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

  As she entered her office and struggled out of her raincoat, she realized she had fallen into the same trap that so many women fall into—equating sex with love and love with sex, and completely forgetting about the fact that the presence of one didn’t necessarily include the presence of the other.

  Au contraire.

  People could certainly have sex without love, she reminded herself, as evidenced by Rory’s reaction to her the night before. And people could have love without sex, too, as witnessed by her own reaction to Rory.

  Because she did love him. She admitted that to herself freely now. She had loved him for months, probably since her arrival in Marigold. Certainly long before she had experienced sex with him. And she knew she would continue to love him for some time to come. Perhaps for all time to come. And she would feel that love despite her plans to not have sex with him again. Because there was no point to pursue such a thing when he so readily dismissed the idea of having her for his wife or his girlfriend.

  Miriam was an intelligent woman, after all. She knew better than to have sex with a man who didn’t love her. She just wished she had been smart enough to identify that lack of love before she had gone too far.

  She sighed heavily again as she tossed her damp raincoat onto the hook affixed to the back of her office door. Would that she had been smart enough not to fall in love with Rory in the first place, too, she couldn’t help thinking further.

  Inescapably her mind wandered backward then, to that single, sweet kiss the two of them had shared while walking through the neighborhood near Winona’s after dinner. Miriam still wasn’t sure what that had been all about. Rory had taken the initiative for that one, but his initiative had been so innocent, so solicitous, so tentative then. How had they gone from a simple, chaste kiss during their promenade, to a raging conflagration of need only an hour or so later?

  Miriam feared she had a response to that, but it wasn’t one she cared much for. While walking with Rory, she had been Miriam Thornbury, librarian. Later, in his car, she had been a Temptress. And where Miriam the librarian might have stood a chance with Rory, had she just let things move forward at their own pace, Miriam the temptress had gone and ruined everything by jumping the gun. Among other things.

  And now here she stood, Miriam the librarian again, dressed once more in her standard attire of straight gray skirt and pale-pink blouse, her hair caught at her nape with her standard tortoiseshell barrette. And where was Rory? she wondered. Probably at home sleeping, dreaming about the temptress who had seduced him the night before.

  Damn Metropolitan magazine anyway, Miriam thought. Someone should put a warning label on the publication.

  So bleak was her mood by now that if Mayor Isabel Trent had come striding into her office at that moment and asked her to hold a public book-burning in the town square for Metropolitan magazine, Miriam could very well have seen fit to bring the marshmallows.

  “Oh, wonderful, Miriam, you’re here early. I knew you would be. You’re so dependable.”

  As if conjured by her thoughts, Mayor Isabel Trent did, in fact, come striding into Miriam’s office at that moment. But she carried neither Metropolitan magazine nor gasoline can nor propane torch, so although Miriam’s hopes of igniting the publication were dashed, she at least had hopes that she might have a reasonable conversation with the mayor for a change.

  At least, she had hopes of that until Mayor Trent told her, quite adamantly, “Miriam, I want you to dance for me.”

  Miriam tried very hard to keep her eyes from bugging out of her head—that was such a frightfully impolite thing to do—but wasn’t sure she was able to manage it as she replied, as courteously as she could, “Huh?”

  “Oh, nothing difficult, I assure you,” Ms. Trent said with a negligent wave of one hand. “Just a little foxtrot. Maybe a waltz or two. Surely you took lessons when you were a girl. You have that look about you.”

  Miriam tried to maintain her courtesy as she repeated, a bit less impulsively this time, “Huh?”

  “All right, if the waltz is too challenging, then perhaps it would be all right if you stuck to a simple box step,” Ms. Trent told her magnanimously. “But I do want you to dance for me.”

  This time Miriam made no bones about it. Quite forcefully now, she demanded, “Huh?”

  Ms. Trent seemed to finally notice her discomfort, and she must have realized how strangely she was articulating whatever it was she wanted to articulate. Because she laughed lightly and lifted a hand to nervously twist the top button of the charcoal blazer that topped her straight, charcoal skirt.

  “Well, I suppose that sounded rather odd, didn’t it? I should offer you a little more by way of an explanation, shouldn’t I?” she asked.

  Miriam nodded enthusiastically. “That would be most helpful, Ms. Trent, yes.”

  “The local Kiwanis Club is holding its annual fund-raiser this weekend, at Tony Palermo’s Stardust Ballroom,” the mayor said. “They do this every year, which, of course, you couldn’t possibly know, because you’re a relative newcomer to Marigold. But everyone in town looks forward to it, and everyone comes, and the Kiwanis always need extra dancers, because Tony Palermo never has enough for this sort of function. And this year there’s a shortage, because Tiffany Parmentier broke her ankle, and Debbie Sherman is on her honeymoon, and Shannon Epstein just had twins. So you’re up, Miriam.”

  Miriam’s head was fairly spinning with the wealth of information—little of it coherent—that was buzzing around in her brain. “I…huh?”

  “We Marigoldians always chip in when a helping hand is needed,” Ms. Trent admonished her. “I myself have offered to trip the light fantastic in Debbie’s place.” She sniffed a bit haughtily. “I would never ask one of my constituents to do something that I wouldn’t do myself.”

  Of course not, Miriam thought. Which was why she had no trouble asking the local librarian to ban books. She fixed her gaze levelly on the mayor’s. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Ms. Trent. Just what kind of fund-raiser is this, anyway?”

  “I told you. It’s the Kiwanis Club’s annual ‘Trip the Light Fantastic Night’ at Tony Palermo’s Stardust Ballroom. The money raised goes to their scholarship fund. It’s the social event of the summer. And it usually earns enough to send several students off to IU in the fall.”

  “But…dancers?” Miriam asked.

  “Well, that’s what tripping the light fantastic is all about, isn’t it? Ballroom dancing?”

  “I suppose, but…why me?”

  Mayor Trent smiled warmly. Miriam recognized it as her “family values” smile. “Well, it’s always nice to have attractive young men and women present at this event, to dance with the elderly widows and widowers.”

  “Um, why can’t the elderly widows and widowers dance with each other?” Miriam asked.

  Isabel Trent gazed at her blankly. “Because they’d rather dance with attractive young men and women, that’s why.”

  “Oh.”

  “It costs fifty dollars per person to attend, and that doesn’t include refreshments,” the mayor added, as if that explained everything.

  And, Miriam supposed, in a way, it did. Even with the family-values thing going. “But this is such short notice,” she protested. “I’m not sure I can take the night off. I was going to have my car worked on this weekend. I don’t have anything to wear.”

  Let’s see now, she thought further. Were there any other lame excuses she’d forgotten about?

  Not that it mattered, because Isabel Trent clearly wasn’t buying any of the lame excuses she’d already offered. “Find the time,” the mayor decreed. “You can have the car worked on another time. And Lola Chacha, Tony Palermo’s top dance instructor—which, of course, isn’t her real name, but it’s appropriate nonetheless—has plenty of ballroom-type dresses she’ll be glad to loan out for the occasion. She’s already told me she has one for me that’s perfect.

  “So that settles it,” the mayor concluded with a satisfied smi
le. “I’ll see you Saturday night at Tony Palermo’s. Wear comfortable shoes. I’m sure you’ll be dancing all night.”

  And without even awaiting a reply, Isabel Trent swept from the office, doubtless off to recruit another unsuspecting dancer.

  Miriam shook her head ruefully and wondered if she should call the mayor back, to tell Ms. Trent that for generations the entire Thornbury family had been notorious for having two left feet, and none of them could dance to save his or her life.

  Oh, well, Miriam thought further. She’d only be dancing with elderly widowers. And they probably wouldn’t even notice or care how many feet she had, or of what variety. She tried not to feel too morose when she realized that Rory Monahan fell into that category, too.

  Then again, Rory Monahan wouldn’t be at the dance, she reminded herself. Because in spite of Mayor Trent’s assurance that the fund-raiser would be the event of the summer and that everyone in Marigold looked forward to it, Miriam knew that one citizen, at least, wouldn’t be in attendance. Because while she was tripping the light fantastic with a retiree in a borrowed ball gown—Miriam, of course, would be the one in the ball gown and not the retiree…she hoped—Rory Monahan, scholar, would doubtless be sitting at his usual table in the library, carousing openly with volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War.

  And somehow Miriam couldn’t help thinking that he would be having a much better time than she. Because Rory, at least, would be with the one he loved.

  Nine

  Rory entered his classroom on Wednesday night for the second session of his evening Classical Civilizations II class, feeling nervous and anxious and totally unprepared. Not that he felt this way because of his lecture, mind you. No, he knew his history backward and forward and inside and out. But—and this was a most remarkable development—history was the last thing on his mind to night. Because all Rory had been able to think about all day was Miriam Thornbury.

  Surprise, surprise.

  When he’d awoken that morning—from a very restless sleep—he’d been convinced that he had only dreamed the episode of the night before. There was no way, he had told himself, that he and Miriam Thornbury could have possibly made love in his car. Not just because of the limitations of the physical logistics involved, but because they were both rational, intelligent, thinking adults, far above being controlled by their basic, instinctive, irrational natures.

  Yes, surely, he had told himself all morning long, he had only dreamed about the smoothness of Miriam’s soft skin and the sweetness of her silky hair and the luscious taste of her breast in his mouth and the exquisite sensation of himself inside her. Only a dream, he had repeated to himself over and over again. Only a dream. Only a dream. Only a frantic, hot, erotic dream.

  Then he had gone out to his car to drive to work, and had discovered a bit of champagne-colored silk sticking out from beneath the passenger seat. And when he had tugged on that bit of silk and discovered it to be a complete pair of panties, he had realized that what he had thought was a frantic, hot, erotic dream had actually been frantic, hot, erotic reality.

  He had made love to Miriam Thornbury. In his car. On a dark stretch of highway. As if he’d had no more control over himself and his body than a sixteen-year-old boy would have. Then again, that was precisely how Miriam made him feel—like a rank adolescent, in love for the first time.

  Wait a minute, he told his scrambled brain now as he settled his briefcase on the dais at the front of the empty classroom. Hold on. Back up. Repeat.

  In love for the first time…In love…Love…

  Love?

  Could that possibly be what lay at the crux of his current preoccupation with Miriam? Because, truly, no one had ever distracted Rory to the point where he didn’t think about his studies or his research. To the point where he didn’t even want to think about his studies or his research. Come to think of it, his distraction with Miriam didn’t feel anything like his distraction with Rosalind had felt. It didn’t even feel like his preoccupation with Rosalind had felt. In fact, it didn’t feel like preoccupation at all. What it felt like went way, way beyond preoccupation. What it felt like was…was…was…

  Well. He very much suspected that this was, in fact, what it felt like to be in love with someone. Because suddenly the only thing Rory wanted in life was to be with Miriam.

  What a startling development, he thought. But, surprisingly, it wasn’t at all unpleasant.

  Then again, maybe that wasn’t surprising at all. Because for some time now, Rory’s thoughts—and fantasies—about Miriam had been fast usurping his intellectual pursuits. And even Rosalind, although certainly distracting, hadn’t invaded his thoughts or his life to the extent that he had disregarded his intellectual pursuits. Neglected them, yes. He had indeed neglected his studies when he’d been involved with Rosalind. But he hadn’t forgotten about them entirely. He hadn’t even assigned them to second place. That was the place Rosalind had held. Which, he supposed, was why she had left him. Not that he could blame her.

  Since last night, however, Rory hadn’t given his lessons or his research a second thought. Hell, he hadn’t given them a first thought. Because the only thing he’d been able to think about was Miriam. The only thing he had wanted to think about was Miriam. In fact, thoughts of Miriam made thoughts of everything else pale. Even thoughts about his studies. Even thoughts about his research. Even thoughts about history. Even thoughts about the Peloponnesian War.

  Good heavens. He was in love with her, he realized suddenly. That could be the only explanation for why he felt the way he did. Because although he was as excited as usual to be coming to class tonight, although he was anticipating the sharing of information with as much pleasure as he always did…

  It wasn’t teaching and learning that captivated him so at the moment. No, it was the prospect of seeing Miriam again. The thought of seeing her again excited him. And he anticipated with pleasure the opportunity to share information with her. Though, if he were honest, it wasn’t information about classical civilizations that he wanted to share with her. It was information of a much more intimate nature.

  His heart began to race wildly in his chest when he finally realized what was going on. Rory Monahan. In love. Who would have ever suspected such a thing? Certainly not Rory Monahan.

  Well. He supposed now that he really should have called her today. This was something, after all, he was going to want to tell her about.

  And he had actually thought about calling her earlier that morning, after he’d discovered her panties in his car and realized he hadn’t, in fact, been dreaming about what had happened between the two of them the night before. But he’d been so stunned by the realization that he quite frankly hadn’t known what to say to her.

  Hello, Miriam? Did you know you left your panties in my car last night? Yes, I had a nice time, too. We’ll have to do it again very soon.

  No, somehow that just didn’t seem quite right.

  What Rory needed to say to Miriam, he needed to say in person. But he hadn’t wanted to interrupt her at her work, at the library. And he’d wanted to have some time to prepare. And he’d known he would be seeing her tonight, in his class. So he’d assumed, or at least hoped, that afterward the two of them might go someplace—someplace quiet and private and conducive to intimate discussion—and talk about what had happened. About what it all might mean. About how they were going to approach the future.

  Because Rory very much wanted a future with Miriam. A future that involved infinitely more than research and knowledge and intellectual pursuits. He could only hope she felt the same way.

  He inhaled a deep breath to steady his heart rate, but the moment he exhaled, his pulse began to beat erratically again. It quickened even more when he heard the classroom door creak open, and he jerked his head in that direction, hoping with all his might, and all his heart, that the person who strode through would be Miriam.

  But the person who entered wasn’t she. Nor was the next person
who entered the classroom. Nor was she the third or the fourth or the fifth. And fifteen minutes later, even after Rory had done something completely unprecedented—holding off starting his lecture until the rest of the class arrived—there was still no sign of Miriam.

  And he told himself this couldn’t possibly be a good development.

  Where was she? he wondered as his students began to grow restless—as if they could be any more restless than he was himself. Certainly Miriam might feel a little awkward about things, just as Rory did himself. But he had thought she would still come to class tonight, if for no other reason than that she wanted to talk to him afterward, too.

  Why hadn’t she come? he wondered again. Unless, he thought morosely, after what had happened, she simply didn’t want to see him again.

  Could that be possible? he asked himself. Although she had seemed as enthusiastic and over whelmed as he had been last night, perhaps her reasons for being so didn’t mirror his own. Where Rory’s heart had been engaged with his behavior—even if he hadn’t realized it at the time—maybe Miriam had only been driven by her physical needs. And now that those needs had been met—at least he hoped he’d met them—then perhaps her interest in him was waning.

  Still, he couldn’t see that being the case. Miriam Thornbury didn’t seem like the kind of woman who could divorce her physical needs from her emotional ones. Not needs like the ones they’d shared the night before, anyway.

  No, Rory was certain—well, fairly certain—that Miriam had feelings for him, too. He just wished he knew the depth of those feelings. What if, having made love with him now, in a situation that had been anything but ideal, she was having second thoughts? he wondered. What if she thought him a heel because he had taken advantage of her on a dark, deserted strip of road? Granted, she had told him she thought she was the one who’d taken advantage, but still. What if, now that she’d experienced the next level of emotion with Rory—the most intimate level of emotion—she’d decided she didn’t want any part of it?