Читать книгу The Temptation of Rory Monahan - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 9

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.