Men Made in America Mega-Bundle

by Gayle Wilson, Marie Ferrarella, Jennifer Greene, Annette Broadrick, Judith Arnold, Rita Herron, Anne Stuart, Diana Palmer, Elizabeth Bevarly, Patricia Rosemoor, Emilie Richards

  Sufficiently convinced now of the nobility of his errand, Rory went in search of Miss Thornbury, and, consequently, volume fifteen of the Stegman’s. But he didn’t have to search far. Because he located her almost immediately, standing on a ladder, two stacks away from his table in the reference section, where she was in the process of shelving—

  Good heavens, it was volume fifteen of the Stegman’s! Rory realized triumphantly. He’d caught her red-handed again! He prepared himself for battle, hiked up his dark gray trousers, pushed back the rolled cuffs of his white dress shirt, straightened the skewed knot in his plaid—but it was a tasteful plaid, truly—necktie, and raked both hands through his shaggy black hair. Then, after settling his glasses intently on the bridge of his nose, he bravely entered the fray. Or, at the very least, he bravely entered the stacks. And he didn’t stop entering until he stood at the foot of the ladder upon which Miss Thornbury had perched herself.

  As he halted before her, though, Rory, well…halted. Because he vaguely realized that she was standing on a rung at such a height as to put her thigh directly at his eye level. And, less vaguely, he realized that there was a side slit in her straight, black skirt. It was conservative enough to be acceptable for a librarian’s wardrobe, but open just now—thanks to her position on the ladder—in such a way as to make a professor of history take notice. And somehow, this particular professor of history found the sight of Miss Thornbury’s leg to be strangely…arousing?

  Oh, surely not.

  Rory shook off the sensation and forced his gaze higher, toward her face. But his gaze got held up at her torso, because on top of her slim skirt with the intriguing, though conservative, side slit, Miss Thornbury was wearing a rather snug, rather red, knit top. A snug, red top that had no sleeves, he noted further, offering him just the merest glimpse of a bare shoulder, a glimpse that he’d never had before, a glimpse that was strangely…arousing?

  Oh, surely not.

  Rory steered his gaze away from the glimpse of shoulder, intent now on finding Miss Thornbury’s face, only to have his attention get held up elsewhere on her torso, this time on the elegant swell of her breast, which pushed against the taut fabric of her sweater in such a way as to make the vision strangely…arousing?

  Oh, surely—

  It was then that a burst of recollection shot the memory of his previous night’s encounter with Miss Thornbury to the very forefront of his brain. They had been outside, in front of the library, Rory remembered, and something had kept making him envision her in that goddess get-up that he caught himself thinking about her wearing every now and then. But not very often, truly. Only once, or maybe twice, a week. Three times at most, honestly. Like when he happened to see her, oh…Rory didn’t know. Perched on a ladder, for instance. Like now.

  Uh-oh…

  And last night, he hurriedly rushed on, dispelling the realization, they’d been holding hands for some reason, too, hadn’t they? But why…? Oh, yes. Now he remembered. For a purely innocent reason. He’d been helping her gather up an assortment of periodicals that she’d dropped on the ground. What had they been…? Oh, yes. Now he remembered. Metropolitan magazine, which he’d thought an odd choice for her. Especially when he pondered what some of those headlines had contained. Hadn’t there been one, in particular, that had caught his attention? Something about loving one’s man orally to—

  Oh, yes. Now he remembered. Now he remembered very, very well. Too well. He remembered how Miss Thornbury’s mouth had been so full and luscious. And he remembered wondering if her other body parts would be as full and luscious as her mouth. And he remembered wondering—well into the night, in fact—how it would be to have her mouth, not to mention her other body parts, being full and luscious alongside his own body parts. Preferably while they were both alone. And horizontal. And naked.

  Uh-oh, indeed…

  “Miss Thornbury,” he called out quickly, hoping to distract himself enough that the memories—not to mention the sudden discomfort in his lower regions—might disappear. And he called her name out quietly, too, of course—he was in the library, after all, and didn’t want to disturb anyone.

  However, it wasn’t, evidently, quiet to Miss Thornbury. Because when he uttered her name, she gasped in surprise and started visibly, then immediately lost her balance on the ladder. As she began to fall backward, Rory instinctively stepped forward, extending his arms before himself in an effort to steady her. But to no avail. Because she fell from the ladder, at an angle which, upon impact, created enough propulsion to send them both stumbling back. And then, before Rory could say Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War, he had landed hard on his fanny, and Miss Thornbury had fallen quite literally into his lap.

  For a moment neither of them seemed to know what had hit them, and neither reacted in any way. Rory sat with Miss Thornbury seated across his thighs, and having the weight of her body pressing against that particular part of him was a surprisingly appealing sensation. And that sensation, coupled with the memories he had just been entertaining—not to mention her slim skirt and snug top—left him feeling more than a little dazed.

  He glanced down to see if they both still had all their parts in place, only to discover that he could see one of her parts still in place quite clearly. Probably more clearly than was actually prudent—or, at the very least, socially acceptable. Because, at some point during their tumble, Miss Thornbury’s slim skirt had ridden up on one side, and now the slit that before had offered only a hint of the leg beneath, suddenly offered a view that went way, way beyond the hint phase.

  And Rory saw that his goddess-vision of Miss Thornbury’s creamy thigh simply had not done justice to the reality of Miss Thornbury’s creamy thigh, that the silky skin beneath her skirt was as smooth as satin and as flawless as a sheet of glass, and as warm and welcoming as a summer afternoon. And then he wondered hazily how he could possibly know that her thigh was smooth and warm, and to his astonishment—nay, to his utter horror—he realized he could know that because he had his hand placed firmly on that smooth, warm thigh, his fingers curling into her bare flesh as if they had every right to be there.

  Immediately Rory snatched back his hand, mumbling an incoherent apology for having placed it where it was to begin with. For a scant, delirious second, Miss Thornbury gazed back at him with lambent—yes, lambent was most definitely the word he was looking for—eyes, and for one brief, dizzying moment, he thought she was going to ask him to put his hand right back where it was, if he pleased. And Rory realized then, with much amazement, that it would have pleased him, very much, to do that very thing. He even felt his fingers begin to curl slightly and creep forward again, as if they’d already decided to take matters—or, at the very least, Miss Thornbury’s thigh—into their own hands.

  Or something like that.

  But before his fingers could complete their journey, Miss Thornbury, in a jumble of movement, scurried off Rory’s lap, pushed herself up to standing and struggled to return her slim skirt and that snug, red top back to their original positions. Which, quite frankly, did nothing to dissuade Rory’s fingers from wanting to pursue their original quest to find her thigh, because the skirt and top were considerably more…more…snug, and more…more…red, than the clothing Miss Thornbury normally wore to work.

  And her hair, Rory noted further. There was something different about it today, too. She wasn’t wearing it the way she usually wore it. At least, he didn’t think she’d ever worn it down loose that way before now. Because he’d never realized before now how long it was, how it could cascade over both her shoulders, curling softly into perfect, elegant Us right above her breasts. Nor had he realized how silvery highlights shimmered so abundantly amid the silky mass. Nor had he ever had the urge to reach out and clutch a fistful of her hair in his hand and lift it to his nose to see what it smelled like, and then rake the long tresses back and forth over his mouth and then…and then…and then…

  And good heavens, what had come over him today?
Rory wondered. He’d all but forgotten about…about…What was it he had been about to do? Why was it he had gone searching for Miss Thornbury? Surely it couldn’t have been to ponder her hair. Could it? Oh, surely not. Still, he couldn’t quite remember now why he had been seeking her out. In fact, he couldn’t remember much of anything.

  He shook his head fiercely, once, as if trying to dislodge some unpleasant thought, but he hadn’t had any unpleasant thoughts today, only thoughts about Miss Thornbury and Miss Thornbury’s thigh and Miss Thornbury’s hair and Miss Thornbury’s mouth and—

  No, wait a minute. He hadn’t thought much about Miss Thornbury’s mouth today, had he? But now that he did think about her mouth, now that he turned his attention to that part of her forthwith, he realized her full, ripe, luscious lips were even fuller, riper and more luscious than they usually were—he knew that, because he had noticed her mouth on several other occasions—and also much more…red…than they usually were. And suddenly his fingers began to curl again, because his fingers—and, all right, the rest of him, too—suddenly wanted very badly to go to that mouth and…

  Rory growled under his breath, squeezed his eyes shut tight, fisted his hands resolutely at his sides and began reciting dates of great historical significance, to pull his mind back to where it belonged. The Magna Carta was signed in 1215, he thought. The Protestant Reformation began in 1517. The U.S. Bill of Rights was ratified in 1791. The Emancipation Proclamation was made in 1862. Miss Thornbury’s mouth was fuller and riper and redder and more luscious than usual in 2001.

  Damn, he thought further, opening his eyes. He’d almost made it.

  “Miss Thornbury,” he said softly, driving his gaze to some point over her shoulder—anywhere but her ripe, red mouth. Or her lambent gray eyes. Or her silky, silvery hair. Or her creamy, warm thigh.

  Good God, man. Get a hold of yourself.

  “Are you all right?” he asked further, still focusing on the books behind Miss Thornbury, instead of Miss Thornbury herself.

  “Um, yes, I believe so,” she replied a bit breathlessly.

  And there was something about her being a bit breathless, and something about the fact that Rory had been responsible for her breathlessness—even if it had only been because he had knocked her off of a ladder—that made his own breathing skip a few necessary stages.

  “I apologize if I…caught you off guard,” he added. Still, it was only fair, he thought further to himself. Because she had caught him off guard, too.

  “That’s all right,” she said, her voice still sounding low and husky. “No harm done.”

  Oh, that was what she thought.

  “Was there something you wanted, Professor Monahan?” she asked further.

  Oh, he really wished she hadn’t phrased her question quite that way. Because Rory suddenly realized, too well, that there was indeed something he wanted. Something he wanted very badly. And he wanted it specifically from Miss Thornbury. And it was something he hadn’t had for a long, long time, from any woman. Something that suddenly seemed of utmost importance, something which, if he didn’t get it very, very soon, might just make him spontaneously combust.

  And no, it wasn’t volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War, either.

  “I, uh,” Rory began eloquently. “That is, um…What I meant to say was…Ah…”

  As he stammered and stumbled over his words, Miss Thornbury bent to retrieve the book that had fallen on the floor between them when they’d taken their tumble. But, polite woman that she was, she didn’t stop looking at Rory as she completed the action. And, automatically, Rory allowed his gaze to follow her movements. And as she bent down, he accidentally—truly, he did not do it intentionally—found himself…well, um, looking down her snug, red top, which wasn’t so snug that it didn’t fall open a bit at the low neckline, to reveal the pearly swells of her breasts encased in—

  Good heavens.

  He was shocked and scandalized to see that Miss Thornbury was wearing—even Rory’s mental voice dropped to a lower volume as he realized it—pink, lacy underthings.

  He’d had no idea.

  Not that he spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about what Miss Thornbury might be wearing under her clothing—well, not too inordinate an amount of time, not until today, anyway, because it was usually that goddess thing he had in his thoughts where she was concerned—but somehow, now that he did think about it, she simply did not seem like the pink-lacy-underthing type. No, she’d always seemed more like the white-unadorned-cotton-underthing type. Functional. Practical. No frills. To the point. At least she had seemed that type before. Before he’d seen her in the slim skirt and snug top and red lipstick. Now, however—

  And why was Rory standing here speculating about a woman’s underthings in the first place? What was the matter with him? He had infinitely more important things to be pondering. If he could only remember what those more important things were…

  He lifted a hand to his forehead, rubbing fiercely at an excruciating ache that erupted out of nowhere. And he wondered if it might not be possible for him to simply turn on his heel and exit the library, then reenter and start all over again. Maybe then Miss Thornbury would be wearing her usual type of clothing, and her hair would be in its usual ponytail, and Rory’s pulse would return to its usual steady rate.

  Because with her looking so unusual today—and with him feeling so unusual today—Rory got the distinct impression that he was going to be preoccupied with thoughts of Miss Thornbury, and her mouth and her thighs and her underthings, for quite some time to come. Certainly for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe even for the rest of the day. And Rory couldn’t afford to be preoccupied by anything other than his studies, for any length of time. Least of all by a woman.

  Because he had been preoccupied by a woman once before, many years ago. In fact, he’d been so preoccupied by her he’d nearly married her. He’d been that far gone in his preoccupation. Of course, that woman had been nothing like Miss Thornbury. Miss Thornbury was practical and pragmatic, and capable and competent, and staid and sensible. At least, she had been before the slim-skirt, snug-top, red-lipstick episode. Rory’s fiancée had been anything but practical or capable or sensible. No, Rosalind had been, well…

  In hindsight Rory supposed the best way to describe Rosalind was well formed, but empty-headed. Not that she had been stupid—well, not too stupid, though she’d never been able to remember the date of the Battle of Hastings, which had always annoyed him to no end, because it had been the PIN number for their bank account—but she rarely thought of anyone but herself. In fact, so self-involved had Rosalind been, that she’d dumped Rory without a second thought the moment something she’d perceived to be better came along. Worse, she hadn’t bothered to tell Rory she had dumped him until she’d married the something better, three months later.

  Of course, had Rory been more observant, he probably would have noticed long before that three months was up that Rosalind had, well, dropped off the face of the planet. There had been signs, after all, which he’d recognized once he’d received her telegram informing him that she wouldn’t be returning. There had been the fact that her clothes had disappeared from their closet, something he hadn’t noticed until he received her telegram. And he’d been forced to acknowledge then, too, that what he had thought was her coming to bed late and rising for work early every morning had in fact been her, well, not being there at all.

  But that was beside the point.

  The point was that Rory couldn’t afford to get that preoccupied by someone again. Because it would only serve to disrupt his wonderfully routine existence. Rosalind’s departure had disrupted his routine for weeks—once he’d realized that she had, in fact, departed. And he didn’t want to suffer such a disruption again.

  He simply was not the kind of man who could invest heavily in a relationship. He was too interested in other things. He felt no lack in his life, romantically speaking, and it wouldn’t be fair to get i
nvolved with a woman who would expect him to do things like pay attention to her from time to time. Rory was perfectly content on his own. Or, at least, he had been. Until a few minutes ago.

  Besides, he didn’t need a woman in his life, he told himself. Who did? What purpose could a woman possibly serve in his life that wasn’t already being met?

  When Miss Thornbury straightened, Rory’s gaze fell on the plump swell of her breasts again, then dropped to the knee revealed by the side slit in her skirt once more. And way, way, way deep down inside him, very close to what felt like his libido, something stirred to life that hadn’t been stirred for quite a long time.

  All right, all right, he conceded. Perhaps there was a purpose Miss Thornbury might meet in his life that wasn’t already being met. Was it really such an important purpose? And was it worth sacrificing his peace of mind?

  That something close to his supposed libido stirred again, jumping and dancing this time as if it had been touched by a live wire. All right, so maybe it was an important purpose, he conceded. And maybe his peace of mind right now was moot. Because it wasn’t his mind that was responding to Miss Thornbury. No, it was something infinitely more primitive and intrinsic and uncontrollable. It was that essence inside him which made him a man, something from which he absolutely could not separate himself, even if he’d wanted to.

  She was very attractive, he thought as he studied her more thoroughly. And her hair did look to be very soft. And her eyes were quite lovely. And her mouth…Well, best not to ponder that one again. Best not to ponder any of the rest of her again, he told himself. Somehow, though, he didn’t think he’d be able to heed his own advice.

  “Actually, Miss Thornbury,” he said, “I can’t remember now what it was that I wanted.”

  And he hoped God would not strike him down for uttering so blatant a lie. Because he knew very well what he wanted. He wanted Miss Thornbury. There was no way, however, that he was going to tell her—or anybody else—about that. Because it wouldn’t last. Of that, he was certain. The moment he remembered whatever it was he had intended to do…The minute he began studying and researching whatever it was that he was supposed to be studying and researching…The second he remembered that…He sighed inwardly. Then he would forget all about Miss Thornbury. And her hair. And her thigh. And her mouth.