Coming Home To Wed

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.”

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