idiot had run into him. Moving to the side where he’d been hit, he squinted into the fog, now brightly illuminated. It wasn’t hard to distinguish the front of a small catamaran, since the bows of both parallel hulls were crumpled against the side of his cruiser, exposing the smaller boat’s foam-composite core. The fiberglass on the side of his cruiser was badly dented and the gelcoat finish torn up. He bit back a curse. Out of the corner of his eye, Marc saw somebody slowly rise to stand, hooking an arm around the mast to steady herself on the canvas trampoline. Marc’s frown deepened when he realized the one-man strike force was a petite blonde. What was she doing out here alone in a fog? After a quick, horrified look at the mangled hulls of her boat, she let out a wail and fisted a hand in her unfettered mass of hair. “Oh, no!” Her gaze lifted to fix on Marc and she jabbed a finger at the damage to her prow. “Look what you did to my boat!” Marc eyed her with annoyed disbelief. “How thoughtless of me to ram the side of my boat into the front of yours.” He made the remark with distinct, sarcastic overtones. “Try to forgive me.” She ran a shaky hand through her hair, plainly agitated. “But—but this isn’t even my boat!” “I suppose you were just passing by when you heard the crash and decided to investigate?” Her glance shot from the damage back to his face. “Not that I don’t appreciate stinging satire!” she shouted. “But it’s not particularly helpful at the moment.” Making a pained face, she shook her head. “What am I going to do? I can’t sail this thing back to shore like this! It’ll sink!” “I doubt that, but you won’t be able to steer it,” Marc said. Something dark began to ooze down her forehead and he experienced a prick of concern. “You’re bleeding.” He indicated the spot on his own forehead. “You must have hit your head.” “Of course, I hit my head! I was in an accident!” She touched the trickle and grimaced at the blood on her fingers. “This is just perfect!” “I’d better take a look at it.” He pulled some rope from a storage cabinet, deciding he had no choice but to tie the catamaran to his cruiser. He couldn’t leave a bleeding, possibly concussed woman out in a fog on a damaged boat. “Don’t bother about me, mister,” she called. “I can take care of myself.” After securing the rope to his cleat, he clambered over the side onto her damaged hull. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Coming to check out your head.” “I don’t have a head. This is a small boat.” “Not the bathroom,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. The woman was obviously addled. “Your head.” “I told you, I don’t need—” “I heard,” he cut in, leaping to the canvas trampoline to tie the other end of his rope to the tramp frame. After knotting the line, he faced her. “Keep still while I look at your cut.” “You’re quite the masterful sea captain.” She frowned at him. “Do you marry people on the high seas, too?” Working to hold his temper, he indicated the canvas surface. “Sit down while I examine you.” “Who do you think you are, ordering me around?” “The guy you hit.” He pressed on her shoulders. “Sit.” “Okay, but only because I’m a little—tired.” She did what he asked, though clearly reluctant. He had a feeling the thump she took was starting to throb. “You meant to say dizzy, didn’t you?” “No,” she said. “I meant tired. I’ve been wandering around—for a while. I got a little lost in the fog.” “And you could be a little unconscious in a few minutes if you’ve got a concussion.” He knelt beside her and cleared the hair away from her injury. He took note of her hair, a golden blond. Fishing around among the roots as he was, he could tell the color was natural, the texture, thick, and soft. He mentally shook himself. You’re a doctor, man! Get on with the business of doctoring! “A concussion?” she said with a short, caustic laugh. “That little bump? I’ve had worse jolts putting on straw hats.” He couldn’t help the amused twitch of his lips. He had to give the sassy miscreant credit. She had spunk. “Once in the Australian outback, I had to splint my own broken leg—with a couple of branches and a belt. So, you see, I can take care of myself.” Her broken leg remark surprised him. She was either delirious or a pretty salty storyteller. “That’s very resourceful. And how do you treat your own comas?” he asked. “I tell you, that cut is nothing!” “You need stitches, Miss….” He met her gaze and took singular note of her eyes. They were big and shiny and a striking silver-gray. Fortunately they showed no signs of brain trauma. “Baptiste,” she said, sounding a little less spunky. “Mimi Baptiste.” “Well, Miss Baptiste, how good are you at stitching yourself up?” Her eyes narrowed with her wince. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, reaching into his back pocket for his folded handkerchief. “Only by being in my boat’s way,” she muttered. He pressed the clean handkerchief against her injury. When their glances clashed again, he presented Miss Beautiful-Gray-Eyes Baptiste with his most adamant professional expression. “Hold that there while I help you to my boat.” She stared at him. “Huh?” He shook his head at her. “You need stitches, remember? I can’t do that here.” “You bet your booties you can’t, fella,” she retorted. “I’m not in the habit of letting complete strangers, whose only recommendation is that they skulk around in fog banks, use a needle and thread on my head!” He grasped her upper arm and stood, hoisting her to her feet. “Can you walk?” “I’m not walking anyplace with you!” She resisted, but not strongly enough to get free of his hold. It was obvious she wasn’t as steady as she’d like to be. Not to mention that the little catamaran wasn’t the most stable flooring in the world. He tugged her along the short hull. It dipped precariously with their weight. “Let’s do this quickly or we’ll get a salty bath,” he said. “Grab the side and I’ll hoist you over.” She gave him a look that was far from cooperative. “I don’t know you, buddy! If you think I’m getting into a boat with you, you’re crazier than you look.” He grabbed the gunwale to steady them and faced her. “My name is Marc Merit. I live on an island, not far from here, and I’m a medical doctor.” He dipped his head in a nominal and slightly mocking greeting. “How do you do? Now grab the blasted gunwale and climb into my boat before I lose my famous self-control and heave you over the side like a rock.” “I want to see some ID.” He stared at her in disbelief. “You want what?” “ID, buster. Anybody can say he’s a doctor. An ax murderer can say he’s a doctor.” “For that matter ax murderers can be doctors.” He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. Flipping it open, he showed her his American Medical Association membership ID. “My ax murderer cards are still at the printer’s.” She gave the ID a thorough once-over, then reached up to flip the plastic holders until she found his driver’s license. For a long minute she scowled at the words Marcus G. Merit, MD. “Well?” he coaxed. She cast him a quick, sideways look, opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of arguing. “Okay, so you’re a doctor,” she grumbled. “But like you said, doctors can be ax murderers.” Marc flipped his wallet closed and replaced it in his pocket. “Yes, but statistically you have a better than even chance of running into a doctor who’s more interested in keeping you well than in hacking you up.” “That’s charming!” Chewing her lower lip, she considered him. Marc had a feeling she was figuring her options. “I don’t like it,” she mumbled, “but I guess I don’t have much choice.” Grasping the gunwale she flung up a leg but wasn’t quite able to get her deck shoe hooked over the top. Marc grasped her waist and hoisted her far enough so she could get her leg over, then returned his grip to the gunwale to keep from toppling into the ocean. Once on board, Mimi straightened and steadied herself, replacing the handkerchief on her wound. Before she had time to turn and glare at him, he’d boarded and taken her by the arm. “Sit down. If you’re going to faint, you’ll be closer to the deck.” Though he didn’t look directly at her, he could sense her glower as he guided her to the seat beside his at the helm. “You have a captivating bedside manner, doc,” she muttered. “Where did you train, the Beavis and Butthead Institute for Sensitivity? He slashed her an irritated glance. She was one of the most aggravating woman he’d ever run into—or more correctly, who’d ever run into him. “My boat is damaged, thanks to you,” he said. “How cheerful do you expect me to be?” He saw her flinch at the reminder. She opened her mouth to retort, closed it and turned away, muttering, “You don’t have to be such a sorehead.” “Since you have the resident sore head, chances are I caught it from you.” He winced at himself for that remark. He should have let the comment go. She was hurt and shaken up. People in her condition sometimes lashed out at any available target, occasionally the doctor. It didn’t mean anything. When her lower lip began to tremble, he felt like a jerk for being short with her. It wasn’t her fault the fog had rolled in and she’d gotten lost. Apparently the boat she was sailing didn’t belong to her. Marc had no idea what kind of problems that detail would cause. The faded jeans she wore were far from new. The white nylon sweater looked more discount than designer. On her left wrist she wore a white sweatband that was too lumpy to be covering only a wrist. She was probably protecting a watch or bracelet. Unless the jewelry was sprinkled with diamonds, she didn’t appear to have a huge reservoir of ready cash for the repair of damaged catamarans. Flipping off the lights, he carefully maneuvered around so the boat he towed followed in their slow wake. Glancing her way, he asked, “Who’s cat is it?” She slumped back in the tall, beige leather seat and took the handkerchief off her head, refolding it to find a fresh spot to soak up the oozing blood. Marc was impressed by her control. She wasn’t a coward when it came to dealing with the sight of her own blood. He’d seen more than one senior medical student go woozy and sick when confronted by his own smashed finger or lacerated scalp. Maybe she really had set her own broken leg. “Oh—it’s just this guy’s,” she said, looking straight ahead. “I was practicing to enter the Habitat Race next weekend.” “What race?” She glanced his way. The look was brief, but long enough for Marc to see the glitter of tears. “The catamaran race to help build a new habitat for polar bears in the Portland zoo. The entry fees go toward building the habitat.” Marc had heard nothing about it, but he hadn’t had time to visit a zoo in a decade. Even reading the daily paper was a luxury he could rarely indulge in. He watched her troubled profile for a long minute, then asked, “How’s the head?” She closed her eyes and slumped in the chair, appearing small and remote. “Peachy,” she mumbled. “You’re not going to sleep, are you?” he asked, worried. She flicked him an unhappy look. “Don’t panic, doc. If I fall into a coma I’ll make sure to sprawl to the deck so you’ll be the first to know.” He felt an urge to chuckle at her wry wit, but stifled it, concentrating on maneuvering his cruiser through the fog. “Thanks. I’ll listen for the thud.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her loll her head so she could see him better. She watched him with those silver eyes. Her quiet stare affected him strangely and a prickly restlessness surged through him. When he turned to look directly at her she didn’t even blink, clearly unembarrassed to be caught staring. Intrigued by this spitfire with so much passion and gall, he stared back. She had fuller lips than he’d first thought. Really great lips. If his hot-to-trot nurse had had lips like those— “I was going to donate part of the grand prize money to the zoo.” She heaved a sigh. “And use the rest to get to Java.” His unruly thoughts about her lips went up in heated smoke. “To where?” She shrugged and shifted to face the windshield. “There’s this orangutan preservation group I belong to that’s trekking through Java in a couple of weeks. The money was to get me there.” Marc chuckled, incredulous. “You’re kidding.” She turned. “Why would I kid about something like that?” He lifted a brow to indicate his skepticism. “Even on the off chance that you won the race, why would you do something like that?” She frowned. “Because the whole world is my backyard, doc, and I care about my backyard. Don’t you?” He studied her narrowed eyes and full lips, now thinned in idealistic defiance. After a drawn-out moment, he turned his full attention to docking his cruiser and its crippled floating baggage. A weird sense of frustration washed over him. Too bad such an attractive, spirited woman had to be a flighty loon. Mimi had never expected to spend this evening sitting in a seaside cottage on some isolated island, having her head sewn up by a grumpy stick-in-the-mud who thought saving the Javanese orangutans was laughable. She had to say one thing in the doctor’s favor. He might be cynical about the plight of the world’s endangered plants and animals and have a cranky bedside manner, but his touch was heavenly. She chanced a peek at him as he stitched. His eyes and mind were focused on his work. With his expression so concentrated, he was yummy—in a somber, solid country-doctor way. Which was not to say that was necessarily a good thing. Somber, solid country doctors were a dull lot. Too narrowly focused on the here-and-now instead of tomorrow and the possibilities that made the world an exciting place to roam and explore. Since she didn’t have anything else to do, besides think about a needle puncturing her flesh, she decided it was better to concentrate on other things. Like the doc’s eyes, for example. They were dazzling for a color as plain as brown. She’d never thought of brown as erotic, but somehow Dr. Grouchy managed it. Maybe it was the long, curling coal-black lashes that made the difference. Whatever it was, those eyes had their effect. Even when he was frowning and barking orders, he had a way with those eyes. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t protested more than she had. Or maybe it was the wooziness and the fact that he’d had three heads there for a minute. “All done,” he said. “I doubt if there will even be a scar.” As his hands lifted away from her head she breathed a sigh that felt peculiarly like regret. He smelled good, even if there was a tinge of antiseptic in the mixture. She’d never found much fault with a man for smelling clean. And whatever else the doctor’s scent included, it was one pleasant rush. Or maybe she’d just hit her head harder than she’d thought. Instinctively, she lifted her hand to feel her wound, but was halted when he took her wrist. “Try not to touch it for a while,” he cautioned. “Tomorrow you can shower as usual. In seven to ten days the sutures will dissolve on their own.” He lowered her arm to her thigh before letting go. “Gee, thanks, doc,” she quipped. “I would have never found my lap without your help.” “By the way,” he asked, “What’s under that sweatband?” She looked down at it, then closed her hand over it fondly. “My most prized possessions.” Tugging the band away she revealed two silver bracelets, brimming with charms. “My parents gave me these bracelets. The charms represent the places we’ve been.” “Hmmm.” He turned away to take off his rubber gloves. “Tell me something,” he said, tossing them in a trash container. “I don’t have insurance if that’s what you’re groping for. And you can’t have my bracelets.” He faced her, his glance brief and narrowed. “Though I do have some patients who pay for my services in trade, Miss Baptiste, I don’t want your bracelets.” One corner of his mouth quirked, but she couldn’t tell if the expression was amusement or contempt. “And my question wasn’t about insurance, but it did involve money.” “I don’t have any cash on me, either,” she said. “Remember I told you I didn’t need your help. You forced yourself on me.” “I’m a brute,” he said quietly. “Now shut up for a second, and let me talk.” She lifted her arms in broad invitation. “Excuse me! Please! Talk! I keep forgetting that you sawbones are more important than we mere mortals!” She eyed him with all the animosity the accident had built up inside her. “Or is that more egotistical? I forget.” He settled on a nearby stool, crossing his arms over his broad chest. She took a quick second to scan him as he scowled at her. He wore beige trousers and a white polo shirt. Very conservative, very patient-friendly, very country-doctorly. Once inside his cottage he’d thrown on a white smock. Even with all his conventional professional trappings, he still looked less like a physician and more like a hunk with an attitude. “Did that remark about setting your own leg have any validity?” She was taken aback by his arrogance. “Why? Do you actually believe the power to set a broken leg is the divine right of medical doctors?” “Is that a no?” “It’s not a no! My parents were wildlife photographers. They traveled the world, and they wanted me with them. They home-schooled me and gave me experiences few other children get. Being on our own a lot we had to be resourceful.” She straightened her shoulders, proud of her parents, world-famous in their field. “One day I was at camp doing some wash. I fell. By the time mother and father got back, I’d set my own leg.” He regarded her speculatively, and she sensed he was considering what she’d said, possibly even reluctantly deciding to believe her. She experienced a surge of gratification. He might not appreciate spontaneity or a vagabond lifestyle, but surely he appreciated courage and intelligence. She hiked her chin. “Well,” she challenged. “Don’t you have anything to say?” Running a hand along his jaw, he nodded. “Yes. Will paying for repairs on that cat be a strain for you?” She frowned at the unexpected question. “That’s none of your business.” “I know, Miss Baptiste, and making it my business is the last thing I care to do. However, if you don’t mind, humor me.” She minded, but shrugged. Much of the fight had gone out of her. She had a splitting headache; she was broke and she had nowhere to go. “I met this guy at a Clean Earth rally a couple of days ago and mentioned the race. He said he had a catamaran and if I wanted to enter I could use it. So he loaned it to me.” She felt a chill at the reminder, and ran her hands along her arms. What was she going to do? “The guy wasn’t a close friend. I have no idea how he’ll react when he sees the mess I made of his boat.” Hearing the admission out loud made her stomach knot up. She was in trouble. The Java trip was definitely off. She’d have to find a temporary job to pay for the damage, plus earn the cost of transport to her next adventure—somewhere in the world—wherever and whatever that might be. The tall, glowering doctor was quiet for what seemed like an hour. Mimi noticed the sound of a clock ticking and scanned the pine walls until she found it. A white-faced timepiece with a free-hanging pendulum hung between two windows draped in simple, blue-and-white checked cotton. They were in a small, tidy kitchen, all paneled in pine. Even the countertops were pine, worn and scarred from years of use. The place was as clean as a whistle. Even the blue woven throw rugs looked freshly laundered. Well, she supposed a doctor would be picky about cleanliness. “Look, Miss Baptiste,” he said, at last, drawing her gaze. He gritted his teeth. She could tell because the muscle in one cheek flexed. “I don’t have time to beat around the bush. My nurse quit yesterday and I need help. If I pay for the repairs to your cat, will you work it off? Give me two weeks?” She gaped, flummoxed. This possibility had never entered her mind. But a job was a job. Grumpy doctor or not, she needed work. She supposed this island was as good a place as any to spend a little time. It would be an experience to add to her growing list of adventures. She made a resigned face. “I suppose I could cook and do laundry. Whatever you need.” One brow rose. “I need a nurse.” She blinked, startled. “But—I’m—not…” He shook his head. “Okay, call it an assistant. Somebody to go with me on rounds. And back here at the office, to fetch things, take appointments. I won’t ask you to assist in brain surgery.” She swallowed and frowned, her thoughts strangely muddled. Maybe it was the head injury. She didn’t seem to be able to think clearly. He leaned toward her. “You need a job, right?” She stared into narrowed eyes, so intent she could almost feel their heat. Uncharacteristically mute, she could only nod. “I need help and I think you’ll do.” He sat back, his expression far from happy. “Give me two weeks of your time and I’ll make sure the catamaran is put back in mint condition. What do you say?” “It—it wasn’t in mint condition to begin with,” she murmured, stalling. “Okay, it’ll be better than it was,” he said. “So sue me.” She shot him a glance. “You don’t have to bite my head off. I was just making a point.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry.” He inhaled and it looked like he was mentally counting to ten. “What do you say?” Did she really want to be stuck on a dinky island for two whole weeks, practically lashed to the hip of this testy sawbones? Do you have a choice, Mimi? she asked herself morosely. It could take her several days to find other work, and even then there was no guarantee the money would be decent. What he offered was way above and beyond what she’d get anyplace else. It would take at least a couple of thousand dollars to repair that catamaran. She looked at him with high suspicion. “That’s a lot of money, doc. You must pay your assistants well.” “It’s hard for us ax murderers to keep good help,” he said, his expression perfectly serious. The deadpan wisecrack surprised Mimi. She fought back an urge to grin. Weighing him with a critical stare, she crossed her arms before her. “Um-hmm.” He was awfully good-looking, so it was pretty evident the trouble was his rotten disposition. Considering her experience with him so far, she would bet her last dollar that spending two weeks with him would be any sane person’s limit. She had a sudden thought. Though she needed a job really quickly that paid really well, really badly, she decided she’d only stay on one, tough condition. “Besides paying for the cat repairs, I’ll need money to get where I’m going. Will you pay for that?” She wondered whether she’d be more relieved if he agreed or told her to go jump. She was asking one heck of a lot. He eyed heaven. “Where are you going?” “I—I don’t know. Java’s probably out.” She shrugged. “I guess I’ll decide that when the time comes.” “Excellent planning.” Mimi wasn’t fooled by the positive remark. She could tell by his tone he thought she was a nomadic nutcase. She’d bet anything the idea of not knowing where he’d be next month was as foreign to him as—as skinny dipping. Well, that was just dandy with her. Disapproval coming from a narrow-minded sourpuss like him was a compliment. “Make it three weeks,” he said, “and I’ll throw in airfare to wherever you want to go.” Her heart dropped. “Three weeks?” “It’s not death row,” he said. “Do we have a deal?” Sweeping a strand of her hair off her face, she looked away. In the ten years since her parents had died, she’d had plenty of temporary jobs and knew how hard they were to come by—at least the ones that paid more than subsistence wages. She doubted she could do better and grimaced. “I guess.” When she glanced back at him, he was checking his watch. “Are you hungry?” His abrupt change of subject startled her. She hadn’t eaten much today, and though her pride was stung by his invalidation of everything she was or stood for, she wasn’t stupid enough to cut off her nose to spite her face. “I could eat,” she admitted. “Can you cook?” He slid off the stool to stand beside her chair. “Of course.” His towering nearness unsettled her, so she pushed up from the little kitchen table. What difference does it make if he validates you, Mimi? she counseled inwardly. You’re completely capable, and what he thinks isn’t important! “I can cook over hot volcanic ash if I have to.” He had shrugged out of his white coat and was hanging it on a hook beside the door when her comment made him glance at her over his shoulder. His brows knit slightly, and she had a feeling he didn’t believe her. “That won’t be necessary. I have a stove.” She decided this staid, provincial MD needed a little loosening up. “Too bad,” she kidded. “Where’s the adventure in cooking on a stove?” He lounged against the counter, resting the heels of his hands on the pine surface. His slouch was so utterly natural and sexy the sight was disconcerting. She decided there were movie-star hunks who stood in front of mirrors for hours, practicing but failing to look so cavalierly male. Belatedly, she realized his expression held a trace of disapproval. “So life to you is just one big adventure, is it?” The way he said it sent a ripple of irritation along her spine. “Life is an adventure, doc. You have to make the most of the time you have.” The muscle in his cheek flexed again. He was clenching. “Do you have a problem with that?” “Not at all,” he said. “As long as you don’t run out on me before your three weeks are up.” She lifted her chin. His assumption that she was some kind of two-faced weasel who wouldn’t keep her promise infuriated her. “If I say I’ll stay, I’ll stay.” “Then I have your word?” he asked, not missing a beat. She stared at him, doing a little teeth-grinding of her own. “Can I trust you to repair the cat and give me the airfare you agreed to?” His gaze narrowed, and Mimi could tell the good doctor wasn’t accustomed to having his word challenged. “Touch?, Miss Baptiste,” he said, gravely. “So we’re agreed,” she retorted. “You do your part, and I’ll stay three weeks. But not a day longer.” CHAPTER TWO MIMI and the doctor shared a long, explicit glare. Mixed somewhere in her anger and frustration she felt a tingle of satisfaction. It didn’t take a psychic to see that Doctor Charm was as annoyed about this arrangement as she. A knocking sound brought an end to their staring contest. “Excuse me,” he muttered, striding out of the kitchen toward the cottage’s front door. Mimi was curious to see who might need a doctor at this hour, so she ambled through the kitchen and into the dining area. Leaning against the round table, she watched the doctor stalk toward the front entrance. The only hint that the living room before her doubled as a waiting area was a wooden desk that sat beside the front door. Behind it a couple of tall wood filing cabinets stood against the side wall. Otherwise, the place looked like any other seaside cottage’s living room. When Marc swung the door wide, a white ball of fluff bounded inside, barking and wagging its stubby tail so hard it looked like it might split into two little puffs. Right behind the tiny creature came an attractive woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and a riot of freckles dancing across her pretty face. “Hi,” she said, giving the doctor a hug. “I saw your lights and figured you’d want Foo Foo back.” Marc returned the hug and kissed the newcomer’s forehead. “The fog must be lifting.” “The wind’s picked up…” Her sentence trailed away when she noticed Mimi. “Oh—I didn’t realize you had a patient.” At the same moment, the white fluff-ball noticed Mimi and ran to her as though she was its long-lost mama. Leaping and barking and wagging, it greeted her with considerably more enthusiasm than Mimi felt. “Hush, Foof!” the woman called. “You’re not supposed to bother the patients.” “She’s not a patient, Susan.” Marc clasped the woman about the shoulders and guided her into the room. “She’s my temporary assistant. I found her tonight.” He indicated Mimi with a gesture. “Susan Merit, Miss…Baptiste.” Mimi felt a twinge at the obvious fact that he couldn’t recall her first name. It was odd, though, that the twinge had begun some time before he’d spoken her name. Surely the fact that he had a wife didn’t bother her. She didn’t even like the aggravating sourpuss. When she realized Marc and Susan had neared, she belatedly held out a hand. “It’s Mimi. Mimi Baptiste. Nice to meet you.” Susan took her hand and squeezed, then glanced askance at Marc. “I know it’s hard to find help, sweetie, but bashing women over the head is just a little illegal.” He grinned at Susan, and Mimi was struck by the sight. His smile transformed his features, making his good looks devastating. She swallowed hard. Maybe it was lucky the doctor was basically a grouch. Maybe he’d learned the hard way that he had to be a grouch, at least with female patients. Mimi decided his smiles were almost too stimulating to cope with, even fully clothed. What sort of chaos might one of those rakish grins cause if flashed during a physical exam? “Very funny, Susan.” He squeezed the woman’s shoulder affectionately before dropping his arm to his side. The dog jumped up on Mimi, yapping, clearly begging to be picked up. Tiny and pure white, the animal was probably a poodle but without the traditional cut. “Down, Foof,” Marc commanded. “Time for dinner.” The ball of fuzz dropped its forepaws to the floor, danced around in a circle, then dashed into the kitchen. Marc turned to the auburn-haired woman. “How’s Kyle?” Susan smiled, a bright blush spreading across her cheeks. “He’s the sweetest little boy on earth.” She reached up and touched Marc’s cheek. “Thank you for that darling baby.” She cleared her throat, as though fighting emotion. Her smile trembled, then brightened and became teasing. “Come on up and see us, sometime.” He winked. “It’s a date.” Susan turned to Mimi. “Don’t let this ogre work you too hard. And don’t let him forget to eat, okay?” She wrapped her arms about his waist and gave him a displeased look. “You’re too thin.” Marc’s laughter was rich, filling the room with an unexpected warmth. “Will the nagging never end?” She pecked his cheek. “Okay, okay, I’m going. Foo Foo was a delight as usual, but I’m afraid once Kyle is old enough to toddle around, he’s going to steal that dog away from you. She’s pretty fond of him already. Thinks he’s her baby.” “If Kyle takes Foof away, you have to grant me visitation rights,” he kidded. “Ha!” Susan countered. “Like you’d take time to visit.” She disengaged herself from Marc. When she met Mimi’s gaze again, her smile dimmed. “If Marc didn’t bash you, then how did you hurt your head?” Mimi felt peculiarly impish. “Oh, but he did!” She shot him a taunting look. “It was a clear case of piracy on the high seas. First he rammed me to disable my boat, then he kidnapped me. It was horrible.” Marc’s smile became a trifle jaundiced. “Two funny women in the same room. I’m blessed.” Susan gave him a look. “In all the time I’ve known you, Marc, I’ve never suspected you had this buccaneering streak.” “Well, I’ve witnessed his dark side,” Mimi said before Marc could do more than open his mouth. “To add insult to injury, he insists I work for him for three whole weeks to pay for repairing the damage to both boats!” Susan squinted at Marc. “You fiend.” She stepped away from him and placed her hands on her hips. “Under that wholesome doctor’s facade I find out you’re into assault, kidnapping and blackmail.” Marc’s glance went from Susan to Mimi then back to Susan. “You’ve found me out. I’m a regular Renaissance felon.” His grin was teasing and aimed at Susan, but it had an effect on Mimi and she didn’t like it one bit. This doctor had none of the attributes she wanted in a man. Well, maybe a few of the basics—like brains and looks and great teeth—but not the important ones. “Dr. Blackbeard, huh?” Susan laughed. “I’m sorry, Marc, but I don’t believe it. Not from our incorruptible Dr. Merit.” Facing Mimi, she said, “Did he tell you why his last nurse left?” Mimi shook her head. She’d assumed it was because his growling attitude left a lot to be desired. “Let’s not—” “Because,” Susan cut in over Marc’s objection, “he wouldn’t play nursie-doctor games with her—if you get my meaning.” Startled by the sexual innuendo, Mimi glanced at Marc. Though his face showed a deep summer tan, his features still managed to go a shade darker. “Thanks, Suze,” he muttered. “I might have forgotten to mention that.” Susan’s grin was playful as she touched Mimi’s hand. “He’s an uncompromising goody-goody, but we love him anyway.” Mimi cast the doctor a curious look. The flush beneath his tan exhibited a captivating hint of vulnerability. He might be a bear, but he was cute when he was embarrassed. Plainly his wife didn’t have any doubts about his fidelity if she felt comfortable teasing him about the women who would be his lovers, if only he’d slip off his white charger. “Go away, Suze,” he grumbled. “I think I hear the baby calling you.” She laughed. “I love you, too, sweetie.” Glancing at her watch, she added, “It is time for Kyle’s bedtime bottle, but if you can hear him, you have better ears than Foof!” Giving Marc another fond pat on the cheek, she turned to Mimi. “We live up on the hill, so I hope I’ll see you a lot. There aren’t many women on the island, so I’m starved for girl talk.” She turned away. “Assuming Cap’n Bligh gives you any time off.” “I’m not holding my breath,” Mimi called after her, deciding the doctor used the cottage as an office and lived up the hill. Funny, she’d gotten the impression it was his home. Susan’s light laugh echoed in the room as the front door closed with a quiet click. Suddenly, Mimi found herself facing an unsmiling grouch, again. “I’ll show you your room.” He indicated the kitchen. “It’s back there.” “Aye, aye, Cap’n.” She struck a jaunty salute. “Lead the way, sir.” His expression stern, he headed into the kitchen. “Let me know where your things are. I’ll have them delivered here tomorrow.” She’d been crashing on the sofa of a friend of an acquaintance, an elderly widow who rescued stray cats. The idea of sleeping without six or eight furry bodies curled on top of her seemed like quite a luxury. “Okay,” she murmured, passing the fluff ball as it munched pellets from a bowl in the corner. “I’ll write down the address.” “Fine.” Adjacent to the back entrance, they rounded a corner into a short hallway. “This is where you’ll sleep.” He opened a door and flipped on a light, revealing a small, plainly furnished room. The place had a quaint, old-fashioned quality and looked clean enough to eat off any surface. “The bath is on your right at the end of the hall. And this…” he touched the knob on a door neighboring her own, “…is my room.” She went stock still and spun to confront him. “Your room?” His expression closed further. Apparently her question had come out more horrified than he was accustomed to hearing when describing the living arrangements. “This is my house, Miss Baptiste. I thought you understood that.” She experienced a rush of panic and didn’t have a clue why. “But—but don’t you live on the hill?” “No.” He leaned against his door. “I did once, but this is my home now.” His marital status was none of Mimi’s business, but she was surprised by the revelation. He and Susan seemed so—so friendly. She shrugged. “That’s too bad.” “It is?” She had looked away, trying to get a grip on what she was feeling. “So you’re separated?” “What?” “From your wife and baby.” She met his gaze, somehow unable to do otherwise. He crossed his arms before him. “My wife and baby?” “Do you have a hearing problem, doc?” She waved toward the living room. “Susan—Mrs. Merit, that is—and your baby, Kyle. They live on the hill, but you live here?” She frowned in thought. The doctor was a handsome brute. No woman would reject him because of his looks. He could be extremely ill-tempered, but he’d been charming with Susan. No doubt he was trying to get back into her good graces after some transgression. “Was it the long hours, or too many amorous nurses—or what—that split you up?” She wondered at herself for feeling the need to know. He watched her with a curious expression. “Excuse me?” How could a man be a doctor and be this dense? She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Why don’t you and Susan live together?” “Why don’t…?” His lips quirked. “Oh.” “Oh?” How annoying—what kind of answer was oh? “Are you telling me it’s none of my business?” she asked, well aware that it wasn’t. She supposed, growing up in the wild, both her parents and her environment unique to say the least, she hadn’t become as proficient in the subtleties of tact as those who’d grown up in more conventional situations. Sometimes she asked outlandish questions. People were free to answer them or not. Surprisingly, many did. “You’re right. It isn’t your business, Miss Baptiste,” he said. “However, it’s no secret why Susan and I aren’t living together, so you’d find out soon enough, anyway.” She waited, watching his eyes. They had a powerful pull, and right now, they also contained a suspicious twinkle. “It’s just a guess,” he said, “but I don’t think her husband would approve.” “Her hus—” Mimi was confused. “But I thought she was Mrs. Merit?” “She is,” he said, matter-of-factly. “She’s Mrs. Jake Merit, my sister-in-law.” Mimi was totally bewildered now. Even somewhat horrified. “Then why did she thank you for the baby?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted it. “No! No!” She threw up her arms, gesturing in the negative. “Never mind. Some things I don’t want to be my business.” His lips twisted wryly. “Not enough things, apparently.” Pushing away from the wall, he added, “But for the sake of your shocked sensibilities, Susan thanked me because I was instrumental in the adoption of their baby.” Mimi’s lips opened in a silent gasp. She felt stupid. No, she felt more than stupid. She had an overwhelming urge to sew her lips together. “Makes sense,” she murmured. “I’ll sleep better knowing you think so.” His sarcasm stung, and she winced as he turned toward the kitchen. “About dinner,” he said. “What do you feel like?” “An idiot,” she mumbled. He passed her, heading around the corner. Mimi couldn’t be sure, but she had a sneaky suspicion he was fighting a grin. The bum. He hadn’t been dense or hard of hearing! He’d enjoyed watching her jump to the wrong conclusion. He thought it was hilarious that she’d made a perfect fool of herself. Obviously life on the island was so boring he had to get his kicks flustering people. She took several restorative breaths before she worked up the nerve to follow him. When she entered the kitchen, he was placing a pot on the stove. “How about spaghetti?” he asked, without turning. “Well…” She’d lost her appetite, but humiliated or not she supposed she should eat. He shifted to glance at her, his brows knitting. “Don’t tell me it’s not enough of an adventure, that you’d rather go out and bring down a wildebeest with your bare hands.” He turned away. “It’s late, I’m tired and we’re a little low on wildebeests at the moment, so it’s spaghetti or nothing.” Her humiliation mutated into aggravation. “I didn’t say anything, doc. Spaghetti’s fine.” She headed to the stove and yanked the pot from him. “Go gnaw on a table leg. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” She eyed him with high irritation as his expression went from annoyed to perplexed then finally to weary. “I’m sorry, Miss Baptiste.” He shook his head. “It’s been a long day.” She felt a weird urge to smooth the shiny hank of hair off his creased brow, but she kept her hands clamped firmly on the pot handle. Okay, so she got a little fluttery and feminine around him. She wasn’t dead, just not interested in going all gooey over a man who wasn’t a globe-trotter, like her. Letting herself get lost in a pair of brown eyes was foolish, only leading to grief when it was time to move on. With a rankled clearing of her throat, she escaped to the sink. “Yeah, well I’ve been eating bon bons all day, doc, so I’m fresh as a daisy. Except for the gaping head wound, of course. Now go!” She turned on the water, but her senses remained riveted on the doctor. She didn’t want her senses riveted there, but they insisted on it. That was another annoying quality about Dr. Marc Merit. He was impossible to ignore, snarling or smiling—or even standing completely still behind her back. She couldn’t see him, didn’t hear him, so she assumed he hadn’t moved. When she turned off the water, she heard the sound of the refrigerator door opening. Glancing around she saw Marc remove a package of hamburger. “What are you doing?” she asked, deciding the man didn’t take orders at all well. He made brief eye contact, then walked to the stove. “Tomorrow, being Sunday, is a day off unless there’s an emergency. You’ll have time to get settled in and acquainted with the island.” He opened a low cabinet door beside the stove and drew out a frying pan. “Tonight, I’ll leave a T-shirt and some socks in the bathroom for you to put on after your bath.” She was surprised by his offer, then realized she probably looked pretty straggly. “Thanks.” Lugging the pot to the stove, she placed it on a burner and turned on the gas. Marc dumped the meat into the saucepan and began to break it up with a cooking fork. The tension between them was almost palpable. Mimi didn’t know when she’d been more aware of a man—or more disturbed by one. She was as unhappy about being stuck on an island with him as she was miserable about missing the Java trek. If she forced herself to look at the situation objectively, this whole mess wasn’t the doctor’s fault. It was hers. She tended to go off half-cocked, and not think things through. Borrowing the boat from somebody she hardly knew then sailing it into a fog bank had been two of those half-cocked notions that were coming back to bite her. Hard. “Look, doc…” she made herself face him. Maybe she owed him an apology. Maybe? an annoying little voice scoffed. He didn’t glance her way, but kept breaking up the meat as it started to sizzle. “Marc?” she said, almost too quietly to hear. Apologizing wasn’t her strongest suit. He stopped and glanced her way, a brow going up in question. She shrugged, feeling rotten. She was tired too, and she had a splitting headache, but right was right. “I’m sorry about your boat.” Breaking eye contact, she tugged the fork from his hand. “You’re paying a lot of money to repair that cat, and I’ve said I’d work off the debt. So let me fix dinner.” He was big and solid, he smelled nice and he was too close for her peace of mind. If it weren’t for his grouchiness and his “country doctor” lifestyle, he could easily be mistaken for the man she dreamed would one day come into her life. The man who would be to her what her dad had been to her mother. “Please?” she asked, miffed at herself for wasting even a second on silly romantic daydreams about Dr. Dutiful Of Sunnybrook Farm. “Just go.” His eyes narrowed for a heartbeat, then he shook his head. “No, Miss Baptiste. After working hours you’re off the clock.” “That’s ridiculous!” She nudged him with her hip. “Go! Shower! Nap! Punch holes in a wall! Do whatever it is you do to relax, and let me start paying for my keep!” She nudged him harder. “Move it!” “Cut it out,” he barked. “I’m not some elephant stuck in a bog.” She cast him a challenging glance. “Are you sure about that, Doc?” Restless and on edge, Marc rolled to his back. What in Hades was his problem? He was exhausted. His day began at five o’clock. It was now two in the morning, and all he could do was lie there and stare at the ceiling. Why couldn’t he sleep? Usually he was unconscious before his head hit the pillow. Until tonight, he’d never realized Foo Foo snored. He glanced at the tiny dog, curled in her bed. He watched her fuzzy little chest, highlighted by moonlight from the nearby window, expand with several doggie inhales. The sound she made was like a buzz saw grinding through bricks. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the roar. He knew a tiny animal like Foo Foo couldn’t possibly make the kind of noise his brain insisted he was hearing. It was anatomically impossible. She’d have to be the size of a moose to be that loud. If he made himself face facts, it wasn’t the snoring that was keeping him awake. It was the battering ram of a woman, Mimi Baptiste, who preyed on his mind. The instant he’d spotted her on that blasted catamaran something had gotten screwed up in his head. His heart had swelled and his gut had sizzled. He’d never experienced any phenomenon like it, and the feeling alarmed him. He’d come back to Merit Island because he’d decided doctoring in a big city wasn’t for him. He missed home and friends and the laid-back lifestyle he’d grown up with. He’d never had any urge to run the family emerald corporation and was glad Jake had taken over. Yet, Merit Island was a different matter. He’d tried to make a life somewhere else, but after a few years he’d come to realize this was where he was happiest; where he wanted to make his home. He’d been fond of old Doc Fleet, and from the time he was twelve he’d gone on rounds with the physician whenever possible, getting to know folks on the surrounding islands. They’d become like an extended family to him. So when Doc Fleet and his wife retired to Montana to be closer to their grandchildren, Marc came back to settle down. His plan was to find a wife somewhere on one of the neighboring islets and build a family. Most of his friends were married with kids by now. At thirty-four, it was time he was too. A doctor needed stability, both in his own character and in his home life. Mimi Baptiste was anything but stable. She was a will-o’-the-wisp, a pretty bird capriciously lingering for a time in his backyard. He dared not become enamored of her, for her nature was to fly away. It annoyed him mightily that something inside him found her intriguing. It disturbed him that he’d felt more like a man than a doctor when he’d touched her hair, smelled the light scent of her skin. And it irked him almost beyond bearing that he was attracted to her free spirit and her sassy mouth. The impertinent way she called him doc and had prodded him bodily away from his own stove galled him—but just as strongly fostered a hunger to taste the passion she put into every word, look and gesture. He wanted to feel it, drink it in, make it a part of himself. She was exasperating and exhilarating, bothersome and bewitching. And she was not the woman for him! Whatever quirky, wayward part of his psyche found her appealing had to be stomped out of existence. He promised himself to fight the attraction. Not get involved. Fending off Ursula and her kind was easy. It was bad business getting involved with employees. But the decision to remain indifferent to Mimi was harder fought. His body reacted wildly to her, giving no heed to the dictates of his brain. He wanted this woman. He was afraid he might even fall for her if he didn’t watch himself. And knowing the history of Merit men, they didn’t fall lightly or lose a love without grievous personal consequence. His father, George, had never been the same after their mother died. And Jake? Well, he’d suffered the tortures of the damned for years and years over his lost Tatiana before Susan came along—Jake’s “little freckle-faced angel” as he lovingly called his wife of two years. Yes, Marc wanted a wife. He’d come home to find one. But not Mimi Baptiste. Not the hot-headed vagabond who would sooner be backpacking through a jungle with strangers and setting her own broken bones than making a home in some fixed location. Get your mind off her, Merit, and go to sleep! Another long, rasping wheeze from Foo Foo’s basket broke the quiet. Frustrated and annoyed with himself for his stubborn preoccupation with such an inappropriate little spitfire, he rolled out of bed and padded to the door. Stepping into the hallway, he slammed bodily into someone. The skulking night prowler mashed against him wasn’t very tall, and in certain strategic areas, felt shockingly soft. Marc hoped like hell it was a burglar. CHAPTER THREE MIMI couldn’t see very well in the dimness of the hallway, but her sense of touch revved into high gear. If she knew anything about anything, she knew she’d just smashed into a very solid male. Her lips, her breasts, her—well, most of her body—recorded varying anatomical sections of his masculinity with equal measures of shock and gusto. A muffled curse somewhere above her head told her the doctor-in-residence was simply ecstatic about their late-night encounter. “This time you really did run into me, doc,” she muttered, provoked by his undisguised distaste. She wished she could be as irritated by the feel of his body as he clearly was by hers. She laid her hands against his bare chest, registering how warm and sturdy he felt. Her palms tingled at the contact with a liberal scattering of crisp hair. She even detected his heartbeat and registered the fact that it was a little fast. Even so, it didn’t have a chance if it planned to race against her own which had taken off in a sprint the instant they’d made contact and was miles away by now. He smelled even nicer up close and she winced. This was not productive, not in her best interests and, unfortunately, not a rendezvous she would easily forget. Pressing against him she was startled to feel resistance and noticed for the first time that he’d wrapped his arms about her. “Uh-you can let go,” she murmured, her voice vaguely breathy, “I won’t faint. I’ve had worse blows—” “—trying on men?” Marc interrupted curtly. His gruff question astonished her and her glance sprang to his face. His clenched jaws and narrowed gaze came as no surprise. “I was going to say, getting rammed by seagoing sawbones,” she retorted. Her love life, whether she had one or not, was none of his business. “But let’s go with yours, doc. It’s much more colorful.” His nostrils flared at her gibe, but he didn’t speak. She slid her hands down his chest, wondering why she chose to do that instead of merely lifting them away. The rational portion of her brain lagged a beat or two behind as she skimmed her fingers along his forearms until she reached his wrists. Sadly, this move was another of her half-baked ideas. In this position, with her hands behind her, she had to press her breasts even more intimately into him. Mimi wore only the oversized T-shirt he’d provided for her to sleep in, and it was proving too thin to keep the texture of his chest from registering against her. The sensation stirred something in her that was troubling, even disturbing. She didn’t like feeling anything for him but righteous anger. How dare he assume that because she was a free spirit, she was also less than discriminating when it came to men! Such narrow-minded arrogance hurt her feelings and made her mad. Swallowing to steady her voice, she allowed her ire to help disengage his hands from the small of her back. “If that’s your idea of a come-on, doc, it needs work,” she said as evenly as she could. “My head is pounding, so if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with your medicine cabinet and an aspirin.” Peculiarly light-headed, she lurched away, thrusting out an arm to steady herself with the wall. A hand grasped her outstretched wrist, halting her. “Look, Miss Baptiste,” he said, sounding less gruff. “Forgive me. I wasn’t—quite awake.” Tugging, he compelled her to turn toward him. “I have something in my office that will help your headache.” Indicating the kitchen, he squeezed her wrist briefly as though coaxing without words. “I could eat. How about you?” He smiled, the act brief and forced, but influential, none the less. Mimi hated to think what might happen if the doctor ever directed a full-fledged grin in her direction. Lifting her shoulders in a resigned shrug, she nodded. “Okay. Maybe I could eat a couple of wildebeest on whole wheat.” His eyes widened a fraction, and Mimi thought she saw the bare beginnings of actual humor. “You make the sandwiches and I’ll get the medicine.” She was amazed at herself for not pulling out of his grasp as he led her into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead light. She flinched, the sudden brightness blazing and painful. “Ouch!” Marc glanced at her, then flipped off the light. “You don’t do electricity much?” “Not five-thousand-watt bulbs,” she quipped, though she knew the blame lay with her throbbing head. “I think I can come up with more headache-friendly wattage.” Releasing her, he went to a cabinet and retrieved a couple of chunky candles and a book of matches. In a few seconds a soft twinkle illuminated the room from the center of the kitchen table. “Is that better?” he asked, facing her. He stood there in the half light, looking rough-hewn and gilded in a pair of low-riding, draw-string pajama bottoms. He made such a stirring picture, she wasn’t sure if yes was a meaningful enough word. Not to mention the fact that such a masculine spectacle wasn’t helping her head. She nodded, removing her gaze to the less inflammatory view of the refrigerator. “Er—thanks.” “I’ll just be a minute.” “Take your time,” she mumbled. The medicine he was getting had better be strong enough to drop a horse. She was afraid the stimulation of running bodily into him, then having to observe his broad chest and muscular torso in flickering candlelight—well, it might not be the sort of experience that aided and abetted peace of mind. “Don’t think about it, Mimi,” she muttered under her breath as she fished around in the refrigerator. “Don’t look directly at him. Fix the sandwiches. Take the pill and go!” When Marc returned, Mimi was working at the countertop next to the refrigerator. Her back was to him. The shirt he’d loaned her hit half way between her hips and knees. The white sport socks were crushed down around her ankles. Her blond, tousled hair fell to just past her shoulders. She looked like somebody’s little girl dressed in her daddy’s shirt and socks. No. Not a little girl, Marc amended. Even in the candlelight he could detect vague shadows that hinted at womanly curves, curves he had recently found to be tormentingly real. An awkward stab in his gut made him flinch. You’re a doctor, man! he warned inwardly. Act like one! Clearing his throat to announce his presence, he approached her, working to present his best professional demeanor. As he neared, she picked up two plates and turned. Each dish held a sandwich which had been sliced diagonally. “Two wildebeest sandwiches coming up.” When she saw what he held, her expression closed. “What’s that?” He lifted it. “A hypodermic. This will work faster.” She made a face and slipped by him to deposit the plates on the table. Marc didn’t miss the fact that she placed them at opposite ends. “I thought it was going to be a pill, doc.” She turned to face him. He lifted a brow in challenge. “I thought you were the woman who set her own bones. Surely a little needle can’t bother you.” She crossed her arms. “You’ve already stabbed me with a needle a bunch of times, today. Aren’t you getting tired of using me for a pin cushion?” “I’m fighting it,” he said, surprised at himself. Doctoring wasn’t anything to kid about. She eyed him ruefully, then reluctantly uncrossed her arms and rolled up one sleeve. “Okay. Have a party.” He liked her spunk. When he reached her, she gave him a petulant look. “I fixed you a great sandwich and look at the way you repay me.” “You’ll feel better. Are you allergic to any pain relievers?” “Strawberries.” He felt an urge to smile but mastered it. “Luckily, I hardly ever use strawberries as a pain killer.” She grimaced. “Oh, did you say pain killers? Then the answer’s no—at least I don’t think so.” “What do strawberries do to you?” He pulled his gaze from hers and got to business swabbing alcohol on a small area on her upper arm. “I break out in hives and itch.” “Hmm.” She laughed. Puzzled, he glanced at her. “What was that for?” She shook her head. “Nothing. You just sounded very doctorly there with that hmm. Do you learn that in doctor college? When you don’t know what to say you just go hmm?” He grinned, then caught himself and turned back to his work, giving her the shot. “I know what to say, Miss Baptiste.” “Oh? What’s that?” “Don’t eat strawberries.” She giggled again, the sound rippling along his spine. The sensation was strange and exciting, one he’d never experienced before. He glanced at her face. Her eyes were closed. “All done.” She peeked at him and he held up the empty syringe. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” She turned away and pulled out a chair. “Let’s just try not to make a habit of it, okay?” Plunking herself down, she waved toward his sandwich. “So eat, doc.” After disposing of the syringe, he took the chair opposite hers and glanced at his food. “Wildebeest, huh?” “Absolutely.” She placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. “On whole wheat.” Curious as to what the sandwich really contained, he lifted the top piece of bread off one wedge and was surprised to see a glob of cold spaghetti and meat sauce smashed between the slices. He looked at her in disbelief. “You made me a cold spaghetti sandwich?” She nodded, her smile a little lopsided. “How’s your headache?” Pursing her lips, she scrunched up her face, seeming to consider his question with great care. After a long minute, she whispered, “Pretty cool.” This time when he fought a smile, he lost. “That’s nice.” Miss Baptiste was having a rapid and strong reaction to the pain medication. She reinstated her lopsided smile. “Say, doc?” He put the bread back on top of the congealed spaghetti. “Yes?” Her brows knit slightly. “Don’t worry.” He leaned closer. She was whispering now, and he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. “Don’t worry?” “Uh-huh.” “About what, Miss Baptiste?” She canted toward him, placing the flats of both hands on the table. Her fingertips nearly touched the candles. “I won’t chase you around your office.” “What?” Surely he hadn’t heard her right. She lifted a finger to her lips and shushed him. “You’re very cute, Doc, but you’re not my type.” He blinked and sat back. The fact that he wasn’t her type was certainly no news flash, but her bluntness startled him. Clearly she was feeling no pain. How ironic that her whispered vow was painful for him. Not that he’d wanted her to chase him around the office, but the idea of, well, a little mutual chasing had crept into his thoughts. “I—uh—appreciate your frankness.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/renee-roszel/coming-home-to-wed/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.