“Are You All Right?” Rory Asked.

“Um, yes, I believe so,” Miriam replied, a bit breathless.

And there was something about her being a bit breathless, and something about the fact that Rory had been responsible for her breathlessness, that made his own breathing skip a few necessary stages.

“Was there something you wanted, Professor Monahan?”

Oh, he really wished she hadn’t phrased her question quite that way. Because Rory suddenly realized, too well, that there was indeed something he wanted. Something he wanted very badly.

And he wanted it specifically from Miss Miriam Thornbury….

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the world of Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with romances that can only be described as passionate, powerful and provocative!

The always fabulous Elizabeth Bevarly offers you May’s MAN OF THE MONTH, so get ready for The Temptation of Rory Monahan. Enjoy reading about a gorgeous professor who falls for a librarian busy reading up on how to catch a man!

The tantalizing Desire miniseries TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: LONE STAR JEWELS concludes with Tycoon Warrior by Sheri WhiteFeather. A Native American ex-military man reunites with his estranged wife on a secret mission that renews their love.

Popular Peggy Moreland returns to Desire with a romance about a plain-Jane secretary who is in love with her Millionaire Boss. The hero-focused miniseries BACHELOR BATTALION by Maureen Child continues with Prince Charming in Dress Blues, who’s snowbound in a cabin with an unmarried woman about to give birth! Baby at His Door by Katherine Garbera features a small-town sheriff, a beautiful stranger and the bundle of love who unites them. And Sara Orwig writes a lovely tale about a couple entering a marriage of convenience in Cowboy’s Secret Child.

This month, Silhouette is proud to announce we’ve joined the national campaign “Get Caught Reading” in order to promote reading in the United States. So set a good example, and get caught reading all six of these exhilarating Desire titles!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

The Temptation of Rory Monahan
Elizabeth Bevarly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELIZABETH BEVARLY

is an honors graduate of the University of Louisville and achieved her dream of writing full-time before she even turned thirty! At heart, she is also an avid voyager who once helped navigate a friend’s thirty-five-foot sailboat across the Bermuda Triangle. Her dream is to one day have her own sailboat, a beautifully renovated older-model forty-two-footer, and to enjoy the freedom and tranquillity seafaring can bring. Elizabeth likes to think she has a lot in common with the characters she creates, people who know love and life go hand in hand. And she’s getting some firsthand experience with motherhood, as well—she and her husband have a six-year-old son, Eli.

For all the wonderful librarians who made the library

a truly magical place for me when I was a kid.

And for all the ones who keep it magic for me as an adult.

Thank you all so much.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

One

Miriam Thornbury was testing a new Internet filter for the computers in the Marigold Free Public Library when she came across hotwetbabes.com.

She experienced a momentary exhilaration in her triumph at, once again, foiling a filter system—score one for the anticensorship campaign—but alas, her victory was short-lived. Because in that second moment she saw what, precisely, the Web site claimed as its content.

And she began to think that maybe, just maybe, censorship might have its uses.

Oh, dear, she thought further, alarmed. What was the world coming to when librarians began to advocate such a thing as censorship? What on earth was she thinking?

Of course Miriam knew librarians who did, in fact, support censorship. Well, maybe she didn’t quite know any; not personally, at any rate. She was, after all, one of only two full-time librarians in all of Marigold, Indiana, and Douglas Amberson, the senior librarian, was as vehemently opposed to censorship as she was herself.

But she knew of colleagues like that out there in the world, few though they may be, fortunately. Librarians who thought they knew what was best for their patrons and therefore took it upon themselves to spare the poor, ignorant reading public the trouble of weeding through all the icky things in life, by doing the literary gardening—so to speak—themselves.

Worse, Miriam knew mayors like that. Mayors of towns like, oh, say…Marigold, Indiana, for example. Which was why she was sitting in her office at the library on a sunny July afternoon, trying to find an Internet filter that would effectively screen out things like, oh, say…hotwetbabes.com.

It was a task Miriam had undertaken with mixed feelings. Although she by no means approved of some sites on the Net, sites such as, oh, say…this one, she had a hard time submitting to anyone who deemed him—or herself so superior to the masses that he or she would presume to dictate what was suitable reading and viewing material for those masses. Anyone like, oh, say…Isabel Trent, Marigold’s mayor.

Miriam glanced down at the computer screen again and bit back a wince. Hotwetbabes.com, however, did rather give one pause. All those half-naked, glistening female bodies right there on the Internet, for anyone to stumble across. That couldn’t possibly be a good thing, could it? Especially since these particular half-naked, glistening female bodies were so inconsistent with what real women looked like, even wet.

Inescapably, Miriam glanced down at her own midsection, well hidden—and quite dry, thank you very much—beneath her standard librarian uniform of crisply ironed cotton blouse—in this case, white—over crisply ironed straight skirt—in this case, beige. Then, inevitably, she glanced back up at the screen. Not only was her midsection sadly lacking when compared to these women, but the rest of her suffered mightily, too.

Where the women on the computer screen had wildly billowing tresses—even wet, they billowed, she noted morosely—in hues of gold and copper and ebony, her own boring blond hair—dishwater, her mother had always called it—was clipped back at her nape with a simple barrette, performing no significant billowing to speak of. And instead of heavily lined, mascaraed eyes of exotic color, Miriam’s were gray and completely unadorned.

No, the women on this particular Web site certainly were not what one might call usual, she thought with a sigh. Nor were they what one might call realistic. Of course, she reminded herself, the site was called hotwetbabes.com, so she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to find all those photos of, well, hot, wet babes. Still, she did wish someone would try to impose some measure of…of…of accuracy on existing Internet businesses.

There. That wasn’t advocating censorship, was it? Who in his or her right mind would object to accuracy, after all? Accuracy was a very good thing. The world needed more accuracy. And in Miriam’s opinion, it was high time the Internet became more accurate.

Yes, indeed.

She positioned the mouse to close the program with a convenient click—clearly this filter wasn’t the one the Marigold Free Public Library would be using, if sites such as these found their way through—but her hand, and therefore the mouse, must have just missed the mark. Because she accidentally—and she was absolutely certain it was indeed an accident—clicked instead on an announcement. An announcement which read, of all things, Visit our brother site! Hotwetbods.com! And before she had a chance to correct her mistake—drat these fast new modems, anyway—a different screen opened up. And she suddenly found herself looking at—

Oh, my.

More half-naked, glistening bodies appeared on the screen, only this time they weren’t female bodies. And this time they weren’t naked from the waist up. Instead they were—

Oh, dear.

“Ah. Miss Thornbury, there you are.”

Oh, no.

The only thing that could have possibly made Miriam’s current state of abject embarrassment any more complete would have been to be discovered by a second party while she was gazing—however involuntarily—at hot, wet bods on the Internet. Even worse—which one might have thought would be impossible, all things considered—the second party in question was none other than Professor Rory Monahan, one of Marigold’s most upright, forthright, do-right citizens.

And also one of Marigold’s cutest citizens.

And one of the most eligible, too.

Not that Miriam was necessarily in the market for an eligible man. But she was only human, after all. And she did rather like cute ones. In fact, she rather liked Professor Rory Monahan. But everyone in Marigold—even a newcomer like Miriam—knew that Professor Monahan was far too involved in his scholarly pursuits to ever show an interest in anything, or anyone, else.

More was the pity. Because Miriam would have very much liked to pique his interest. Though, she had to admit, not while she was gazing at half-naked men on the Internet. It could, after all, only lead to trouble.

Guiltily, she shot up from her chair and positioned herself in front of the computer monitor, just as Professor Monahan strode through the door to her office. He looked even cuter than usual, she noted—and even more eligible, drat him—with his round, wire-rimmed glasses enhancing his pale-blue eyes, and his black hair tousled, as if he’d run restless fingers through it as he perused The Encyclopaedia Britannica with wild abandon. He was dressed in a pair of dark-brown, baggy trousers, a cream-colored dress shirt with sleeves rolled back over surprisingly muscular forearms—no doubt from carrying around all those heavy tomes, she thought—and a much too outdated, and not particularly attractive, necktie.

All in all, he looked adorably rumpled and delightfully disheveled. He was the kind of man a woman like her just wanted to take home with her at night and…and…and…

And feed, she realized with much annoyance. Because truly, that was what she wanted to do, every time she saw Rory Monahan. She wanted to take him home and cook for him, for heaven’s sake, then present him with a homemade pie for dessert. And Miriam wasn’t even a good cook. She was an even worse baker. Nevertheless, after she’d plied him with her dubious culinary creations, she wanted to linger over coffee with him, then take a walk through the neighborhood with him—hand in hand, of course—then pop microwave popcorn with him, and then watch a rented copy of an old romantic comedy like The Thin Man or something with him.

In fact, what Miriam wanted to do with Professor Monahan was so sweet and so quiet and so harmless, it scared the bejabbers out of her. The last thing she needed in her life was more sweetness, more quietness, more harmlessness. She was already the safest, most predictable, most boring woman on the planet.

If she was going to dally with a man, not that she had any intention of dallying with any man—even Rory Monahan, honest—then, she told herself, she should at least have the decency to seek out someone who was dangerous and thrilling and outrageous, someone who might, possibly, stir dangerous, thrilling, outrageous responses in her. Because she was truly beginning to worry that she wasn’t capable of a single dangerous, thrilling, outrageous response.

Worse, her desire to pursue such sweet, quiet, harmless activities with Professor Monahan smacked much too much of domesticity, of settling down, of matrimony. Not that Miriam had anything against matrimony. Au contraire. She fully planned to marry and settle down and be domestic someday. Someday, she hoped, in the not too distant future.

But she wouldn’t be settling down and being domestic with Rory Monahan, alas. Because Rory Monahan was, quite simply, already married—to his work as a history professor at the local community college and to his studies and to his research and to his quest for knowledge. When it came to women, he had the attention span of a slide rule. In the six months that Miriam had lived in Marigold, she had never once seen him out on a single date with a woman.

Then again, she herself hadn’t been out on a single date with a man since she’d moved to Marigold, had she? And what was her excuse? She certainly had a longer attention span than a slide rule. And she had been asked out on a few occasions. She just hadn’t accepted that was all. And she hadn’t accepted, because she hadn’t been interested in the men who’d asked her out. And she hadn’t been interested in the men who’d asked her out because…because…because… She gazed at Professor Monahan and tried not to sigh with melodramatic yearning. Well, just because. That was why. And it was a perfectly good reason, too.

So there.

“Miss Thornbury,” Professor Monahan said again now, taking a step forward.

Recalling what was on the screen behind her, Miriam shifted her position to the right a bit, to compensate for the angle at which he had placed his own bod. Uh, body, she hastily corrected herself.

“Yes, Professor Monahan? Can I help you?” she asked, innocently, she hoped. Because the thoughts suddenly parading through her head were anything but innocent. No, they were more of the hot, wet variety.

“I’m in a bit of a bind,” he told her, “and I suspect that you’re the only one who can help me out.”

Well, that sounded kind of promising, Miriam thought. “Oh?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’ve looked high and low for volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War, but I can’t locate it anywhere. And if there’s one person who knows this library backward and forward…” He hesitated, arrowing his dark brows down in consternation—and looking quite adorable when he did so, Miriam couldn’t help but notice. “Well, I suppose it would be Mr. Amberson, actually,” he said. “But he’s not here right now, and I know you’re familiar with the system, too, and I was wondering if you could help me.”

Well, she could, Miriam thought. It was, after all, her job. Not to mention it would offer her the opportunity to be close to Professor Monahan, and she could see if he smelled as wonderful today as he usually did, of that tantalizing mix of Ivory soap and Old Spice aftershave—he really was so adorable. But that would mean moving away from the computer monitor, and that would leave him looking at what she had just been looking at—namely, hot, wet bods—and that wouldn’t be a good thing at all, would it?

So she did the only thing she could do. She pointed frantically toward the door behind him and shouted, “Oh, look! Isn’t that the Artist Formerly Known as Prince?”

And when Professor Monahan spun around to see if it was, she hastily turned and, even more hastily, clicked the mouse to shrink the screen. Which left visible on the monitor nothing but the “Great Metaphysical Philosophers of the Eighteenth Century” wallpaper that she’d downloaded herself earlier that morning.

When she straightened again, it was to find that Professor Monahan was still craning his neck to gaze out the office door, toward the circulation desk. “I don’t see any artist,” he said. “Or any prince, for that matter.” He turned back to face Miriam, his expression puzzled. “In fact, I don’t recall any prince who is an artist. Not in this century, at any rate.” He brightened. “Now, during the Renaissance, you had any number of—”

“Professor Monahan?” Miriam interjected lightly. She’d seen before how his scholarly tangents could go on for a long, long time, and she knew she had to nip this one in the bud, or else she’d never have time to complete all the work she had on her agenda today.

“Yes, Miss Thornbury?” he asked.

“Volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War, wasn’t that what you wanted?”

He appeared bewildered again for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite remember who or where he was. Then, suddenly, his expression cleared, and he smiled. “Why, yes. That’s exactly what I was looking for. How did you know?”

She smiled back. “You just told me.”

“Ah. I see. Well.”

He blushed at his display of absentminded professorship, and Miriam’s heart did a funny little flip-flop in her chest. Oh, he was just too adorable for words.

“Do you know where it is?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she told him. “I guess it’s true that great minds think alike. Because as providence would have it, I was reading it myself over lunch earlier.” She turned again, this time hefting the fat, leather-bound book from her desk. Then she spun back around to stride toward him. “I always like learning about new things,” she said as she went. “And I found the fifth chapter in particular to be quite interesting.”

Professor Monahan grinned a bit shyly as he adjusted his glasses. “I know,” he told her. “I’ve read it three or four times myself. It’s quite outstanding. Thank you, Miss Thornbury,” he added as he took the book from her.

Somehow, though, during the exchange—and Miriam had no idea how it happened, truly—their fingers became entangled, and as they vied for possession, the book went spilling to the floor. It landed on its back with a loud thwack, and both she and Professor Monahan stooped at the same time to pick it up. But as each of them reached for it—and Miriam had no idea how it happened, truly—their fingers wove awkwardly together again, and before she knew it, her hand was linked completely with his, and a dangerous, outrageous thrill was dashing through her body.

And all she could do was think that if this was the reaction she had to simply holding hands with the man, then what would happen to her if the two of them joined more intimately?

And then all she could do was blush—furiously. Because she glanced up to find that Professor Monahan’s light-blue eyes seemed warmer somehow, and his cheeks were flushed with what might be embarrassment, but which could very well be something else entirely. His expression suggested that his own reaction to their light touch was none too sweet. Nor did it seem quiet. Nor did it seem harmless.

Oh, dear.

Immediately Miriam let go of both the book and Professor Monahan’s hand, then she pushed herself quickly back to standing. She tucked behind her ear a stray strand of blond hair that had escaped her barrette and did everything she could to avoid his gaze. She realized quickly, though, that such an effort was unnecessary. Because no sooner had she stood than Professor Monahan bolted. Right through the office door, out to the circulation desk, with a very hasty, “Good day, Miss Thornbury, and thank you again,” tossed over his shoulder.

And then Miriam was left feeling oddly dazed and disoriented, as if someone had just— What was the phrase they used in historical romances? She tried to remember. (Well, one couldn’t exist on a steady diet of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War, could one?) Ah, yes. Now she recalled the phrase. She felt as if someone had just…tumbled her. Quite thoroughly, too. It was an odd sensation. But not altogether unpleasant.

No, not unpleasant at all.

She smiled what was almost certainly a wicked smile. She was almost certain of that, because she felt wicked at the moment. And speaking of wicked…

She remembered then that there was still a window open on the computer screen which she very much needed to close. She returned to her desk and had just brought the screen back up, when she was interrupted yet again in her effort to get rid of the, um, hot…wet…bods.

“Miriam, I need a word with you right away,” Isabel Trent, Marigold’s mayor, said as she entered.

Hastily Miriam spun back around, positioning herself in much the same way she had done earlier, when she’d been trying to spare Professor Monahan’s tender sensibilities. Because Ms. Trent’s tender sensibilities would go absolutely ballistic if the mayor saw what the town librarian had been inspecting prior to her arrival, even if the mayor was the one who was responsible for the town librarian’s finding it in the first place.

“Yes, Ms. Trent? Can I help you?” Miriam asked innocently, feeling a wave of déjà vu.

“It’s of utmost importance,” the mayor told her.

Of course, everything was of utmost importance to Isabel Trent, Miriam thought with a sigh. Nevertheless she adopted her expression of utmost gravity as she replied, “Oh? I’m all ears.”

Ms. Trent, too, wore a standard uniform for her job, Miriam had noted some time ago, a uniform of tightly buttoned, very conservative suits. Today’s selection was dark-blue in color—almost the same dark-blue as her eyes—but it was as closely bound as all the others. Her spun-gold hair was closely bound, too, wound up in a terse knot at the back of her head. Huge, tortoiseshell glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, giving the mayor the appearance of someone trying to hide from something. Like the world, for instance.

Honestly, Miriam thought, lifting a hand to her own dishwater—drat it—ponytail. Isabel Trent was an even blander-looking person than Miriam was herself. And that was saying something.

“It’s about all those copies of Metropolitan magazine scattered about in Periodicals,” the mayor said.

Miriam nodded. “Those are checked out and read very frequently. I apologize if there’s a mess. I’ll have someone tidy them right away.”

Ms. Trent straightened to her full—and very militant—five feet four inches. “No, you’ll have someone get rid of them right away.”

Miriam’s dishwater-blond eyebrows—drat them—shot up beneath her dishwater-blond—drat them, too—bangs. “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

“I said you’ll get rid of them,” the mayor echoed. “Completely. Cancel the library’s subscription.”

“But…but why?” Miriam asked. “As I said, Metropolitan is one of the library’s most popular periodicals.”

“Yes, well, it’s also one of the library’s most unacceptable periodicals.”

“Unacceptable? In what way?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed some of those headlines that appear on the cover of the magazine,” the mayor stated in a cool, clipped tone.

“Well, no, I haven’t,” Miriam said honestly. “I don’t read Metropolitan myself.” She braved a halfhearted smile. “I’m not much of a Metro Girl, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I should hope not,” Ms. Trent said. “That magazine is about nothing but sex, sex, sex.”

Which went a long way toward explaining why Miriam never read it, she thought, and why she wasn’t much of a Metro Girl. Sex, sex, sex wasn’t exactly a big part of her life, life, life. Or any part of her life, for that matter. Not her real life, anyway. As for her fantasy life, well…

There were those occasional daydreams in which she indulged, daydreams about herself and Professor Rory Monahan, even though his preference for the reference section of the library far outweighed his interest in the librarian herself. In fact, the reference section of the library also played a significant role in Miriam’s daydreams, come to think of it. More significantly, the tables in the reference section played into her daydreams. Because it was on one of those tables in the reference section that she and Professor Monahan were invariably engaged in—

Oh, dear. She was doing it again. Or, rather, fantasizing it again. Doing it, after all, didn’t actually show up on her agenda anywhere—more was the pity. Why schedule something that wasn’t going to happen?

“And on top of all that…” she heard Ms. Trent say, clearly concluding what had been a long diatribe against the mass media that Miriam had thankfully missed because she’d been too busy daydreaming about—oh, never mind. “…those women who appear on the cover of Metropolitan are, quite simply—” Instead of voicing a word to illustrate her feelings, the mayor made quite the sour face. “Suffice it to say,” she then continued, “that Metropolitan is completely inappropriate reading material for our library. As are these other magazines that I want you to remove from the periodical section.”

The mayor strode forward, pausing within arm’s length of Miriam, and extended a hand-written list, which Miriam accepted in silence—mainly because she was so surprised by the gesture that she didn’t know what to say. She was even more surprised when she glanced down at the list to find that some of the other journals and magazines that Ms. Trent deemed inappropriate for the library patrons were, like Metropolitan, wildly popular with the library patrons.

Evidently mistaking Miriam’s stunned silence for complete agreement, the mayor hurried on to her next point. “There are some novels in the browsing section that I’d like to see removed, as well,” she said. “Love’s Burning Ecstasy, for instance…” Her voice trailed off, but its tone held enough chilly disapproval to generate a new Ice Age.

“But Love’s Burning Ecstasy…” Miriam began.

“Don’t tell me it’s popular with the library patrons,” Ms. Trent said, clearly incredulous.

“Well, no,” Miriam conceded reluctantly. Not with the library patrons, necessarily, she added silently to herself. But Miriam had enjoyed it immensely. Several times, in fact.

“I want it gone,” Ms. Trent concluded simply. “Along with these others.”

She extended another list toward Miriam, who took it automatically, still having no idea what to say with regard to this blatant attack of censorship.

“And I want to make a more thorough inspection of the British literature section, too,” the mayor continued. “It was purely by chance that I stumbled upon this.” She held up a slender, bound tome as if it were exhibit A and continued, “I’m shocked to find something entitled The Rape of the Lock in our facility. I don’t think it’s at all appropriate. Do you, Miriam?”

For a moment all Miriam was able to manage in response to the mayor’s question was a series of quick, incoherent—and none too polite—expulsions of air. But she quickly recovered enough to say, “The Rape of the Lock is a virtuoso piece of writing, Ms. Trent, arguably Alexander Pope’s crowning achievement.”

The mayor gaped at her. “A man named Pope wrote that piece of trash?” she gasped. “I can hardly believe it.”

This time Miriam was the one to gape. “Piece of trash?” she sputtered. “It’s one of the poet’s most luminous performances!”

She took a giant step forward to snatch the book from the mayor’s hand and to read her a few verses, because clearly Ms. Trent had not taken the time to do that herself. Otherwise she would have realized the work was a social satire of completely inoffensive—and quite riotous—humor. Unfortunately, Miriam never achieved her goal, because she had barely completed her giant step when Ms. Trent’s face went white, and the book slipped right out of her fingers.

“Good heavens, Miriam,” the mayor cried in a hoarse whisper. “What is that?”

Miriam squeezed her eyes shut tight when she remembered what had been displayed on her computer screen when Isabel Trent entered her office. Unable to quite help herself, however—the mayor was such a…such a…such a prude—Miriam pretended not to be affected by the scene herself. Feigning bland indifference to the subject matter of hotwetbods.com, she glanced swiftly, once, over her shoulder, then back at Ms. Trent.

“Actually, seeing as how there are considerably more than one displayed there, I believe the correct phrasing of your question should be, ‘What are those?’ And really I’m rather surprised you have to ask, Ms. Trent. But if you must know, the correct term for them is peni—”

“Shhhh!” the mayor shushed her before Miriam could fully pronounce the word. “Don’t say it.” She narrowed her eyes. “And don’t mock me, either, Miriam. You haven’t been working for the Marigold Free Public Library very long. You are by no means inexpendable.”

Miriam narrowed her eyes right back at the mayor, but said nothing in response. It was true that her job wasn’t exactly secure. She’d only moved to Marigold six months ago, specifically to accept the position. Douglas Amberson was senior librarian, even though Miriam was assigned the most hours and completed the most work. And although there was an unspoken agreement between her and Douglas that when he retired next spring, she would move directly into his position, Douglas and Miriam were, unfortunately, the only two people in Marigold who knew about that agreement. And the mayor of Marigold had the authority to accept or reject Douglas’s recommendation for his replacement, when that time arose.

So, for now, Miriam remained silent and waited to see what Isabel Trent was going to object to next.

“I see our latest attempt at finding an effective Internet filter has failed. Again,” the mayor said.

“This one won’t meet with your approval, no,” Miriam agreed. “But truly, Ms. Trent, I don’t think it’s necessary for us to use filters in the library. It is a form of censorship, you know.”

Ms. Trent gave her an icy glare. “And your point would be?”

“That since the computers in the children’s and young adults’ sections aren’t hooked up to the Internet,” Miriam said, “then a filter isn’t necessary. The people who use the Internet at the library are adults, Ms. Trent. They don’t need policing.”

“Of course they need policing,” the mayor immediately countered.

“Why?”

Ms. Trent waved awkwardly at the sight on Miriam’s computer screen, but at no time did she steer her gaze in that direction. “So that they don’t find themselves looking at something like that.”

Miriam sighed. “Ms. Trent, it’s none of our business if they find themselves looking at something like that,” she said softly.

“It is if they’re using computers purchased with the taxpayers’ dollars.”

Miriam wasn’t sure how to reply to that, mainly because she knew Isabel Trent had already made up her mind that the Marigold Free Public Library would be using a filter system, and there would be no reasoning or arguing with her on that score. And, truth be told, having viewed the contents of hotwetbabes-and-bods.com, Miriam was hard-pressed to launch much of a defense, anyway.

“At any rate,” she finally conceded, “this particular filter isn’t effective in the way you demand that it be effective.”

Isabel Trent lifted her chin a fraction. “Well then, try the next one on the list.”

Miriam inhaled a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “Whatever you say, Ms. Trent.”

In one swift, graceful gesture, the mayor scooped up the book she had dropped on the floor and tossed it onto Miriam’s desk. Then, averting her gaze, she felt around awkwardly until she found the button to switch off the computer monitor. Miriam bit her lip to prevent herself from pointing out that, in her effort to avoid seeing all those male members on the monitor, Ms. Trent brushed her fingers inadvertently over quite a few of them in her pursuit of the power button.

After finally succeeding in switching the monitor off, the mayor spun back around. “I’m going to start inspecting the children’s section this weekend,” she said starchily. “I’ll make a list of everything I want removed from there.”

Once again, Miriam gaped. “But that’s—”

“Don’t argue with me, Miriam,” the mayor interrupted. “I have the approval of the majority of members on the board of aldermen behind me on this. I want this library to be a facility where families can feel comfortable.”

Miriam chose her words carefully. “Families have felt comfortable in this facility for more than a hundred years, Ms. Trent. The Marigold Free Public Library can take care of itself. And so can all the Marigoldians who use it. They don’t need someone else telling them what they are and are not allowed access to.”

She might as well have been talking to a brick wall, because the mayor offered no indication that she’d heard a word of Miriam’s admonishment. “Keep looking for an effective filter,” Ms. Trent said. “And get rid of those magazines on the list I gave you. Today. When I come back this weekend, I want to see that this library reflects the decency and family values of all who use it.”

And without awaiting a reply, the mayor of Marigold, Indiana, spun on her heel and exited the office. Miriam watched her go with a sinking heart. It wasn’t the decency and family values of the library patrons that Isabel Trent wanted reflected here, she thought. No, what Isabel Trent wanted the library to reflect was the decency and family values of Isabel Trent. Period.

Miriam decided to take the matter up with Douglas when he returned from his vacation the following week, but for now she had no choice but to do as the mayor had instructed. She glanced down at the list of periodicals she still held in her hands and shook her head with much disappointment. It appeared her afternoon was going to be quite full now, what with all the censoring and blacklisting she had to do.

My, my, my, she thought. A librarian’s work was never done. With a sigh of defeat Miriam went to work.

Two

Rory Monahan was, as usual, far too absorbed in his work to notice that the library was closing—until he was plunged into almost total darkness. He sighed as he glanced up at the extinguished lights overhead and waited for his vision to adjust. Then he carefully inserted an index card to mark his place in the heavy tome he’d opened on the table before him, and flipped it closed. Damn. Just when he’d found exactly what he’d been looking for, too.

But Rory didn’t mind leaving his work where it lay. It would be here waiting for him tomorrow afternoon when he returned, as he invariably would. He was confident that no one would come along and reshelve all the work and trouble he’d gone to tonight, because the table at which he sat was, unofficially, Professor Monahan’s domain. Everyone who worked in the Marigold Free Public Library, from Mr. Amberson, the head librarian, right down to Gladys Dorfman, who cleaned up after hours, knew not to touch a thing on this particular table.

After settling his wire-rimmed glasses back on the bridge of his nose, Rory launched himself momentarily into a full-body stretch. Upon completing it, he shoved a restless hand through his black hair, noting, without much surprise, that he was long overdue for a trim. He made a halfhearted—and only partly successful—effort to straighten the knot in his tie but didn’t bother rolling the cuffs of his shirt back down to his wrists. He collected his tweed jacket—which was really much too warm for July, but Rory couldn’t imagine going anywhere without it—then scooped up his notes and filed them meticulously in his leather satchel. Then he neatly stacked, in volume order, all the reference books he’d used that evening, and he rose to make his way out.

He was confident that whichever librarian was on duty, either Mr. Amberson or Miss Thornbury—though, for some reason, he was thinking Miss Thornbury was working today, but he couldn’t remember now just how he knew that—would be waiting for him by the main exit, just as he or she was always inevitably waiting for Rory by the main exit when they were closing the library. Whichever librarian it was would greet him warmly, ask him how his research was going, accompany him through the front door and lock up behind them.

It was, after all, a routine. And routine was a very good thing, as far as Rory Monahan was concerned. Routine was exactly the way he liked things. Well planned. Predictable. Secure. Safe. Life, to his way of thinking, was good.

It got even better when he saw that it was indeed Miss Thornbury waiting by the doors this particular evening, and Rory recalled then why he had known it would be her. They’d had an interlude of sorts in her office that afternoon, hadn’t they? The details of that interlude escaped him now, swamped as they had been over the last several hours by great, hulking chunks of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War. But for some reason, he recalled the interlude with a feeling of fondness. In fact, for some reason, he recalled it with a warm flutter of something rather intense skipping through his midsection, a warm flutter of something that felt very much like…desire?

Oh, surely not.

Ah, well. No matter, Rory thought. All that mattered was that his mind had retained the important things, the details he’d garnered and analyzed and recorded from numerous volumes of Stegman’s.

As he drew nearer Miss Thornbury, though, those details began to fade a bit, and something warm and easy and indolent wound through him. Involuntarily, Rory smiled. She always had that effect on him for some reason, every time he saw her. He had no idea why. But invariably, when he encountered her, something that had previously felt off-kilter seemed to shift right into place.

Not that Rory felt as if anything in his life was currently off-kilter. On the contrary, everything was going surprisingly well. But Miss Thornbury had a way about her, a way of making a person feel…right. Steady. Complete. And somehow, whenever he saw that it was Miss Thornbury standing there waiting for him at night, the discovery was infinitely more appealing to Rory than finding Mr. Amberson there instead.

Not that he didn’t like Mr. Amberson. On the contrary, Mr. Amberson had been one of Rory’s idols since he was a child. The man knew virtually everything. What few things the elder librarian wasn’t entirely sure about, he knew exactly where in the library to look, to discover the answers. And because Rory had always craved knowledge above all else, even as a child, Douglas Amberson had always seemed something of a god to him. Rory had admired and respected the older man that much—certainly above everyone else in Marigold.

Which, he supposed, meant that he should see Miss Thornbury as something of a goddess. Because she, too, was well read, well educated, well spoken, well everything. She, too, was utterly familiar with the library and knew exactly where to find anything, even having worked there for such a short time. He admired and respected her as much as he did Mr. Amberson. For some reason, though, her distinction as goddess carried a significantly different connotation than Mr. Amberson’s status as god. Yes, Miss Thornbury was every bit as smart as Mr. Amberson, but for some reason the feelings she roused in him went well beyond admiration and respect. Rory just wasn’t quite able to identify exactly what those “beyond” feelings were.

Furthermore, for some reason when he thought of Miss Thornbury as a goddess, it always evoked a mental image of her wearing some flowing, gossamer—really almost translucent—gown, the kind that dropped off one shoulder and dipped low over lush breasts, draping seductively against an elegant waist, with the side slit high enough so that one firm, naked, creamy thigh was exposed, and—

Ahem.

Where was he?

Oh, yes. The translucent, goddess-like garment. Rory never envisioned Mr. Amberson in something like that when he thought about him as a god. It was something of a paradox, really.

Tonight, however, Miss Thornbury’s translucent garment was nowhere to be seen, something about which, Rory discovered, he had mixed feelings. Still, her smart white blouse and straight beige skirt were practical and not unattractive, even if there was nothing even remotely goddess-like about the attire. Coupled with the dark-blond hair caught at her nape and the deep-gray eyes unadorned with cosmetics, she was by no means a remarkable-looking woman. But her mouth was rather good, he noted, not for the first time, wide and full and lush, and the sight of it now roused deep inside him something hot and wanton and demanding and—

Ahem.

Where was he?

Oh, yes. He was leaving the library to go home. Alone. Where there wouldn’t be anyone with a full, lush mouth, dressed as a goddess, waiting for him.

“Good evening, Professor Monahan,” Miss Thornbury greeted him warmly at his approach.

“Hello, Miss Thornbury,” he replied, as was his custom.

“How’s the research going?”

“Very well, thank you.”

As was likewise the custom, they chitchatted as they passed through the main entrance—evidently she’d forgotten the details of their earlier interlude, too, because she made no reference to it at all as they spoke—and then she locked the doors behind them. As was not customary, however, she juggled a large, unwieldy box under one arm as she performed her nightly routine. Rory was about to offer her some assistance when the box pitched forward, dumping its entire contents onto the walkway just outside the entrance. An assortment of glossy magazines fanned out between the two of them, and immediately he stooped to help her pick them up.

“I didn’t realize you were such a fan of Metropolitan,” he said when he noted what the majority of the magazines was.

Somehow, Miss Thornbury just didn’t seem the Metro Girl type, even with the translucent gown thing going. On the contrary, the models depicted on the covers of Metropolitan were much more scantily dressed than even his goddess-vision of Miss Thornbury, and they wore cosmetics that had evidently been applied with trowels and other such garden implements. But even at that, not a single one of them had a mouth that was as lush and as ripe and as erotic and as hot and as—

Ahem.

Where was he?

Oh, yes. None of them had a mouth that could compare with Miss Thornbury’s.

She expelled an exasperated sound as she, too, dropped to her knees to join him in gathering up the scattered periodicals. “I’m not such a fan of Metropolitan,” she said, sounding a bit breathless for some reason, though what that reason might be, Rory could scarcely imagine. “But our illustrious mayor,” she continued, “has decided these are inappropriate for the library, and she’s ordered them removed.”

Rory nodded, finding the revelation not at all surprising. “I did get the impression upon meeting Ms. Trent that she was something of a…of a…a, um…”

“A prude?” Miss Thornbury offered helpfully—and not a little acerbically.

Rory smiled. “Well, yes, I suppose that would be a suitable enough word for her.”

“Mmm,” the librarian murmured. “I can think of a few others for her, as well. Ultraconservative. Right winger. Dictator. Fascist.”

Rory chuckled. He’d never seen Miss Thornbury so passionate about something. And now that he did see her so passionate…

Well, he hastily decided that it might be best not to dwell upon it.

“I think Ms. Trent is just trying to make a good impression on the community,” he said instead. “She is, after all, Marigold’s first woman mayor. And she’s also the youngest mayor we’ve ever had. And she did run on the family-values platform.”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with making a good impression, or even family values,” Miss Thornbury said. “I think it has to do with her being completely terrified of her own sexuality.”

Miss Thornbury reached forward for a magazine at the same time Rory laid his own hand on it, and in the ensuing volleying for possession, their fingers somehow tangled together. That scant physical contact, coupled with hearing the word sexuality emanating from Miss Thornbury’s luscious lips, made something go tight and hot and urgent inside Rory. And suddenly he remembered very well the details of their earlier interlude. He remembered, because that same tight, hot, urgent sensation had shot through him then, too, the moment his hand had touched hers.

Good God, he thought as the sensation shook him for a second time. What on earth was that?

He glanced up at the same time Miss Thornbury did, only to find her blushing. And somehow he knew—he just knew—it was because she had experienced a similar reaction herself. How very, very odd.

And how very, very interesting.

“I am so sorry I said that,” she apologized, her cheeks going even pinker. He couldn’t help but note, however, that she did nothing to untangle their fingers. “I spoke out of turn,” she added quickly, huskily. “I never should have said such a thing about Ms. Trent. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Well, clearly, Rory thought, she’d been thinking about sexuality. The mayor’s, if not her own. Though how one could think about someone else’s sexuality without at least giving one’s own some little consideration was beyond him. Not that he himself spent any gratuitous amount of time thinking about anyone’s sexuality, he quickly reminded himself, but on those few occasions when he did, he could never think about someone else’s sexuality without allowing his own a quick run. Which meant that at the moment he was pondering not just the mayor’s sexuality but his own sexuality, too, and also, since she was the one who brought it up in the first place—if one could pardon the incredibly tacky pun— Miss Thornbury’s sexuality, as well.

And that brought him right back to the translucent goddess gown again, only this time it was infinitely more translucent than it had ever been before, and it was dropping far too seductively off one shoulder, and it was dipping dangerously low over her lush breasts, and as for that one firm, naked, creamy thigh, well—

Ahem.

Where was he?

Oh, yes. Miss Thornbury’s sexuality. No! His own sexuality. No, not that, either! The mayor’s sexuality. Ah, yes. That was something he could think about safely. Essentially because Isabel Trent, as far as Rory was concerned, anyway, had no sexuality to speak of. And still Miss Thornbury had not freed her hand from his, and somehow Rory found himself reluctant to perform the task himself.

“I…I…I…” Miss Thornbury stammered. But she seemed not to know what else to add, so she clamped her mouth shut tight.

Which was a shame, Rory thought, because in doing so, she ruined the sensual line of those full, ripe, rosy lips, lips that just begged for a man to dip his head to hers and cover her mouth with his and taste her deeply, wantonly, demandingly—

And good God, where was his head this evening?

Quickly Rory released her hand and surrendered the magazine to her—but not before he caught a headline that screamed, Love Your Man Orally TONIGHT! which just brought back that translucent-gown thing yet again and, worse, the ripe, luscious-mouth thing again, both with much more troubling explicitness than ever before.

“I really must be going,” he said suddenly, rocketing to his feet. “I have to get home and prepare an oral sex— I mean an oral sexam, uh…oral exam—for my students tomorrow.”

And before Rory could further humiliate himself, he spun on his heel and fled.

Miriam carefully sipped her hot Sleepytime tea, snuggled more deeply into the cool, cotton pillows she had stacked between her and her headboard, listened to the soothing strains of Mozart that drifted from the stereo…and squirmed a bit on the mattress as she read about loving her man orally TONIGHT! Honestly. The things they printed in magazines these days. She’d seen college girls reading Metropolitan magazine and hadn’t thought a thing about it. Now…

Well, now Miriam was thinking that the girls growing up in Marigold today knew a lot more about things than she’d known as a girl growing up in Indianapolis. So much for big-city sophistication.

She sipped her tea again and closed the magazine—after finishing the article, of course, because librarians never left an article unfinished—then she arced her gaze over the other issues of Metropolitan that were scattered about her bed. She hadn’t known what else to do with all the magazines she’d confiscated that afternoon, except bring them home with her. Naturally, she hadn’t wanted to discard them, because she was sure that eventually she—or else Douglas Amberson—would be able to talk Isabel Trent out of her misguided notion that the Marigold Free Public Library needed policing. And then Miriam could return the issues of Metropolitan to their rightful place in periodicals, along with the issues of the half dozen other magazines she’d been required to remove.

For now, though, all of those magazines would be living here at her apartment with her. And since she was a librarian with a love for the written word, Miriam was naturally drawn to the magazines. Especially the issues of Metropolitan, though she was absolutely certain that the only reason for that was because of the bright colors and simple composition the covers seemed to uniformly present, and not because of all those scandalous headlines with the proliferation of capital letters and exclamation points. At any rate she had found herself sifting through the magazines and had eventually started to read them.

Which was how she came to be in her current position, encircled by the glossy journals on her bed. Now scantily clad, heavily made-up women gazed back at her with much boredom, their images surrounded by headlines that screamed instructions like, JUST DO IT—in Every Room in the House! and Find His Erogenous Zones—and Help Him find YOURS! and Call of the Siren—BE the Devil with the Blue Dress On!

Miriam shook her head in bemusement. Did women truly read these articles? she wondered. Did they genuinely find them helpful? Did they honestly put their “tips” to good use? Because she herself couldn’t imagine the magazine actually offering any information that the normal, average—i.e. not a nymphomaniac—woman might be able to actually apply to her normal, average—i.e. not oversexed—everyday life.

Miriam set her tea on her nightstand and was about to collect the assortment and return them to the box in which she’d originally placed them, when her gaze lit on one headline in particular.

Awaken Your Inner Temptress! it shouted at her. And below it, in smaller letters, You Know You Want to!

Hmm, thought Miriam.

And in the same issue: Go from Invisible to Irresistible in Just Seven Seductive Steps!

And somehow Miriam found herself reaching for the issue in question, telling herself, Well, it won’t hurt to look, now, will it?

She flipped to the Inner Temptress article first, and read all about how she was suppressing a very natural part of her psyche by refusing to admit that she could turn any man of her acquaintance into putty with her bare hands—all she had to do was uncover the secrets of what those bare hands could do. And as she read further, she discovered that her bare hands, the very ordinary-looking ones with the short, clipped nails, the ones that sorted efficiently through the card catalogue everyday, the ones that capably sliced fresh, nutritious vegetables for her regular evening repast, could also, very easily…

Oh, my.

Oh, my goodness, no. They couldn’t do that. Could they? Well, perhaps they could, she finally conceded as she read a bit further. Maybe if she did awaken her Inner Temptress.

Miriam blushed furiously when she realized the avenue down which her thoughts had traveled. Oh, no, her bare hands could not do that, either, she told herself sternly. They couldn’t even do it if they had on gloves. Which, when one considered such a scenario, actually added a rather naughty dimension to the potential, all things considered, especially if they were latex gloves, and—

No, she insisted more firmly. She was not going to indulge in such…such…such wanton behavior, Inner Temptress or no Inner Temptress. Miriam Thornbury simply was not that kind of girl. The very idea. Honestly.

So what else did the article have to say…?

As she continued with her reading, Miriam also learned that she wasn’t putting her store of repartee to effective use at all. No, where she had always been under the impression that good repartee was generally used more for, oh, say…conversation, she now discovered that it was widely used, particularly in Europe, as a tool for sexual enticement. She’d had no idea, truly. How she had lived her life for twenty-eight years without such knowledge was beyond her.

Reading further, she also learned how one’s very wardrobe could be used as a weapon of seduction. This actually came as no surprise, because Miriam did, after all, receive the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, even if the only thing she had ever ordered from it were those wonderful flowing, white Victorian nightgowns that took up only two pages of the publication. She had at least looked at the rest of the catalogue. And she’d been reasonably certain that most of those other undergarments were not worn for the sake of comfort and functionality. Mainly because they looked in no way comfortable or functional, what with all their squeezing and lifting and expanding of a woman’s—

Well. At any rate the undergarments weren’t what one might call practical. Which meant they were worn for some other purpose than to be, well, practical. And it didn’t take a genius to realize what that purpose was. S-E-X. ’Nuff said.

Still, it had never occurred to Miriam that she herself might don one of those sexy fashions. One of the cute little black ones, say. Made of that delicious-looking, see-through lace. With those brief, naughty demi-cups. And garters. Oh, yes. According to Metropolitan magazine, one must wear garters if one was to proceed successfully with awakening one’s Inner Temptress. And now that Miriam did think about donning such…accoutrements…

She blushed furiously, that’s what she did.

How on earth could she even think of such a thing? Miriam Thornbury was not the black-lace, demicup, garter-belt type. No, ma’am. Flowing, white, ankle-length, embroidered cotton was much more her style. Still, she might make some headway in the repartee department, she told herself. She’d always been very good at repartee. She’d just never tried to use it for…temptation. Now that she did give some thought to the possibility of doing so…

She blushed furiously again.

Absolutely not. There was no way she would be able to walk up to Professor Rory Monahan at the library and say something like, “Hello, Rory. Is that volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War you have in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Oh, no, no, no, no, no. That would never do.

She sighed fitfully as she tossed the magazine back onto the bed. Clearly, her Inner Temptress was sleeping quite soundly. Clearly, her Inner Temptress was out like a light. Clearly, her Inner Temptress was buried much too deep inside to ever show her face in Marigold, Indiana. It was ridiculous to even think about becoming such a thing. She was practical, pragmatic Miriam Thornbury. Capable, competent Miriam Thornbury. Staid, sensible Miriam Thornbury.

Drab, dull Miriam Thornbury, she concluded morosely. No wonder Rory Monahan scarcely paid her any heed.

Ah, well, she thought further. Even if she was a devil with a blue dress on, Rory Monahan still probably wouldn’t pay her any heed. He was a man on a quest. A quest for Knowledge with a capital K. Not even a devil with a blue dress on would have a hope of swaying him from his chosen course. Not unless that devil with a blue dress on was holding volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War, or some such thing.

Hmmm, Miriam thought again, brightening.

Just how badly did she want Rory Monahan to notice her? she asked herself. And immediately she had her answer. Pretty badly. After all, she’d spent virtually the last six months wanting him to notice her. She’d spent virtually the last six months wanting him, period.

For six months she’d been walking into the Marigold Free Public Library in her usual fashion, to find the good professor sitting at his usual table in the reference section, performing his usual research in his usual manner. And she’d always melted in her usual fashion at how his blue eyes twinkled in their usual way, and how his mouth crooked up in his usual shy smile, and how his fingers threaded through his jet hair in his usual gesture of utter preoccupation. And she always responded to him in her usual way—by becoming very hot and very confused and very flustered.

And she’d spent the last six months, too, doing things and thinking about things that no self-respecting librarian should ever do or think about. Not in a public facility like a library, anyway. Because Miriam had spent the last six months fantasizing about Rory Monahan. Naturally, she’d also spent the last six months trying to reassure herself that the only reason she fantasized about him was because…because… Well, because…

Hmmm. Actually, now that she thought more about it, she wasn’t sure why she’d been fantasizing about him. Suddenly, though, now that she thought more about it, she realized that she very much wanted to find out.

Because suddenly, after reading all those articles in Metropolitan magazine, Miriam found herself armed with new knowledge. And she began to wonder if maybe all this new knowledge—whether she applied it the way Metro suggested or not—might just have some use. Although Professor Monahan had always been pleasant to her, had even gone so far as to smile warmly at her on occasion, he’d never shown any indication that he reciprocated her, um, interest. In fact, he’d never shown any indication that he reciprocated anything about her. Except, of course, for volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War.

Knowledge, she reiterated to herself. That was all Rory Monahan wanted from life. Knowledge, knowledge and more knowledge. And as much as Miriam admired knowledge in a person…

She sighed fitfully. She’d like to show Rory Monahan knowledge. Boy howdy, would she. And as she thought more about it, she began to think that maybe, just maybe, there might not be any harm in putting her own newly acquired knowledge to good use.

Not all of it, necessarily, she hastily qualified when she remembered the gist of some of those articles. Not even a lot of it, really. But some of it, perhaps. A little. Surely there had been one or two things in that Inner Temptress article, for example, that might prove useful. Provided, of course, she could use them without completely humiliating herself.

Because if Miriam did manage to use one or two of Metro’s suggestions to capture even a tiny bit of Professor Monahan’s attention, then she might just be able to garner a bit more of his attention all by herself. And if she did that, then she might very well win a nice prize for her efforts. She might very well win Professor Rory Monahan.

As prizes went, that was a pretty good one, as far as Miriam was concerned.

Now, where to begin? she wondered. Hadn’t there been another article of interest in that Inner Temptress issue? Something about going from invisible to irresistible in seven seductive steps? Not that Miriam would use all seven steps—heavens, no. She didn’t want to overwhelm the good professor, did she? Not yet, anyway. But surely one or two of those steps might be helpful, she thought. She hoped.

Reaching for the issue in question, she settled back against the pillows again to read.

Three

Rory was quite vexed. He was utterly certain he had left volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War sitting right here on his table in the reference section the night before, when he’d left the library at closing time. Yes, indeed, he was positive he had done so. Because he recalled very clearly stacking volumes twelve through eighteen in numerical order, and not one of them had been missing. Now, however, fifteen was gone.

It was quite the mystery, to be sure. No one—absolutely no one—at the Marigold Free Public Library had ever had the audacity to remove a reference book from his table. Everyone knew his research was far too important to him for anyone to ever interfere with it. Yet at some point between closing last night—he glanced down at his watch to discover that it was nearly 3:00 p.m.—and roughly 2:52 p.m. today, someone had used stealth and heaven only knew what other means to confiscate his book.

All right, all right, so it wasn’t his book, per se, Rory admitted reluctantly. Technically it belonged to the library. The transgression was no less severe as a result.

Let’s see now, he thought further. Who could possibly be the culprit? Gladys Dorfman, the custodian? It was entirely possible. Not only was she here alone at the library during the dark hours of the night, able to commit, unobserved, whatever mayhem she might want to commit, but she’d also been a student in one of Rory’s morning classes last spring and had shown an inordinate amount of interest in the Peloponnese.

It could be significant.

Mr. Amberson? Rory pondered further. Possible, but unlikely. Although Mr. Amberson had keys to the library and lived alone—a condition that would make an alibi difficult to either prove or disprove—the elder librarian’s preferred area of history lay decidedly further west and a good two millennia ahead, most notably in the New World at the time of its colonization.

Besides, Rory vaguely recalled, Mr. Amberson hadn’t been working the night before, and he doubted the man would make a special effort to come to the library for that particular volume, unless it was an emergency, which, Rory had to admit, was also entirely possible. He himself had experienced such crises of research from time to time, and they were by no means pleasant. They could conceivably drive a man to commit an act which, under normal circumstances, he would never consider committing.

Still, Rory doubted Mr. Amberson would have had reason to be in the library last night. No, it had been Miss Thornbury who had worked the previous evening, Miss Thornbury who had closed the li—

Miss Thornbury, Rory thought with a snap of his fingers. Of course. She must be the culprit. Not only had he caught her red-handed with volume fifteen of the Stegman’s yesterday afternoon in her office, but she was a relative newcomer to Marigold, having lived here only… Well, Rory wasn’t sure how long she had lived here, but it wasn’t very long.

At least, he was fairly certain it hadn’t been very long. Although he remembered—surprisingly well, actually—the day she had started working at the library, he couldn’t quite pinpoint when, exactly, that day had occurred. It had been snowing, though. He did recall that much. Because she had just come in from outside when he first made her acquaintance, and her nose had been touched adorably with red, and her eyes had glistened against the cold, and her mouth had been so full and so red and so luscious, not that that had necessarily been caused by the elements, but Rory had noticed it, and…and…and…

Where was he?

Oh, yes. The missing volume of Stegman’s. At any rate, there was a very good chance that Miss Thornbury didn’t even know about the unofficial don’t-touch-Professor-Monahan’s-table rule that everyone else in town held sacred.

Of course, that didn’t excuse her violation, Rory told himself. Ignorance was never an excuse. And he was confident that Miss Thornbury herself would agree with him on that score. He was going to have to make clear to her that his research was of utmost importance in and to the community at large. He owed it to her. And once he explained the situation, he was certain she would never commit such an egregious error in judgment again. He was also certain that she would thank him for setting her straight.

Sufficiently convinced now of the nobility of his errand, Rory went in search of Miss Thornbury, and, consequently, volume fifteen of the Stegman’s. But he didn’t have to search far. Because he located her almost immediately, standing on a ladder, two stacks away from his table in the reference section, where she was in the process of shelving—

Good heavens, it was volume fifteen of the Stegman’s! Rory realized triumphantly. He’d caught her red-handed again! He prepared himself for battle, hiked up his dark gray trousers, pushed back the rolled cuffs of his white dress shirt, straightened the skewed knot in his plaid—but it was a tasteful plaid, truly—necktie, and raked both hands through his shaggy black hair. Then, after settling his glasses intently on the bridge of his nose, he bravely entered the fray. Or, at the very least, he bravely entered the stacks. And he didn’t stop entering until he stood at the foot of the ladder upon which Miss Thornbury had perched herself.

As he halted before her, though, Rory, well…halted. Because he vaguely realized that she was standing on a rung at such a height as to put her thigh directly at his eye level. And, less vaguely, he realized that there was a side slit in her straight, black skirt. It was conservative enough to be acceptable for a librarian’s wardrobe, but open just now—thanks to her position on the ladder—in such a way as to make a professor of history take notice. And somehow, this particular professor of history found the sight of Miss Thornbury’s leg to be strangely…arousing?

Oh, surely not.

Rory shook off the sensation and forced his gaze higher, toward her face. But his gaze got held up at her torso, because on top of her slim skirt with the intriguing, though conservative, side slit, Miss Thornbury was wearing a rather snug, rather red, knit top. A snug, red top that had no sleeves, he noted further, offering him just the merest glimpse of a bare shoulder, a glimpse that he’d never had before, a glimpse that was strangely…arousing?

Oh, surely not.

Rory steered his gaze away from the glimpse of shoulder, intent now on finding Miss Thornbury’s face, only to have his attention get held up elsewhere on her torso, this time on the elegant swell of her breast, which pushed against the taut fabric of her sweater in such a way as to make the vision strangely…arousing?

Oh, surely—

It was then that a burst of recollection shot the memory of his previous night’s encounter with Miss Thornbury to the very forefront of his brain. They had been outside, in front of the library, Rory remembered, and something had kept making him envision her in that goddess get-up that he caught himself thinking about her wearing every now and then. But not very often, truly. Only once, or maybe twice, a week. Three times at most, honestly. Like when he happened to see her, oh… Rory didn’t know. Perched on a ladder, for instance. Like now.

Uh-oh…

And last night, he hurriedly rushed on, dispelling the realization, they’d been holding hands for some reason, too, hadn’t they? But why…? Oh, yes. Now he remembered. For a purely innocent reason. He’d been helping her gather up an assortment of periodicals that she’d dropped on the ground. What had they been…? Oh, yes. Now he remembered. Metropolitan magazine, which he’d thought an odd choice for her. Especially when he pondered what some of those headlines had contained. Hadn’t there been one, in particular, that had caught his attention? Something about loving one’s man orally to—

Oh, yes. Now he remembered. Now he remembered very, very well. Too well. He remembered how Miss Thornbury’s mouth had been so full and luscious. And he remembered wondering if her other body parts would be as full and luscious as her mouth. And he remembered wondering—well into the night, in fact—how it would be to have her mouth, not to mention her other body parts, being full and luscious alongside his own body parts. Preferably while they were both alone. And horizontal. And naked.

Uh-oh, indeed…

“Miss Thornbury,” he called out quickly, hoping to distract himself enough that the memories—not to mention the sudden discomfort in his lower regions—might disappear. And he called her name out quietly, too, of course—he was in the library, after all, and didn’t want to disturb anyone.

However, it wasn’t, evidently, quiet to Miss Thornbury. Because when he uttered her name, she gasped in surprise and started visibly, then immediately lost her balance on the ladder. As she began to fall backward, Rory instinctively stepped forward, extending his arms before himself in an effort to steady her. But to no avail. Because she fell from the ladder, at an angle which, upon impact, created enough propulsion to send them both stumbling back. And then, before Rory could say Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War, he had landed hard on his fanny, and Miss Thornbury had fallen quite literally into his lap.

For a moment neither of them seemed to know what had hit them, and neither reacted in any way. Rory sat with Miss Thornbury seated across his thighs, and having the weight of her body pressing against that particular part of him was a surprisingly appealing sensation. And that sensation, coupled with the memories he had just been entertaining—not to mention her slim skirt and snug top—left him feeling more than a little dazed.

He glanced down to see if they both still had all their parts in place, only to discover that he could see one of her parts still in place quite clearly. Probably more clearly than was actually prudent—or, at the very least, socially acceptable. Because, at some point during their tumble, Miss Thornbury’s slim skirt had ridden up on one side, and now the slit that before had offered only a hint of the leg beneath, suddenly offered a view that went way, way beyond the hint phase.

And Rory saw that his goddess-vision of Miss Thornbury’s creamy thigh simply had not done justice to the reality of Miss Thornbury’s creamy thigh, that the silky skin beneath her skirt was as smooth as satin and as flawless as a sheet of glass, and as warm and welcoming as a summer afternoon. And then he wondered hazily how he could possibly know that her thigh was smooth and warm, and to his astonishment—nay, to his utter horror—he realized he could know that because he had his hand placed firmly on that smooth, warm thigh, his fingers curling into her bare flesh as if they had every right to be there.

Immediately Rory snatched back his hand, mumbling an incoherent apology for having placed it where it was to begin with. For a scant, delirious second, Miss Thornbury gazed back at him with lambent—yes, lambent was most definitely the word he was looking for—eyes, and for one brief, dizzying moment, he thought she was going to ask him to put his hand right back where it was, if he pleased. And Rory realized then, with much amazement, that it would have pleased him, very much, to do that very thing. He even felt his fingers begin to curl slightly and creep forward again, as if they’d already decided to take matters—or, at the very least, Miss Thornbury’s thigh—into their own hands.

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