12 Shades Of Surrender: Bound. Lisa Renee Jones

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      “It was her you were fucking, wasn’t it?” she asked, her voice soft and without accusation. “Your wife, right? Lucky lady.”

      Daniel’s only answer was to slip out of her. He left the bed and threw on his clothes.

      “Keep the bed,” he said without looking at her. “Tonight this is the warmest room in the house.”

      “But where will you—” Eleanor started to ask, but he was already gone.

      She groaned in frustration and collapsed back on the bed. She blew out the candles and yanked the covers to her chin. After a few minutes in the dark, she felt the presence of ghosts in the room—the ghost of Daniel’s late wife and the more fearsome ghost of the man Daniel had been before her death. Eleanor knew she lay with them in the ghost of their marriage bed. She tossed the covers aside, found her nightgown, and returned to her own bedroom. She crawled back into her freezing bed where at least she knew that the only cold body between the sheets would be her own.

      Eleanor awoke the next morning and heard the faint but reassuring hum that indicated the power had been restored to the house. She showered and dressed and scrounged for breakfast in the grand but near-empty kitchen. Still … although the kitchen felt abandoned, something told her she wasn’t alone in the house. Last night’s snow had been far too thick and heavy for the roads to be safely passable yet. Once her stomach was comfortably full, she began a cursory exploration. Ears attuned to the slightest sound, she paused outside a closed door near the backside of the house and heard the unmistakable sound of books sliding across a shelf.

      She let loose a wolf whistle as she entered. The library was far larger inside than the unobtrusive door had presaged and was stocked with row after row, case after case of books. Enough books to start her own bookstore.

      “I knew I heard books,” she said to no one in particular.

      “You hear books?” Daniel’s lightly sarcastic voice came from the far left corner of the library. “Interesting. Most people actually have to read them.”

      “It’s a gift,” she said, shrugging. “What are you doing?”

      Daniel stood behind a desk stacked shoulder high with books.

      “I am draining all the alphabet soup out of my library.” She raised an eyebrow at him as she walked to the desk. “I thought you were a bibliophile,” Daniel taunted in response to her puzzled look.

      “I am a bibliophile. A bibliophiend even. But I still have no idea what you are talking about.”

      “Well, as your book knowledge comes from the retail side of the industry then I’ll pardon your ignorance.” He winked at her and she fairly flushed as a sensory memory from last night hit her lower stomach with soft but insistent force. And the light, that certain white light created only by the morning sun reflecting off new-fallen snow rendered Daniel’s handsome features almost luminous. She almost forgot what they’d been talking about. “Let’s see, at your bookstore your books are divided by subject and then alphabetized by author’s last name, yes?”

      “Right. With a few exceptions.”

      “Well, libraries aren’t allowed any exceptions. The books have to be in perfect order at all times. You can’t do that with just sorting by genre and then alphabetizing.”

      “Yeah, that’s what the Dewey Decimal system is for, right?”

      “But there isn’t just Dewey. There’s the Library of Congress classification system. Dewey is a clean, efficient system, ten main classes divided by ten and so on. The Library of Congress is alpha-numeric and based on 26 classes, one for each letter of the alphabet. Compared to Dewey it is crude and confusing, and I only had the library that way because of Maggie. It’s what she was used to.”

      “Alpha-numeric—so that’s your alphabet soup.”

      “Yes, and this library has been disorganized soup for far too long.” Daniel shook his head as he wrote out a series of numbers on an index card and slipped it inside the front cover of a book.

      “Oh my God,” Eleanor said, sounding utterly shocked.

      “What?”

      “You’re a nerd.”

      Daniel only looked at her a moment before laughing.

      “I am not a nerd. I’m a librarian.”

      “No way,” she said, recalling again the ferocious passion and the skill he’d demonstrated last night. “Guess they were right.”

      “Who?”

      “You know, whoever said ‘it’s always the quiet ones.’”

      Daniel’s mouth twitched to a wicked half grin. “I’m the quiet ones,” he said, flashing a look at Eleanor that nearly dropped her to her knees.

      She coughed and shook herself out of the erotic reverie she’d fallen into.

      “Okay,” she said, walking toward him with more gusto than guts. “I can accept that you’re a librarian and a sex god—”

      “Well, considering your lover is a pr—”

      “Nope. Nyet. Halt. I told you last night—”

      “Oh, yes. I had forgotten. Our mutual acquaintance is off-limits to discussion.”

      “If you want me to survive this week with what passes for my mental health intact, then yes.”

      “Which I do. So I apologize. But as we barely know each other, finding a topic of conversation apart from our mutual friend might be difficult.”

      “Oh, I doubt that,” she said, sitting on the table next to a stack of books. “We’ve got books in common, sex …” She ticked them off on her fingers.

      “All of two,” Daniel said skeptically.

      “Well …” She stuck out her foot and tapped his leg lightly. “We’ve got you.”

      “Me?”

      “Yeah. I’m curious. You’re a curiosity. As long as you don’t mind answering personal questions—”

      “How personal?” Daniel interrupted.

      “Unapologetically intrusive, knowing me. Unconscionably so.”

      “You have a large vocabulary, Eleanor.”

      “And you have a large …” She paused as he gave her a warning look. “House.”

      “I do.”

      “How does a librarian afford a house like this? That was the first unapologetically personal question, for those of you keeping count.”

      Daniel smiled but Eleanor saw the pale ghost of pain pass across his eyes.

      “Librarians can’t afford houses like this. But a partner in a Manhattan law firm can.”

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