Pushing the one-piece sweater dress back, she dragged out the most severe outfit she could find. A dark navy suit she’d bought for her grandfather’s funeral. In the end she hadn’t worn it. It depressed her and it would have depressed Franklin Forrest, so she’d worn a bright, happy dress he’d always liked.
Hauling on the suit made her feel funereal. She hated everything about it. The color was drab, the fit baggy. If anything would put Duncan off his idea, this would.
But what the hell was she doing dressing down for Duncan any more than she should be dressing up?
Rolling her eyes at her own foolishness, she undressed and stuffed the suit into a bag. She was never, ever going to wear it so she might as well donate it to Goodwill.
She decided to dress as she usually did. For herself.
That decision made, she pulled out a soft red sweater with a heart-shaped neckline, black dress pants, and boots. Then she clipped on the art deco earrings Duncan had given her and decided her makeup was just fine.
At work she went through her usual morning routine while trying to ignore the flutters in her stomach as nine o’clock approached.
Five to nine. He’d be here in a few minutes. She checked her lipstick, fluffed her hair, and took a deep, calming breath. Would he really try and take her against the stacks today?
Quivers danced over her flesh as she glanced out at the neat rows of books rising from the floor. So straight, so staid, so in need of a little shaking up. Like her life, she thought, before Duncan Forbes entered it.
Three minutes to nine and she was wandering the stacks, testing how well they were anchored to the floor while her belly grew heavy wondering . . .
A minute to nine and she was back at her desk, her first cup of coffee half gone, trying to look so absorbed in her computer screen that no one could ever think she was remotely interested in having sex in her workplace.
At nine promptly she unlocked the front door of the library, her heart hammering.
No one waited outside. She put her head right out and glanced around, half expecting to see him running her way with a takeout coffee in one hand, his beaten up leather bag in the other.
But no.
So much for his eagerness to see her.
She made her way back to her office and once more attempted to absorb herself in work. Myrna arrived and Arnold Black arrived dragging in the book bin from outside where people returned their books after hours.
Myrna got busy removing the books and checking them in. “Oh, gross,” she cried. “Somebody put a pizza box in the slot.”
“Probably thought it was the garbage can,” Arnold said, then shuffled his way out. He was a large guy in his forties who lived near town with his parents. It wouldn’t be fair to call him slow witted, but he did everything from talking to moving at a slow pace.
A couple of mothers with small children came into the library, and an older couple who often spent the morning in the quiet room with the paper or a magazine.
She knew the moment Duncan came in, about half an hour later. She felt it in every atom of her being.
Still, he didn’t have to know that. Her gaze stayed riveted to her computer screen as she waited for the shadow at the periphery of her vision to pass.
It didn’t. The shadow vanished and moments later the man appeared in her doorway. “The public is not allowed past the checkout desk,” she told him in her best at-work voice.
He didn’t look abashed or put out, merely mouth-wateringly sexy. “The public’s probably not supposed to bang their brains out among the books, either, but it’s going to happen.”
“It is no—” She caught herself before she ended up once more being kissed to silence.
The dancing lights in his eyes told her he knew exactly what she was thinking and why she’d cut off her own words.
She stared at him and he stared back. The office, already on the small side, seemed to close in on her, far too crowded with all the sexual electricity charging around. And Duncan seemed so large, blocking her exit, trapping her in here with her hot memories of the weekend and her desires.
She felt as though there wasn’t another soul in the library—only the two of them–and all she could think about was his promise/threat. Instead of retreating, he propped a hip on the edge of her desk. “You won’t be the first. I’ve seen the slogan on coffee mugs and t-shirts. Librarians do it in the stacks.”
“My life’s dream is to act out a coffee mug slogan.”
It would probably be horribly uncomfortable; books could fall on her head, she could end up with concussion instead of orgasm, anyone could walk in, and that would be the end of her career and reputation. So why was she so turned on she had to force herself not to squirm?
“You’re thinking about it,” he said, his voice low and husky, so she knew he was thinking about the two of them up against the stacks in as much detail as she was.
“Thinking about what?” she taunted.
He took a step closer. “Me taking you up against those neatly ordered books out there, with your skirt up around your waist and your legs wrapped around me. We could do it in the history section, give those crusty old dead guys a thrill, or maybe in the cooking section. Something about cookbooks always makes me horny.”
She rolled her eyes. “Everything makes you horny.”
“Or, we could do it in the romance section.”
Her first thought was that at least most of those books were paperback so if they came tumbling down it wouldn’t hurt so much.
He angled his head so he could see her lower body behind the desk. “Pants? You’re wearing pants?” He sounded outraged. “Where are those short skirts you always wear? This calls for short skirts.” He wagged his forefinger at her in admonishment. “And no underwear.”
“Maybe it calls for a little more ingenuity on your part.” She crossed her legs. She wore boots under her slacks, a belt around her waist, and on top she wore the red pullover sweater. For her, this was like armor. She was a little over-heated but his outrage was worth it.
She leaned back. “When are you planning this –” What was the word that was appropriate here? She had an excellent vocabulary but if there was a term for taken up against the stacks, she didn’t know it. “This assignation.”
He grinned at her so wickedly that she could barely stop herself from drooling. “If I told you, it would spoil the surprise.”
“If I made it easy for you, it would spoil the challenge,” she taunted right back, hooking the chain of her necklace with her forefinger and running the gold key back and forth across the top of her breasts.
His nostrils flared as he followed the motion with his eyes.
“Have lunch with me,” he said in a tone she didn’t at all care for. It was far too close to a command.
Ten minutes ago she’d have jumped at the invitation to have lunch with him—which undoubtedly meant a quickie at his place or hers, a rushed snack for sustenance, and then a race to get back here within her allotted hour break. But now he was playing control games, and she needed to let him know who was really in charge.
She’d let him take control of her when he’d sketched her on the weekend, and it had been wildly successful, but he was a man who’d dominate everything if she let him. “I’ve got an appointment,” she lied.
If he suspected she’d invented her appointment, he gave no sign of it. “Too bad,” he said. “I was hoping to take you to lunch.” He removed his hip from her desk and headed for the door. “Or take you at lunch.”
“Some other time.” She smiled coolly.
He ambled in his unhurried way to his favorite spot, a table and chairs that gave him a perfect view of her sitting in her office. That table had never before been completely in her line of vision, which made her suspect either that the cleaners had become a whole lot more efficient and were now moving furniture to clean beneath it or that Duncan Forbes had moved the table for his own reasons.
Based on the dust on her light fix
ture, she knew it wasn’t the cleaners.
She could have twiddled the blinds closed so Duncan couldn’t see her anymore, but she sort of liked the fact that she could glance up at any time and see him pecking away at his keyboard or reading from any one of a number of books, some belonging to the library and some that were his own. She could check that he had plenty of notepaper at hand and nothing more indelible than a number two pencil.
She felt his gaze on her, as surely as she felt her temperature rise, and lifted her eyes to find him watching her, his eyes heavy-lidded and brimming with carnal intent.
She held his gaze for a moment until a flash fire was imminent, then primly went back to her work. She’d never in her life had so much fun, or looked forward so to work.
She was interrupted a second time when Arnold Black shuffled into her office a few minutes later. In his hands was a clutch of maple tree branches covered in fiery autumn leaves. “I thought you might like these for your office,” he said, blushing almost as red as the leaves.
“Thank you, Arnold,” she said, as she always did when he brought her something, from an interesting rock he’d found to a Christmas ornament so old she suspected he’d filched it from his mother’s collection.
As she rose, he backed up a step. “I’ll get a jug or vase to put these into. They are so colorful.” She walked to the coffee room and bent down to the lower cupboard where she kept a few vases and drew out the largest. She added water and returned to her office. Arnold was still there, clutching the leaves.
She took them from him and placed the branches into the vase. The lengths were different, but she didn’t think it mattered. “These will really brighten up my office,” she said, thanking him again.
After the custodian left, she glanced at Duncan and found him gazing at her in a way that suggested he knew Arnold had a crush on her.
Oh, she was so going to find something to do on her lunch hour. He was too sure of her. Where on earth could she go in—she glanced at her watch—an hour and a half that would count as an appointment? Her teeth were recently cleaned. Even if she could get in to see her doctor at such short notice, being ten months early on her annual physical was obsessively organized, even for her.
She had nothing to discuss with the bank manager, no one she really wanted to have lunch with. She’d seen most of her friends at the birthday party Friday night. Gill and she weren’t exactly on lunch terms.
Duncan was the only one she wanted to have lunch with. She glanced across the square. Katie’s Kut ‘n’ Kurl stared back at her balefully. She drew in a breath. Maybe it was time to mend some fences.
She’d ask only for styling. No cutting, perming, coloring, or anything that wouldn’t wash out. How bad could it be?
Duncan smirked at her through the window when she hung up from making her hair appointment, but there was no way he could have heard her conversation.
She left her office and got busy reshelving all the books Myrna had checked in from the weekend drop box. Since the murder, business was up in the library and she was pleased to see some of the patrons she’d shamed into taking out library cards or checking out books were turning into repeat customers.
At five minutes to twelve she grabbed her coat and bag and made her way to Katie’s.
Duncan stood in front of the faded yellow Victorian Alex’s cousin would soon occupy. He’d already searched it thoroughly and he’d found nothing. Unless the Van Gogh was buried in the backyard, he doubted the painting was on the property.
Since Alex had blown him off for lunch, he decided to visit Franklin Forrest’s neighbors.
The house on the left had a bike in the driveway about the right size for a ten-year-old who was probably at school. There were no cars in the drive. He suspected working parents.
The house on the right looked more promising. Parked in the freshly swept drive was a sky blue sedan at least a decade old that glowed with regular waxing. Everything from the yard to the lace curtains in the window was neat and tidy.
Best of all, lights were on in the back of the house. He knocked at the solid front door and waited.
A dog yapped, the sound growing louder until he heard the yapping interspersed with panting and snuffling against the bottom of the door.
“All right, Trixie, calm down.” The door opened and the dog roared out, a fluffy white bath-mat with the soul of a rottweiler.
While Trixie sniffed his ankles, darted back and forth between him and the door, and barked some more, Duncan passed the old man who had answered the door his card. “I’m Duncan Forbes,” he said. “I teach art history at Swarthmore and I’m writing a book. I’m interested in Mr. Franklin Forrest.”
The old man shook his head. “I’m afraid Franklin passed on a few months back.”
“Irving? If that’s the Jehovah’s Witnesses, tell them we’re Catholic.”
A small lady approached. She was all pastels, from her pink blouse and mint green slacks to pale blue sneakers.
“He’s not a JW, he’s an author. He came looking for Franklin.”
“Oh,” she said. Like her husband, she looked sorrowful. “He passed away recently. We miss him very much. He was a good neighbor. I’m Daisy Taft and this is Irving.”
“Nice to meet you. Duncan Forbes,” he said again. “I’m sorry to hear Mr. Forrest is gone. I was hoping to interview him for my book.” They shook their heads, so he did, too. The dog barked a couple of times.
“I hope he didn’t suffer?”
“It was quick. Heart attack,” said Irving, patting the left side of his own chest.
“Was his family with him or was he alone at the time?”
Daisy’s pale blue eyes wrinkled around the edges as she squinted. “You’re the first person who ever asked us that. We didn’t say, because what was the point, with him being gone and no one could do anything by then, but we heard shouting that day.”
“The day Mr. Forrest died?”
“Yes. I felt so bad that he should exchange harsh words with someone on his last day on earth. He was always such a kind man.”
“I hope it wasn’t one of his granddaughters?”
“Oh, no. It was a man’s voice.” He wanted to ask if she’d recognized the voice, but didn’t want to push his luck. Daisy, however, once she’d started, seemed relieved to tell anyone at all, even a complete stranger, about the argument.
“I’d baked Franklin a pie. He loved my apple pie, and after his wife passed, I used to take over some baking once in a while. I don’t think he always ate properly. He was over ninety and never wanted to be dependent. I knew he was home, because his car was parked out front, so I went to the back door. We always used each other’s back doors. Casual like.
“But when I got there, before I knocked I heard shouting. Awful shouting. Two men. Well, I knew Franklin’s voice, of course, but not the other. It was a man, I’m sure.”
“Just one man?”
“I think so.”
“Could you make out what they were saying?”
“No. Not that I would ever eavesdrop, of course.”
“Then what happened?”
“I left with my apple pie. I didn’t want him to know I’d heard anything. I came home and told Irving and we waited about an hour, then I phoned over, but there was no answer even though his car was still out front.”
Irving picked up the story. “I went over and knocked. Nothing. We had each other’s keys, of course. Have done for years. I let myself in and found him on the floor in his study.” He shook his head. “I called the police.”
“How awful for you.”
“It was a shock, that’s for sure. But I’m glad it wasn’t one of the girls finding him.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet him. He sounds like a fine man.”
“That he was. Him and his wife. You’d never know finer people.”
“Thanks for your time,” he said. “I appreciate the help.” As he drove back to town and grabbed a quick sandwich a
t Elda’s he thought about this latest news. So Franklin Forrest’s heart attack had been provoked.
By whom?
18
Alex returned from lunch with a bouffant. An honest-to-God, backcombed until her eyes watered, sprayed until her hair had the shape and texture of a space capsule, bee-hive.
If she’d had time she’d have gone home and showered, but a forty-years-old hairstyle took time. This monstrosity had taken nearly a full hour to create so Alex hadn’t even had time to eat anything. Now she was back, looking like a caricature of a 60s prom queen. She had a headache from the backcombing, incipient hairspray poisoning, and a stomach grumbling with hunger.
“Not one word,” she said when Myrna opened her mouth.
“I couldn’t think of one anyway,” she said and disappeared down Textiles with a sound suspiciously like a giggle.
She glanced furtively around. Duncan’s usual spot was still vacant, thank goodness, and there were only a few patrons visible. Before anyone could approach her, she made a dash for her office, where she snapped the blinds shut. More smirking and uncontrollable laughter she did not need.
She tried to get back to work, but her head felt strange—as if she tipped it to one side she’d need a crane to get it upright again—so she held it rigidly balanced between her shoulders.
At least no one could see her hidden in her office with the blinds closed. She only had to make it through another four hours and she could leave. With luck, no one but Myrna would ever know.
A shadow fell across her desktop and every womanly particle of her being recognized Duncan Forbes.
“Go away,” she said without moving her head.
“I heard you got a new look,” he said, managing to keep a straight face.
“What do you think?” she asked sweetly turning toward him. Let him think it was the latest fashion. With his rumpled, hiking-man dress sense he might not know Katie had paid her back for all the years of going elsewhere.
“You look like Marge Simpson crossed with Doris Day.”
Wild Ride: A Changing Gears Novel Page 19