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.
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