Coming Home To Wed

“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.

MILLS & BOON

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To Linda Fildew

An editor with pizzazz

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

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.”