Читать книгу The Temptation of Rory Monahan - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 8

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.