The Temptation of Rory Monahan

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,” she added quickly, huskily. “I never should have said such a thing about Ms. Trent. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Well, clearly, Rory thought, she’d been thinking about sexuality. The mayor’s, if not her own. Though how one could think about someone else’s sexuality without at least giving one’s own some little consideration was beyond him. Not that he himself spent any gratuitous amount of time thinking about anyone’s sexuality, he quickly reminded himself, but on those few occasions when he did, he could never think about someone else’s sexuality without allowing his own a quick run. Which meant that at the moment he was pondering not just the mayor’s sexuality but his own sexuality, too, and also, since she was the one who brought it up in the first place—if one could pardon the incredibly tacky pun— Miss Thornbury’s sexuality, as well.

And that brought him right back to the translucent goddess gown again, only this time it was infinitely more translucent than it had ever been before, and it was dropping far too seductively off one shoulder, and it was dipping dangerously low over her lush breasts, and as for that one firm, naked, creamy thigh, well—

Ahem.

Where was he?

Oh, yes. Miss Thornbury’s sexuality. No! His own sexuality. No, not that, either! The mayor’s sexuality. Ah, yes. That was something he could think about safely. Essentially because Isabel Trent, as far as Rory was concerned, anyway, had no sexuality to speak of. And still Miss Thornbury had not freed her hand from his, and somehow Rory found himself reluctant to perform the task himself.

“I…I…I…” Miss Thornbury stammered. But she seemed not to know what else to add, so she clamped her mouth shut tight.

Which was a shame, Rory thought, because in doing so, she ruined the sensual line of those full, ripe, rosy lips, lips that just begged for a man to dip his head to hers and cover her mouth with his and taste her deeply, wantonly, demandingly—

And good God, where was his head this evening?

Quickly Rory released her hand and surrendered the magazine to her—but not before he caught a headline that screamed, Love Your Man Orally TONIGHT! which just brought back that translucent-gown thing yet again and, worse, the ripe, luscious-mouth thing again, both with much more troubling explicitness than ever before.

“I really must be going,” he said suddenly, rocketing to his feet. “I have to get home and prepare an oral sex— I mean an oral sexam, uh…oral exam—for my students tomorrow.”

And before Rory could further humiliate himself, he spun on his heel and fled.

Miriam carefully sipped her hot Sleepytime tea, snuggled more deeply into the cool, cotton pillows she had stacked between her and her headboard, listened to the soothing strains of Mozart that drifted from the stereo…and squirmed a bit on the mattress as she read about loving her man orally TONIGHT! Honestly. The things they printed in magazines these days. She’d seen college girls reading Metropolitan magazine and hadn’t thought a thing about it. Now…

Well, now Miriam was thinking that the girls growing up in Marigold today knew a lot more about things than she’d known as a girl growing up in Indianapolis. So much for big-city sophistication.

She sipped her tea again and closed the magazine—after finishing the article, of course, because librarians never left an article unfinished—then she arced her gaze over the other issues of Metropolitan that were scattered about her bed. She hadn’t known what else to do with all the magazines she’d confiscated that afternoon, except bring them home with her. Naturally, she hadn’t wanted to discard them, because she was sure that eventually she—or else Douglas Amberson—would be able to talk Isabel Trent out of her misguided notion that the Marigold Free Public Library needed policing. And then Miriam could return the issues of Metropolitan to their rightful place in periodicals, along with the issues of the half dozen other magazines she’d been required to remove.

For now, though, all of those magazines would be living here at her apartment with her. And since she was a librarian with a love for the written word, Miriam was naturally drawn to the magazines. Especially the issues of Metropolitan, though she was absolutely certain that the only reason for that was because of the bright colors and simple composition the covers seemed to uniformly present, and not because of all those scandalous headlines with the proliferation of capital letters and exclamation points. At any rate she had found herself sifting through the magazines and had eventually started to read them.

Which was how she came to be in her current position, encircled by the glossy journals on her bed. Now scantily clad, heavily made-up women gazed back at her with much boredom, their images surrounded by headlines that screamed instructions like, JUST DO IT—in Every Room in the House! and Find His Erogenous Zones—and Help Him find YOURS! and Call of the Siren—BE the Devil with the Blue Dress On!

Miriam shook her head in bemusement. Did women truly read these articles? she wondered. Did they genuinely find them helpful? Did they honestly put their “tips” to good use? Because she herself couldn’t imagine the magazine actually offering any information that the normal, average—i.e. not a nymphomaniac—woman might be able to actually apply to her normal, average—i.e. not oversexed—everyday life.

Miriam set her tea on her nightstand and was about to collect the assortment and return them to the box in which she’d originally placed them, when her gaze lit on one headline in particular.

Awaken Your Inner Temptress! it shouted at her. And below it, in smaller letters, You Know You Want to!

Hmm, thought Miriam.

And in the same issue: Go from Invisible to Irresistible in Just Seven Seductive Steps!

And somehow Miriam found herself reaching for the issue in question, telling herself, Well, it won’t hurt to look, now, will it?

She flipped to the Inner Temptress article first, and read all about how she was suppressing a very natural part of her psyche by refusing to admit that she could turn any man of her acquaintance into putty with her bare hands—all she had to do was uncover the secrets of what those bare hands could do. And as she read further, she discovered that her bare hands, the very ordinary-looking ones with the short, clipped nails, the ones that sorted efficiently through the card catalogue everyday, the ones that capably sliced fresh, nutritious vegetables for her regular evening repast, could also, very easily…

Oh, my.

Oh, my goodness, no. They couldn’t do that. Could they? Well, perhaps they could, she finally conceded as she read a bit further. Maybe if she did awaken her Inner Temptress.

Miriam blushed furiously when she realized the avenue down which her thoughts had traveled. Oh, no, her bare hands could not do that, either, she told herself sternly. They couldn’t even do it if they had on gloves. Which, when one considered such a scenario, actually added a rather naughty dimension to the potential, all things considered, especially if they were latex gloves, and—

No, she insisted more firmly. She was not going to indulge in such…such…such wanton behavior, Inner Temptress or no Inner Temptress. Miriam Thornbury simply was not that kind of girl. The very idea. Honestly.

So what else did the article have to say…?

As she continued with her reading, Miriam also learned that she wasn’t putting her store of repartee to effective use at all. No, where she had always been under the impression that good repartee was generally used more for, oh, say…conversation, she now discovered that it was widely used, particularly in Europe, as a tool for sexual enticement. She’d had no idea, truly. How she had lived her life for twenty-eight years without such knowledge was beyond her.

Reading further, she also learned how one’s very wardrobe could be used as a weapon of seduction. This actually came as no surprise, because Miriam did, after all, receive the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, even if the only thing she had ever ordered from it were those wonderful flowing, white Victorian nightgowns that took up only two pages of the publication. She had at least looked at the rest of the catalogue. And she’d been reasonably certain that most of those other undergarments were not worn for the sake of comfort and functionality. Mainly because they looked in no way comfortable or functional, what with all their squeezing and lifting and expanding of a woman’s—

Well. At any rate the undergarments weren’t what one might call practical. Which meant they were worn for some other purpose than to be, well, practical. And it didn’t take a genius to realize what that purpose was. S-E-X. ’Nuff said.

Still, it had never occurred to Miriam that she herself might don one of those sexy fashions. One of the cute little black ones, say. Made of that delicious-looking, see-through lace. With those brief, naughty demi-cups. And garters. Oh, yes. According to Metropolitan magazine, one must wear garters if one was to proceed successfully with awakening one’s Inner Temptress. And now that Miriam did think about donning such…accoutrements…

She blushed furiously, that’s what she did.

How on earth could she even think of such a thing? Miriam Thornbury was not the black-lace, demicup, garter-belt type. No, ma’am. Flowing, white, ankle-length, embroidered cotton was much more her style. Still, she might make some headway in the repartee department, she told herself. She’d always been very good at repartee. She’d just never tried to use it for…temptation. Now that she did give some thought to the possibility of doing so…

She blushed furiously again.

Absolutely not. There was no way she would be able to walk up to Professor Rory Monahan at the library and say something like, “Hello, Rory. Is that volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War you have in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Oh, no, no, no, no, no. That would never do.

She sighed fitfully as she tossed the magazine back onto the bed. Clearly, her Inner Temptress was sleeping quite soundly. Clearly, her Inner Temptress was out like a light. Clearly, her Inner Temptress was buried much too deep inside to ever show her face in Marigold, Indiana. It was ridiculous to even think about becoming such a thing. She was practical, pragmatic Miriam Thornbury. Capable, competent Miriam Thornbury. Staid, sensible Miriam Thornbury.

Drab, dull Miriam Thornbury, she concluded morosely. No wonder Rory Monahan scarcely paid her any heed.

Ah, well, she thought further. Even if she was a devil with a blue dress on, Rory Monahan still probably wouldn’t pay her any heed. He was a man on a quest. A quest for Knowledge with a capital K. Not even a devil with a blue dress on would have a hope of swaying him from his chosen course. Not unless that devil with a blue dress on was holding volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War, or some such thing.

Hmmm, Miriam thought again, brightening.