Dr. Holt And The Texan. Suzannah Davis
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discuss it further.”
A distant tremor of consternation tickled Mercy’s spine. Travis was a part of her past she’d put behind her a long time ago. It wouldn’t pay to resurrect it. “I don’t need dinner,” she said firmly. “And you do need the tests.”
“Even doctors have to eat.”
“I’m not good company after a busy shift. Besides, it may be another hour or two before I can finish up.”
“I got no place to be.”
“But—”
“Come on, Mercy. Quit giving me a hard time. Unless there’s a boyfriend waiting in the wings?”
“No.”
He gave her a hooded look. “I heard you were married.”
“Old news.” Her words were flat. “It was over a long time ago.”
His voice dropped, became husky and persuading. “Then for old time’s sake.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said honestly, and was surprised at the swift flicker of something almost like pain behind his dark eyes.
“You’re a hard-hearted woman, Mercy Holt,” he said, joking again, whatever she’d witnessed disappearing so quickly she thought she’d imagined it. “All right, you drive a mean bargain. Have pity on a lonesome cowboy tonight, and help me feed the inner man, and I’ll see to those tests in a day or two.”
Her teeth clicked together in annoyance. “That’s blackmail.”
Unrepentant, his expression bland, he said, “It’s up to you.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “You won’t weasel out on me?”
He crossed his heart. “Scout’s honor.”
What harm could it do? She was a grown woman, capable of spending time with an old friend without letting the past jumble up her emotional landscape. She didn’t have to make a federal case out of a simple dinner, even if her nerves were shot and she was as skittish as a newborn filly. At least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing her bullheaded patient was going to receive the care he needed.
“All right, then,” she said slowly.
“Gee, such enthusiasm could really go to a guy’s head.” His tone was dry.
“Never satisfied, are you, cowboy?”
His dark eyes gleamed. “Not often, darlin’. That’s what makes me a winner.”
No doubt about it. He was losing his touch.
Travis parked his custom, ebony pickup truck with the World Champion logo on the door and the PRCA—Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association—bumper sticker on the tailgate in front of Mercy’s town house. The building complex sat in an unpretentious neighborhood not far from the Ft. Worth Botanical Gardens. At three o’clock on a cold Halloween morning, there wasn’t much activity anywhere. In fact, nothing stirred, including the blond head resting on his shoulder.
He stifled a rueful grin. Lord, he would take a hell of a ribbing if his rodeo buddies could see him now! “Love‘em and Leave’em” King—who could squire his choice of luscious rodeo groupies, who had them lined up by the eager dozens to take their chances with the champion bull rider and ladies’ man—had bored his companion into a sound sleep. And after all the trouble he’d taken to change his shirt and clean up in the hospital rest room, too!
Of course, Mercy hadn’t drifted off until after he’d plied her with a steak dinner, a little red wine and a lot of cowboy blarney. Sipping his own iced tea—the hardest thing he drank these days—he’d been pleased to watch her across the candlelit table and see the tension in her lovely features melt away.
But what had she thought? That after taking unmerciful advantage of her concern for him, he would insist on plunging into some sort of postmortem of their aborted friendship? He had a greater instinct for self-preservation than that.
So he’d kept it light, and she’d actually laughed a time or two, something Travis had the feeling was all too rare for a gal who worked as hard and saw as much wounded humanity as she obviously did Still, he didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered that she’d dozed off on the way home.
Shifting his weight, he settled Mercy more comfortably under his arm. A wavy cloud of honey-colored hair drifted against his cheek. Her fresh floral scent enveloped him, evoking a deep quiver of something basic and male. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad deal after all. In the plain slacks and cotton shirt she’d worn under her physician’s coat, she looked slight and feminine, not at all the forceful, take-charge doctor who’d bowled him over earlier in the evening. Quite a transformation.
The reflected glow of the streetlights illuminated the interior of the truck. Carefully Travis used a callused fingertip to pull the lock of hair back from Mercy’s face. He could be forgiven if he took this minor advantage to study the heart-shaped countenance, the high cheekbones and delicate nose. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Yes, sir, he’d been thrown caboose over teakettle plenty of times in his career, but never as badly as the spill he’d taken at his first sight of Mercy Holt in fifteen years.
And he ached. Not just from the pounding Sidewinder had given him, either. No, it was regret. God help him, he’d give anything if things could have turned out differently.
She gave a little murmured sigh, and he immediately felt lower than a snake’s belly. She’d worked a full shift, plus some, and despite his shearling jacket and her wool cape, the Texas night was getting colder by the minute. As much as he was enjoying the sensation of holding a beautiful woman, he couldn’t take advantage of the situation any longer.
“Mercy? Honey, wake up. We’re home.”
Her lashes fluttered, revealing eyes as indigo as a field of Texas bluebonnets. Languid, sleep flushed, she smiled up at him in the dim light, then ran a fingertip over his mustache.
“I can’t get used to this.”
Her fleeting touch electrified him, and he caught her hand to stop the unexpected pleasure/pain. His voice was rough. “Kinda my trademark now, blue eyes. I’d feel naked without it.”
Something akin to horror widened her eyes, and she jerked upright, blushing in embarrassment. “Oh. What time is it?”
“Late.”
She placed a hand against her burning cheek. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. I’m so sorry.”
“No problem.” He was already out of the truck, walking around to open her door. “Must be past your bedtime. Come on, I’ll walk you in.”
“That’s not necessary.” She dug in her bag for her key. “I’m perfectly all right. But thank you for the meal and everything—”
He arched an eyebrow at her, cutting her off. “No use arguing. You know my mama raised me the old-fashioned way.”
He could see her hesitation, but he took her elbow and lifted the key from her fingers. Within minutes he was standing inside the doorway of her town house as she turned on lamps. Somehow it wasn’t what he’d expected.
The apartment was spacious, but austere. Pale vertical blinds graced the windows, and even paler modular furniture sat on an oatmeal carpet. Stacks of unopened mail and unread magazines littered the tabletops. A laundry basket of scrubs and lab coats perched on an ottoman. A stethoscope dangled over a lamp shade.
The breakfast bar that separated the living area from the kitchen sported a litter of used bowls and teacups and a cellophane-wrapped bunch of supermarket flowers that had never been placed in water and now lay limp and brown and forlorn on the alabaster counter. There were books everywhere, but no personal pictures. Only a wall display of award plaques for distinguished service for several inner city clinics and a home for troubled youth