The Virgin And The Vagabond

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s the problem. You give it to everything in a skirt.”

“Not necessarily,” he countered. “Sometimes they’re wearing pants. Or swimsuits. Or wet suits. Or ski gear. Or lingerie. Or nothing at all.”

Kirby wished he wouldn’t go into such detail. She really didn’t want to know. Mainly because it hurt to realize that the only reason he had any interest in her was because of her gender. He’d leap on anything that had produced estrogen at some point in its life.

“You don’t have to spell it out for me,” she muttered. “I know what kind of man you are. I know you’ve been with a lot of other women.”

He smiled at her phrasing. “Other women?” he asked softly. “Why, Kirby, you almost sound like you’re jealous.”

She rolled her eyes and squelched the realization that for some bizarre reason, she was precisely that. “Oh, please. If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s jealous of anyone who might come into contact with you.”

“Your lips say ‘no,’ but your eyes...”

He let the old adage drift off, his smile becoming so smug now that Kirby wanted to smack it right off his face. With no small effort, she prevented herself from tearing the magazine to shreds right before his eyes—it was, after all, library property—and instead slammed it back down onto its resting place.

“Go away,” she said as clearly as she could. “Leave me alone. I never want to see you again.”

He laughed, a low, rough sound that was more than a little suggestive. For some reason, she had the impression that he wanted to touch her. But instead of reaching out, he shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets and continued to stare at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“You are such an interesting woman,” he said softly, his voice a near purr. “So exciting. So stimulating. So...” He inhaled deeply and released the breath in a slow, ragged stream, as if he were trying very hard to rein in some impulse that threatened to gallop out of control. “So...arousing,” he finally finished on an uneven whisper.

Well, that certainly caught Kirby’s attention. In addition to having never been seen naked by any man in Endicott, she’d never been called exciting or stimulating—and certainly not arousing—by any man in Endicott. And she’d never been looked at as if she were some half-naked Venus to be plundered, either.

But with one heated look and a few suggestive remarks, James Nash seemed to be more than capable of making up for all the past oversights of every man in town. Kirby was suddenly assaulted by a sensation she’d never experienced before, a thrill of something hot and urgent and needful boiling up inside her, a hunger for some unknown quantity that only James Nash could fill.

Uh-oh.

“I...I...I...” she began. But for some reason, no other letters came forth to form words that might help her out of her predicament.

He moved a generous step forward, an action that brought his body to within inches of hers. Kirby felt as if his heat were surrounding her, and when she inhaled, she filled her lungs with the scent of him, something dark and masculine and exciting. His gaze fastened on her mouth, his lips parted slightly, as if he were about to bend forward and sweep her into oblivion.

And even though she assured herself that kissing a man like him was the absolute last thing she wanted to do, she realized a profound disappointment when he didn’t kiss her.

Instead, he lifted one arm to prop it against the bookcase beside them, and leaned in farther still, until his face was scarcely millimeters away from hers. Kirby breathed deeply of him again, holding her breath inside for as long as she dared, growing dizzy and intoxicated by the scent of him. And when her eyes began to flutter downward, when she felt herself involuntarily drawing closer to him, she had to force herself to pull away.

She snapped her eyes open and exhaled unsteadily, willing her heart rate to level off. But her pulse only quickened when her gaze met James’s. Because the way he was looking at her was downright scandalous.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he instructed her without an ounce of inquiry in his voice.

“I...I...I...” Kirby gave her brain a mental shove to drive it out of the scratched groove it had entered. Unfortunately, when she did that, she found that every instinct she possessed was insisting she shout “Okay!” in response to his demand.

With a fierce mental shush to her instincts, she said softly, reluctantly, “I can’t.”

Her refusal had no effect on him whatsoever. He only continued to gaze at her in that maddeningly seductive way and lifted a hand to her face. In an act of self-preservation, she ducked her head away from his touch. But he only curled his index finger gently beneath her chin and effortlessly nudged her head backward, until she found herself gazing into his face again.

Then, oh, so softly, he asked, “Why not?”

Her blood roared as it rushed through her body, its velocity striking heat in every cell it hurtled past. For a moment, she could only stare at him, wondering how on earth she had found herself in such a situation. She wanted to throw caution to the wind and take him up on anything—everything—he had to offer.

Then she reminded herself what kind of man he was. He didn’t claim a single character trait she insisted upon finding in a mate. He was a ne’er-do-well with no marketable skills, no job, no formal education, no roots and no desire to settle down. Okay, he was rich, so he didn’t really have any need of those particular traits, she conceded. Fine. He still wasn’t the kind of man she needed or wanted.

“I...um, I have other plans,” she stammered. “I have to be somewhere. Right...right now, as a matter of fact.”

Still, he was unfazed by her assertion. He cupped her jaw resolutely in his warm, rough hand and skimmed his thumb lightly over her cheekbone, starting a fire deep inside her that she feared would rage on forever.

“Like I said,” he told her softly, “I’ll wait.”

When he lifted his other hand, skimmed her hair aside and curved his fingers easily around her nape, her heart beat even more fiercely. “Oh...” she breathed softly, her eyes fluttering closed as the flames leapt higher and hotter inside her.

The thumb stroking her cheek continued its erotic rhythm as the fingers on her nape began to urge her forward, closer to James. For one delicious, delirious moment, she let herself be swayed, allowed herself to be overrun by his touch, his voice, his scent, his power.

Then, when she realized how easily she was succumbing to him, she forced her eyes open, leaned away and continued. “I mean, uh...I..I might be a while.”

He smiled that sexy smile again, and his gray eyes grew dark with something that touched her way deep down inside her soul. “That’s okay,” he said softly. The thumb caressing her cheek shifted down to skim lightly over her lower lip, and a tiny explosion of delight sprayed against her belly. “I don’t mind waiting for you,” he added. “You’re worth waiting for.”

Oh, wow, Kirby thought.

This was definitely a new experience for her. No man had ever spoken to her in such a blatantly suggestive way before. But here was James, an absolutely gorgeous specimen of manhood, who was actually interested in her, who was actually coming on to her, who was actually trying to...to...oh, God, who was actually trying to seduce her.

Not him, she told herself. Anyone but him. He was the last man on earth she should go up against. Over and over she told herself these things, until finally, finally, the warnings registered in her flustered brain. And when she realized she stood so little chance against him, when she understood that as long as he was within a football field’s length of her, she wouldn’t be able to resist him, then she knew all she could do was try to escape.

“No!” she cried suddenly, doubling her fists against his chest to shove herself backward, stumbling away from him when she finally did. Involuntarily her hand flew to her mouth, the backs of her fingers rubbing lightly over the lips he had touched so tenderly. Though whether she was trying to wipe away the sensation of his caress or preserve it forever, she honestly didn’t know.

Too late, she remembered that she and James were standing in a library. A really quiet library. A really quiet library with marble walls and floor, something she realized belatedly created a virtual soundstage for echoes. The moment the word No! left Kirby’s mouth, it ricocheted right back at her, punctuated by the stunned expressions of a dozen people nearby, and Mrs. Winslow’s fiercely uttered librarian’s “Shush!”

When Kirby saw that the majority of the people staring at them were members of the festival committee on their way upstairs for the meeting, she dropped her head helplessly into her hands. Then, without another word, without a backward glance, without a single thought for how monumentally embarrassed—and how utterly turned on—she still was, she spun around and fled.

As James watched Kirby’s flight, something he couldn’t ever recall feeling before unfolded deep in his belly. Regret. Honest-to-goodness regret that he would be denied the pleasure of her company for even a short period of time. He’d never felt that way about anyone in his entire life. Not about his family—such as it was—nor his friends—such as they were—nor his companions—ditto—nor even his lovers—major ditto. Yet a simple blond woman who was nearly a complete stranger had made him feel exactly that. Regretful. Bereft. Alone.

Amazing.

Then again, he recalled, Kirby wasn’t exactly a complete stranger. Not quite. Not anymore. Begley had discovered all kinds of things about her on his fishing expedition that afternoon, things that made James feel as if he knew her pretty well.

He shook his head in wonder as she disappeared through a pair of doors on the other side of the room, ahead of a group of people, all of whom—except Kirby—were glancing surreptitiously back over their shoulders at him. Only when they were completely out of sight did James allow himself to relax, to remember how soft and warm and compelling Kirby had been during their brief encounter, and to ponder again the wealth of information his valet had uncovered during a stroll through town a few hours earlier.

Begley had waxed poetic in particularly rhapsodic terms about an establishment dubbed the Dew Drop Inn, especially with regard to a certain proprietress named Jewel, of generous stature and even more generous proportions. In fact, Begley had gone on for so long about Jewel’s many charms that James had begun to wonder if his valet had ever even gotten around to completing the errand on which he’d been sent. Namely, digging up as much dirt as he could on a local citizen named Kirby Connaught.

Fortunately, Begley being the trusted and reliable servant that he was, he had performed his duties admirably. Eventually. And Jewel, it appeared, had been the one to provide him with all the sordid details.

According to the local barkeep, Kirby Connaught was a very good girl, a local scion of all things morally decent and profoundly innocent. She never had a harsh word to say about anyone—except, evidently, James. Nor was she capable of even the slightest misbehavior—except, apparently, theft of expensive champagne.

She was an orphan of modest means who still lived in the pink stucco house where she’d grown up, but also a daring entrepreneur who was trying—with questionable success—to launch her own decorating business. She was a regular churchgoer, a passionate art lover, an avid gardener, a reliable volunteer. A former cheerleader. A former calendar girl. A former senior class secretary, candy-striper, Girl Scout and National Merit Scholarship Semifinalist.

And, word had it, she was also a virgin. And not a former virgin, either. A current one.

That last part had really thrown James for a loop. Surely it wasn’t true. Surely the gossip was completely wrong. Surely there was no way the men in this town were stupid enough to have overlooked such a tempting, delectable, ripe, succulent, luscious, mouth-watering...

He inhaled a ragged breath and released it slowly. Such a supreme example of Venus in all her glory. Yet somehow, James knew that the gossip was indeed true. Kirby’s responses had been too quick, too obvious, too sensitive, too artless to have come from anyone other than a virgin.