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 t
hat 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—
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.
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