The Temptation of Rory Monahan

Just how badly did she want Rory Monahan to notice her? she asked herself. And immediately she had her answer. Pretty badly. After all, she’d spent virtually the last six months wanting him to notice her. She’d spent virtually the last six months wanting him, period.

For six months she’d been walking into the Marigold Free Public Library in her usual fashion, to find the good professor sitting at his usual table in the reference section, performing his usual research in his usual manner. And she’d always melted in her usual fashion at how his blue eyes twinkled in their usual way, and how his mouth crooked up in his usual shy smile, and how his fingers threaded through his jet hair in his usual gesture of utter preoccupation. And she always responded to him in her usual way—by becoming very hot and very confused and very flustered.

And she’d spent the last six months, too, doing things and thinking about things that no self-respecting librarian should ever do or think about. Not in a public facility like a library, anyway. Because Miriam had spent the last six months fantasizing about Rory Monahan. Naturally, she’d also spent the last six months trying to reassure herself that the only reason she fantasized about him was because…because… Well, because…

Hmmm. Actually, now that she thought more about it, she wasn’t sure why she’d been fantasizing about him. Suddenly, though, now that she thought more about it, she realized that she very much wanted to find out.

Because suddenly, after reading all those articles in Metropolitan magazine, Miriam found herself armed with new knowledge. And she began to wonder if maybe all this new knowledge—whether she applied it the way Metro suggested or not—might just have some use. Although Professor Monahan had always been pleasant to her, had even gone so far as to smile warmly at her on occasion, he’d never shown any indication that he reciprocated her, um, interest. In fact, he’d never shown any indication that he reciprocated anything about her. Except, of course, for volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War.

Knowledge, she reiterated to herself. That was all Rory Monahan wanted from life. Knowledge, knowledge and more knowledge. And as much as Miriam admired knowledge in a person…

She sighed fitfully. She’d like to show Rory Monahan knowledge. Boy howdy, would she. And as she thought more about it, she began to think that maybe, just maybe, there might not be any harm in putting her own newly acquired knowledge to good use.

Not all of it, necessarily, she hastily qualified when she remembered the gist of some of those articles. Not even a lot of it, really. But some of it, perhaps. A little. Surely there had been one or two things in that Inner Temptress article, for example, that might prove useful. Provided, of course, she could use them without completely humiliating herself.

Because if Miriam did manage to use one or two of Metro’s suggestions to capture even a tiny bit of Professor Monahan’s attention, then she might just be able to garner a bit more of his attention all by herself. And if she did that, then she might very well win a nice prize for her efforts. She might very well win Professor Rory Monahan.

As prizes went, that was a pretty good one, as far as Miriam was concerned.

Now, where to begin? she wondered. Hadn’t there been another article of interest in that Inner Temptress issue? Something about going from invisible to irresistible in seven seductive steps? Not that Miriam would use all seven steps—heavens, no. She didn’t want to overwhelm the good professor, did she? Not yet, anyway. But surely one or two of those steps might be helpful, she thought. She hoped.

Reaching for the issue in question, she settled back against the pillows again to read.

Three

Rory was quite vexed. He was utterly certain he had left volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War sitting right here on his table in the reference section the night before, when he’d left the library at closing time. Yes, indeed, he was positive he had done so. Because he recalled very clearly stacking volumes twelve through eighteen in numerical order, and not one of them had been missing. Now, however, fifteen was gone.

It was quite the mystery, to be sure. No one—absolutely no one—at the Marigold Free Public Library had ever had the audacity to remove a reference book from his table. Everyone knew his research was far too important to him for anyone to ever interfere with it. Yet at some point between closing last night—he glanced down at his watch to discover that it was nearly 3:00 p.m.—and roughly 2:52 p.m. today, someone had used stealth and heaven only knew what other means to confiscate his book.

All right, all right, so it wasn’t his book, per se, Rory admitted reluctantly. Technically it belonged to the library. The transgression was no less severe as a result.

Let’s see now, he thought further. Who could possibly be the culprit? Gladys Dorfman, the custodian? It was entirely possible. Not only was she here alone at the library during the dark hours of the night, able to commit, unobserved, whatever mayhem she might want to commit, but she’d also been a student in one of Rory’s morning classes last spring and had shown an inordinate amount of interest in the Peloponnese.

It could be significant.

Mr. Amberson? Rory pondered further. Possible, but unlikely. Although Mr. Amberson had keys to the library and lived alone—a condition that would make an alibi difficult to either prove or disprove—the elder librarian’s preferred area of history lay decidedly further west and a good two millennia ahead, most notably in the New World at the time of its colonization.

Besides, Rory vaguely recalled, Mr. Amberson hadn’t been working the night before, and he doubted the man would make a special effort to come to the library for that particular volume, unless it was an emergency, which, Rory had to admit, was also entirely possible. He himself had experienced such crises of research from time to time, and they were by no means pleasant. They could conceivably drive a man to commit an act which, under normal circumstances, he would never consider committing.

Still, Rory doubted Mr. Amberson would have had reason to be in the library last night. No, it had been Miss Thornbury who had worked the previous evening, Miss Thornbury who had closed the li—

Miss Thornbury, Rory thought with a snap of his fingers. Of course. She must be the culprit. Not only had he caught her red-handed with volume fifteen of the Stegman’s yesterday afternoon in her office, but she was a relative newcomer to Marigold, having lived here only… Well, Rory wasn’t sure how long she had lived here, but it wasn’t very long.

At least, he was fairly certain it hadn’t been very long. Although he remembered—surprisingly well, actually—the day she had started working at the library, he couldn’t quite pinpoint when, exactly, that day had occurred. It had been snowing, though. He did recall that much. Because she had just come in from outside when he first made her acquaintance, and her nose had been touched adorably with red, and her eyes had glistened against the cold, and her mouth had been so full and so red and so luscious, not that that had necessarily been caused by the elements, but Rory had noticed it, and…and…and…

Where was he?

Oh, yes. The missing volume of Stegman’s. At any rate, there was a very good chance that Miss Thornbury didn’t even know about the unofficial don’t-touch-Professor-Monahan’s-table rule that everyone else in town held sacred.

Of course, that didn’t excuse her violation, Rory told himself. Ignorance was never an excuse. And he was confident that Miss Thornbury herself would agree with him on that score. He was going to have to make clear to her that his research was of utmost importance in and to the community at large. He owed it to her. And once he explained the situation, he was certain she would never commit such an egregious error in judgment again. He was also certain that she would thank him for setting her straight.

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.