The Temptation of Rory Monahan

“It is if they’re using computers purchased with the taxpayers’ dollars.”

Miriam wasn’t sure how to reply to that, mainly because she knew Isabel Trent had already made up her mind that the Marigold Free Public Library would be using a filter system, and there would be no reasoning or arguing with her on that score. And, truth be told, having viewed the contents of hotwetbabes-and-bods.com, Miriam was hard-pressed to launch much of a defense, anyway.

“At any rate,” she finally conceded, “this particular filter isn’t effective in the way you demand that it be effective.”

Isabel Trent lifted her chin a fraction. “Well then, try the next one on the list.”

Miriam inhaled a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “Whatever you say, Ms. Trent.”

In one swift, graceful gesture, the mayor scooped up the book she had dropped on the floor and tossed it onto Miriam’s desk. Then, averting her gaze, she felt around awkwardly until she found the button to switch off the computer monitor. Miriam bit her lip to prevent herself from pointing out that, in her effort to avoid seeing all those male members on the monitor, Ms. Trent brushed her fingers inadvertently over quite a few of them in her pursuit of the power button.

After finally succeeding in switching the monitor off, the mayor spun back around. “I’m going to start inspecting the children’s section this weekend,” she said starchily. “I’ll make a list of everything I want removed from there.”

Once again, Miriam gaped. “But that’s—”

“Don’t argue with me, Miriam,” the mayor interrupted. “I have the approval of the majority of members on the board of aldermen behind me on this. I want this library to be a facility where families can feel comfortable.”

Miriam chose her words carefully. “Families have felt comfortable in this facility for more than a hundred years, Ms. Trent. The Marigold Free Public Library can take care of itself. And so can all the Marigoldians who use it. They don’t need someone else telling them what they are and are not allowed access to.”

She might as well have been talking to a brick wall, because the mayor offered no indication that she’d heard a word of Miriam’s admonishment. “Keep looking for an effective filter,” Ms. Trent said. “And get rid of those magazines on the list I gave you. Today. When I come back this weekend, I want to see that this library reflects the decency and family values of all who use it.”

And without awaiting a reply, the mayor of Marigold, Indiana, spun on her heel and exited the office. Miriam watched her go with a sinking heart. It wasn’t the decency and family values of the library patrons that Isabel Trent wanted reflected here, she thought. No, what Isabel Trent wanted the library to reflect was the decency and family values of Isabel Trent. Period.

Miriam decided to take the matter up with Douglas when he returned from his vacation the following week, but for now she had no choice but to do as the mayor had instructed. She glanced down at the list of periodicals she still held in her hands and shook her head with much disappointment. It appeared her afternoon was going to be quite full now, what with all the censoring and blacklisting she had to do.

My, my, my, she thought. A librarian’s work was never done. With a sigh of defeat Miriam went to work.

Two

Rory Monahan was, as usual, far too absorbed in his work to notice that the library was closing—until he was plunged into almost total darkness. He sighed as he glanced up at the extinguished lights overhead and waited for his vision to adjust. Then he carefully inserted an index card to mark his place in the heavy tome he’d opened on the table before him, and flipped it closed. Damn. Just when he’d found exactly what he’d been looking for, too.

But Rory didn’t mind leaving his work where it lay. It would be here waiting for him tomorrow afternoon when he returned, as he invariably would. He was confident that no one would come along and reshelve all the work and trouble he’d gone to tonight, because the table at which he sat was, unofficially, Professor Monahan’s domain. Everyone who worked in the Marigold Free Public Library, from Mr. Amberson, the head librarian, right down to Gladys Dorfman, who cleaned up after hours, knew not to touch a thing on this particular table.

After settling his wire-rimmed glasses back on the bridge of his nose, Rory launched himself momentarily into a full-body stretch. Upon completing it, he shoved a restless hand through his black hair, noting, without much surprise, that he was long overdue for a trim. He made a halfhearted—and only partly successful—effort to straighten the knot in his tie but didn’t bother rolling the cuffs of his shirt back down to his wrists. He collected his tweed jacket—which was really much too warm for July, but Rory couldn’t imagine going anywhere without it—then scooped up his notes and filed them meticulously in his leather satchel. Then he neatly stacked, in volume order, all the reference books he’d used that evening, and he rose to make his way out.

He was confident that whichever librarian was on duty, either Mr. Amberson or Miss Thornbury—though, for some reason, he was thinking Miss Thornbury was working today, but he couldn’t remember now just how he knew that—would be waiting for him by the main exit, just as he or she was always inevitably waiting for Rory by the main exit when they were closing the library. Whichever librarian it was would greet him warmly, ask him how his research was going, accompany him through the front door and lock up behind them.

It was, after all, a routine. And routine was a very good thing, as far as Rory Monahan was concerned. Routine was exactly the way he liked things. Well planned. Predictable. Secure. Safe. Life, to his way of thinking, was good.

It got even better when he saw that it was indeed Miss Thornbury waiting by the doors this particular evening, and Rory recalled then why he had known it would be her. They’d had an interlude of sorts in her office that afternoon, hadn’t they? The details of that interlude escaped him now, swamped as they had been over the last several hours by great, hulking chunks of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War. But for some reason, he recalled the interlude with a feeling of fondness. In fact, for some reason, he recalled it with a warm flutter of something rather intense skipping through his midsection, a warm flutter of something that felt very much like…desire?

Oh, surely not.

Ah, well. No matter, Rory thought. All that mattered was that his mind had retained the important things, the details he’d garnered and analyzed and recorded from numerous volumes of Stegman’s.

As he drew nearer Miss Thornbury, though, those details began to fade a bit, and something warm and easy and indolent wound through him. Involuntarily, Rory smiled. She always had that effect on him for some reason, every time he saw her. He had no idea why. But invariably, when he encountered her, something that had previously felt off-kilter seemed to shift right into place.

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.”