Extraordinarily Yours: Collection 1 (An Extraordinarily Yours Romance Book 8)

by J. Kenner

  She thought the library was empty, but what if someone came in? What if someone saw her losing her mind because of a chocolate bar?

  What if someone thought she’d spiked a brownie?

  Frantic, she dropped to the floor and scooted under her desk, pressing her hands against the solid wood as vibrant sensations ricocheted through her body. Deep breaths. That was what she needed. Lots and lots of deep breaths and no more chocolate.

  Ever.

  The worst of it passed, and she dug in her pocket for a tissue and tried to wipe any remaining chocolate off her tongue. The procedure left little bits of paper in her mouth, but since paper was a heck of a lot blander than chocolate, she couldn’t exactly complain.

  Finally feeling normal again—well, normal for her, anyway—she leaned her head against the desk, closed her eyes, and let the sounds of the empty library surround her. At first she heard only a cacophony. She squinted, urging her ears to filter the auditory mess into something she could get her mind around.

  Then, slowly, something happened. Sounds emerged. Sounds she knew. The whirr of the ancient air conditioner, the patter of footsteps in the hallway, the irritating buzz of the clock over the door. The gentle rasp of breathing.

  Breathing?

  She stiffened. It was very low, not audible to normal ears, but there it was. Well, wasn’t that just great? Probably Principal Dorsey, come to approve this week’s library book orders.

  “Ms. Smith?”

  Zoe exhaled. Not Mr. Dorsey. A kid. Probably one of the sixth graders.

  “Ms. Smith?” he repeated, but this time a head popped around the side of the desk, and big eyes behind Coke-bottle glasses peered at her. “Oh. There you are. Do you want to buy some PTA candy?” he asked, as if it were perfectly normal to find the school librarian hiding under her desk.

  With as much dignity as she could gather, Zoe climbed out from her hiding place and brushed off her skirt. She gave the kid a stern look and tried to look authoritative. “Do you have a hall pass?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He dug deep into the pocket of his oversize jeans, then pulled out a mangled piece of paper. “I’m using my study period to sell the candy.” Once again he waved a box of chocolate bars toward her. “Want one? They’re only a buck.”

  Not in a million years. Aloud, she said, “No, thanks.”

  “Oh. You’re sure? It’s for playground equipment.”

  Then again . . . there was that whole acclimation thing. Maybe it was best just to jump in with both feet. She cocked her head as the kid stood in front of her, doing a good job of looking like Oliver holding out a porridge bowl. She sighed. “How many come in a box?”

  For just a second, the kid looked confused. Then his salesman instincts kicked back in. “Uh, twenty-four. But I’ve already sold five.”

  “I’ll take the rest of them.” She reached into her purse and started rummaging for her wallet. “A buck apiece, right?” At the kid’s nod, she pressed a twenty into his hand. “Keep the change.”

  Alone with her nemesis, Zoe placed the carton of chocolate on her desk, turning it this way and that until she’d angled it just so. She didn’t intend to eat one. Not now. Not after the little fiasco just moments before. This chocolate thing was going to require some serious pondering and planning.

  What was that saying? Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.

  At the moment, Zoe wasn’t sure whether the chocolate was friend or foe. But either way, she wasn’t letting it out of her sight.

  George Bailey Taylor steered Francis Capra into the parking lot of South Hollywood Elementary and tried to ignore the enormous ball of lead that seemed to have settled in his stomach. It was just a job, after all. No matter how distasteful. And right now he needed all the damn jobs he could get.

  The simple fact was, he was in trouble. The kind of trouble that had pesky credit card agents calling during dinnertime. The kind of trouble that kept him up at night. The kind of trouble that left a big, smoldering lump in his stomach.

  Money trouble.

  And that, in a nutshell, was why he’d taken such a stinker of a case. Taylor needed to keep reminding himself of that. Harold Parker or starvation. Parker or a long, slow death from hunger with big, black buzzards circling him from above.

  Okay . . . so maybe it wasn’t that bad. After all, peanut butter and macaroni were cheap. But without this job he sure as hell wasn’t going to make his rent. And he’d be damned if he’d bum a couch off somebody or go crawling back to the department and trade the bullet in his leg for a nice, fat disability check. No way, no how.

  Time to get down to it. He parked the car in a visitor space, pitched his sunglasses onto the dash next to the box of flowers, then started digging through the pile of papers on the passenger seat until he found his notes. Emily Parker. Forty-three. Elementary school head librarian. Unlucky enough to be married to Harold Parker, who now wanted a divorce, along with a chunk of Emily’s family money.

  Which meant that the man wanted Taylor to track down a scandal—any scandal—so he could force a hefty settlement. So far Taylor had come up with zip, which was particularly unfortunate since Taylor had a sinking suspicion that, unless he brought Parker some juicy gossip, the man was going to stiff him for fees.

  So much for the glamorous life of a Hollywood private investigator.

  When he’d hung out his shingle six months ago, he’d fantasized about a Remington Steele lifestyle. Or at least Magnum, P.I. Instead he’d gotten Mike Hammer on a bad day. Hell, he was thirty-four years old, supposedly in the prime of his life. But here he was, working two-bit cases and struggling to pay his rent.

  He should’ve paid more attention when he was a kid and the social worker had told him that bit about life not being fair.

  With a groan, he angled himself out of the Mustang, reached back inside for the flowers, then headed for the front doors. With any luck, the library would be empty and Taylor could take a quick peek at the inside of Emily Parker’s desk.

  And if luck wasn’t with him . . . well, there was always the fire alarm.

  “But Miss Smith,” came the high, nasally voice, “I really, really, really need A Wrinkle In Time.”

  Sighing, Zoe kept a hand on the stack of books she was reshelving and looked down from the ladder into the face of little Patricia Something-or-other. “Patty, I told you yesterday. Both copies are checked out.”

  “But it’s my turn.” The little girl placed her hands on her hips. Her wiry red pigtails smelled of Johnson’s baby shampoo and sprang out from the sides of her head like bent pipe cleaners. With that unruly red hair and an attitude that wouldn’t quit, Zoe couldn’t help but like the kid.

  “How about I make you a deal?” she asked, and Patty squinted at her warily. “I’ll bring my own copy tomorrow, and if the school’s copies aren’t turned in, you can borrow mine. Okay?”

  Suddenly the girl was all smiles. “You’re the best, Miss Smith.”

  “I bet you say that to all the librarians.”

  Patty frowned. “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” Zoe said.

  She shoved her glasses back up her nose, intending to go back to her reshelving, but as Patty swung her Powerpuff Girls backpack onto her shoulder, the girl managed to bang it against the ladder. The stack of books on it teetered, and Patty’s eyes went wide as the volumes tumbled toward her perky little head.

  In that very same instant, Zoe aimed her full concentration at the books, not thinking, just reacting. Time seemed to slow as she gripped them in her mind, testing their weight, their shape. And then—still not quite believing she was actually doing it—she gave the books a teensy little mental nudge . . . and sent them crashing harmlessly to the ground at Patty’s feet.

  Hopping Hades! She’d done it. She’d actually done it.

  Below her, Patty tugged on her skirt, pulling Zoe back to the present. “Miss Smith? Did you see that?”

  “See what?” Zoe asked.

  “The books.
They moved.”

  Zoe sucked in a deep breath, hoping she sounded calm. “Yes, they did. They fell. It’s called gravity. You’ll learn all about it in sixth grade, I think.” She kept her words measured. “And that’s why you should never, ever stand under ladders.” Zoe stepped down, then led Patty toward the door. She could barely keep the smile off her face. As Patty would say, she really, really, really wanted the library to herself.

  “No, Miss Smith. I mean they moved . . . sideways.”

  She pulled open the library door and aimed the girl into the hallway. “You’re going to be late for third period, young lady. Come back tomorrow and I’ll give you A Wrinkle In Time and a book on optical illusions. Okay?”

  Patty didn’t look convinced, but what could she say? There was no instant replay feature at South Hollywood Elementary.

  As soon as the little girl was in the hall, Zoe shut the door and leaned against it. She’d really done it!

  True, it had just been an itty-bitty bit of mind-over-matter—nothing like what some Protectors could do. Her dad and Hale, for example. They could do the most amazing things simply by focusing a blast of mental energy. But this was a start—and a good one.

  And it called for a celebration. A definite champagne-and-roses moment. Except . . . her nose wrinkled as she thought about the effect sparkling wine and fragrant flowers would have on her sometimes supercharged senses. Better to go with a rice cake and bottled water. But she needed something to mark the moment.

  A very auspicious moment it was. Every year she’d been tested with her cousin Mordichai, and he’d always, always beaten her. Her whole life, she’d been the halfling who couldn’t do anything right, who didn’t really fit in. And now, when she’d least expected it, she’d finally managed to levitate something! That meant she could amend her council application to check the “yes” box for telekinetic skills, and that put her one step closer to acceptance.

  Of course, she still had to get her senses under control. Plus, she had to submit her Affidavit of Mortal Disclosure. Which meant telling her mom everything. Which was terrifying. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to join the council and go on missions. She wanted to rescue people from avalanches and kittens from trees. She wanted friends who understood her and didn’t think she was weird.

  The problem was that she wanted her mother, too. And twenty-five years ago her mother, a pregnant Tessa Smith, had walked away from her one true love about two seconds after she’d found out his secret. Her mother never even knew that her father had started visiting Zoe when she was still a toddler, and Tessa certainly didn’t know that Zoe had inherited quite a few traits from him.

  Overall, it wasn’t exactly a typical childhood, though by Los Angeles standards, she supposed it wasn’t too out of the ordinary.

  She blinked, trying to force herself back to the issue at hand—her newfound telekinetic powers. The question of the hour was, could she do it again? Or was she going to have to endanger a child every time she wanted to levitate something? Clearly that would not do.

  Well, no time like the present to find out. She tipped her head down, then peeked over the frames of her glasses and through the rows of shelving to make sure the coast was clear. Then—satisfied that no kids were sitting behind the bookshelves and no Application Committee members were hovering around to see if a mere halfling was breaking the carved-in-stone rule against power exploitation—she aimed her concentration at the canister on her desk filled with yellow number two pencils.

  Steady, steady . . .

  Her faced tightened, muscles straining as she focused, visualizing it rising in the air. There, in her mind, it hovered a good foot off the desk.

  Unfortunately, it was hovering only in her mind. In reality, the stupid can was still planted firmly on the wooden desktop.

  Just relax, Zoe. Remember what Hale said. Her half brother had this levitation thing down pat. True, things came a lot easier for him, but he was also her very best teacher. Just do what he said and let it flow.

  She tried again, aiming her eyes toward the pencils, but looking past them. Focusing, but not. Concentrating, but not. Urging, coaxing, wanting.

  The canister moved.

  At first it was just a little jiggle, the pencils shaking a bit in the cup.

  Focus . . . focus . . .

  Then, yes, finally, it rose—a bit wobbly—off the table.

  She’d done it again! So what if she’d broken some rules; the point was she’d really—

  Whump! The library door slammed inward against her butt and the pencils went crashing to the floor.

  She spun around—ready to deliver a stern lecture about slamming through doorways—and stopped short, her mouth hanging open as she stared into the deep brown eyes of a truly spectacular man. Unruly chestnut hair, a chiseled face with a thin scar dividing one eyebrow, a five o’clock shadow well before lunch, and fabulous shoulders that filled out a not-so-fashionable suit. Even in the wrong clothes, this guy had the right stuff.

  With a bit of effort, she managed not to drool. With a bit more effort, she kept her glasses on, resisting the urge to take a peek and see if he looked as good out of those clothes.

  “Sorry,” he said, shifting the flower box under his arm.

  “Mmm?” It would be so easy. After all, what was the point of having X-ray vision if you never got to use it? All she had to do was tilt her head and peer over the frames. Easy. So very easy . . .

  No, no, no. She shoved her glasses into place. She needed to get her mind out of the gutter, to stop thinking about—

  “Sorry,” he repeated. “I’m—”

  “Sex.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Oh, mother of Zeus. Had she really said that? “Six. I said six.” He probably thought she was a total ditz. “You’re the sixth person who’s done that to me today.”

  “Oh.” He glanced behind him at the heavy door. “Maybe you shouldn’t stand so close.”

  “Right,” she said, moving away from the actual place of mortification. “Good idea.” She smoothed her jumper, then fiddled with the end of her braid.

  “So how can I help you, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Taylor.” He grinned and held out his hand. “And you are?”

  “Zoe Smith.” She shook his hand, his solid, warm fingers curling around hers. It was a nice, normal handshake—at least until he pulled his hand away, his skin gliding against hers. She inhaled sharply as the friction of his touch sent a billion sparks of electricity rushing through her fingers. Her entire body tingled, and she was pretty sure her hair was frizzing. Oh, wowza.

  She tried to catch her breath, tried to act normal. “I . . . I’m the assistant librarian.”

  “Ah,” he said, stepping closer.

  She stumbled behind a table, feeling oddly safer with a buffer zone.

  “Well, Zoe Smith, I could have sworn you said ‘sex.’ ”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth would I say that?” Other than the fact that lately she’d been worrying about the whole sex thing, of course. She could barely handle chocolate. How the heck was she supposed to handle an orgasm?

  In the throes of total sensory overload, she could lose her grip completely. And that couldn’t be good. If she didn’t end up revealing her secret, she might end up hurting someone. The thought of losing control so completely, so intimately, terrified her. And yet . . . and yet there were times—like now, if she wanted to be perfectly honest—that she really wanted a taste of forbidden fruit.

  All of which made sex just one more frustration in her already confused and frustrated life.

  Once again she gave her glasses a good shove, ensuring that they stayed squarely on her nose. No matter how good-looking this Mr. Taylor might be, she absolutely, positively wasn’t going to sneak a peek.

  Really.

  He cleared his throat, and she sprang to attention, realizing then that his eyes were still aimed right at her. She frowned. “You’re staring.”

  Th
e smile that spread over his face was one of pure, devious pleasure. “Well, I thought you might be getting ready to answer your own question.” The grin made it to his eyes. “About why you’d say I’m sex.” He stepped closer, clearly favoring one leg. “Not that I particularly mind the endorsement.”

  “I told you. I didn’t say that at all.”

  “No?” He moved closer to the desk and propped a hip against the edge. “Too bad. I was hoping to investigate all those stories about how wild librarians are after they whip off their glasses.” Mischief danced on his face. “So. Are they true?”

  The smooth timbre of his voice tickled her senses, and she pursed her lips, trying to stay focused. She should be annoyed, not intrigued. “Do you believe everything you hear?”

  “No, but in this case, I’d be happy to believe.” He held his arms out to his sides in a gesture of surrender. “Wanna take off your glasses?”

  Oh, my. Her cheeks warmed. Trying to be nonchalant, she leaned against her desk, her heart pounding in her chest, her palms starting to sweat. She could run the Boston Marathon without getting this worked up. What on earth was this man doing to her?

  She fought to keep control, and was pretty sure she was losing the battle. He was just so very . . . male. Every luscious, testosterone-laden inch of him. So very sensual, so very yummy, so very, very—

  Pop!

  Zoe jumped as the bulb in her desk lamp blew out, the noise dragging her back to reality. With renewed determination, she firmly quashed thoughts of lust and testosterone and raging hormones. By Zeus, she was going to be cool and distant even if it killed her.

  “What do you want, Mr. Taylor?”

  He upped the wattage on his smile, and cool and distant suddenly seemed extremely foolish. Red-hot and close-up held much more appeal.

  Which, all things considered, was rather inconvenient.