The Temptation of Rory Monahan. Elizabeth Bevarly

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      Not that Rory felt as if anything in his life was currently off-kilter. On the contrary, everything was going surprisingly well. But Miss Thornbury had a way about her, a way of making a person feel…right. Steady. Complete. And somehow, whenever he saw that it was Miss Thornbury standing there waiting for him at night, the discovery was infinitely more appealing to Rory than finding Mr. Amberson there instead.

      Not that he didn’t like Mr. Amberson. On the contrary, Mr. Amberson had been one of Rory’s idols since he was a child. The man knew virtually everything. What few things the elder librarian wasn’t entirely sure about, he knew exactly where in the library to look, to discover the answers. And because Rory had always craved knowledge above all else, even as a child, Douglas Amberson had always seemed something of a god to him. Rory had admired and respected the older man that much—certainly above everyone else in Marigold.

      Which, he supposed, meant that he should see Miss Thornbury as something of a goddess. Because she, too, was well read, well educated, well spoken, well everything. She, too, was utterly familiar with the library and knew exactly where to find anything, even having worked there for such a short time. He admired and respected her as much as he did Mr. Amberson. For some reason, though, her distinction as goddess carried a significantly different connotation than Mr. Amberson’s status as god. Yes, Miss Thornbury was every bit as smart as Mr. Amberson, but for some reason the feelings she roused in him went well beyond admiration and respect. Rory just wasn’t quite able to identify exactly what those “beyond” feelings were.

      Furthermore, for some reason when he thought of Miss Thornbury as a goddess, it always evoked a mental image of her wearing some flowing, gossamer—really almost translucent—gown, the kind that dropped off one shoulder and dipped low over lush breasts, draping seductively against an elegant waist, with the side slit high enough so that one firm, naked, creamy thigh was exposed, and—

      Ahem.

      Where was he?

      Oh, yes. The translucent, goddess-like garment. Rory never envisioned Mr. Amberson in something like that when he thought about him as a god. It was something of a paradox, really.

      Tonight, however, Miss Thornbury’s translucent garment was nowhere to be seen, something about which, Rory discovered, he had mixed feelings. Still, her smart white blouse and straight beige skirt were practical and not unattractive, even if there was nothing even remotely goddess-like about the attire. Coupled with the dark-blond hair caught at her nape and the deep-gray eyes unadorned with cosmetics, she was by no means a remarkable-looking woman. But her mouth was rather good, he noted, not for the first time, wide and full and lush, and the sight of it now roused deep inside him something hot and wanton and demanding and—

      Ahem.

      Where was he?

      Oh, yes. He was leaving the library to go home. Alone. Where there wouldn’t be anyone with a full, lush mouth, dressed as a goddess, waiting for him.

      “Good evening, Professor Monahan,” Miss Thornbury greeted him warmly at his approach.

      “Hello, Miss Thornbury,” he replied, as was his custom.

      “How’s the research going?”

      “Very well, thank you.”

      As was likewise the custom, they chitchatted as they passed through the main entrance—evidently she’d forgotten the details of their earlier interlude, too, because she made no reference to it at all as they spoke—and then she locked the doors behind them. As was not customary, however, she juggled a large, unwieldy box under one arm as she performed her nightly routine. Rory was about to offer her some assistance when the box pitched forward, dumping its entire contents onto the walkway just outside the entrance. An assortment of glossy magazines fanned out between the two of them, and immediately he stooped to help her pick them up.

      “I didn’t realize you were such a fan of Metropolitan,” he said when he noted what the majority of the magazines was.

      Somehow, Miss Thornbury just didn’t seem the Metro Girl type, even with the translucent gown thing going. On the contrary, the models depicted on the covers of Metropolitan were much more scantily dressed than even his goddess-vision of Miss Thornbury, and they wore cosmetics that had evidently been applied with trowels and other such garden implements. But even at that, not a single one of them had a mouth that was as lush and as ripe and as erotic and as hot and as—

      Ahem.

      Where was he?

      Oh, yes. None of them had a mouth that could compare with Miss Thornbury’s.

      She expelled an exasperated sound as she, too, dropped to her knees to join him in gathering up the scattered periodicals. “I’m not such a fan of Metropolitan,” she said, sounding a bit breathless for some reason, though what that reason might be, Rory could scarcely imagine. “But our illustrious mayor,” she continued, “has decided these are inappropriate for the library, and she’s ordered them removed.”

      Rory nodded, finding the revelation not at all surprising. “I did get the impression upon meeting Ms. Trent that she was something of a…of a…a, um…”

      “A prude?” Miss Thornbury offered helpfully—and not a little acerbically.

      Rory smiled. “Well, yes, I suppose that would be a suitable enough word for her.”

      “Mmm,” the librarian murmured. “I can think of a few others for her, as well. Ultraconservative. Right winger. Dictator. Fascist.”

      Rory chuckled. He’d never seen Miss Thornbury so passionate about something. And now that he did see her so passionate…

      Well, he hastily decided that it might be best not to dwell upon it.

      “I think Ms. Trent is just trying to make a good impression on the community,” he said instead. “She is, after all, Marigold’s first woman mayor. And she’s also the youngest mayor we’ve ever had. And she did run on the family-values platform.”

      “I don’t think it has anything to do with making a good impression, or even family values,” Miss Thornbury said. “I think it has to do with her being completely terrified of her own sexuality.”

      Miss Thornbury reached forward for a magazine at the same time Rory laid his own hand on it, and in the ensuing volleying for possession, their fingers somehow tangled together. That scant physical contact, coupled with hearing the word sexuality emanating from Miss Thornbury’s luscious lips, made something go tight and hot and urgent inside Rory. And suddenly he remembered very well the details of their earlier interlude. He remembered, because that same tight, hot, urgent sensation had shot through him then, too, the moment his hand had touched hers.

      Good God, he thought as the sensation shook him for a second time. What on earth was that?

      He glanced up at the same time Miss Thornbury did, only to find her blushing. And somehow he knew—he just knew—it was because she had experienced a similar reaction herself. How very, very odd.

      And how very, very interesting.

      “I am so sorry I said that,” she apologized, her cheeks going even pinker. He couldn’t help but note, however, that she did nothing to untangle their fingers. “I spoke out of turn,” СКАЧАТЬ