And when Professor Monahan spun around to see if it was, she hastily turned and, even more hastily, clicked the mouse to shrink the screen. Which left visible on the monitor nothing but the “Great Metaphysical Philosophers of the Eighteenth Century” wallpaper that she’d downloaded herself earlier that morning.
When she straightened again, it was to find that Professor Monahan was still craning his neck to gaze out the office door, toward the circulation desk. “I don’t see any artist,” he said. “Or any prince, for that matter.” He turned back to face Miriam, his expression puzzled. “In fact, I don’t recall any prince who is an artist. Not in this century, at any rate.” He brightened. “Now, during the Renaissance, you had any number of—”
“Professor Monahan?” Miriam interjected lightly. She’d seen before how his scholarly tangents could go on for a long, long time, and she knew she had to nip this one in the bud, or else she’d never have time to complete all the work she had on her agenda today.
“Yes, Miss Thornbury?” he asked.
“Volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War, wasn’t that what you wanted?”
He appeared bewildered again for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite remember who or where he was. Then, suddenly, his expression cleared, and he smiled. “Why, yes. That’s exactly what I was looking for. How did you know?”
She smiled back. “You just told me.”
“Ah. I see. Well.”
He blushed at his display of absentminded professorship, and Miriam’s heart did a funny little flip-flop in her chest. Oh, he was just too adorable for words.
“Do you know where it is?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she told him. “I guess it’s true that great minds think alike. Because as providence would have it, I was reading it myself over lunch earlier.” She turned again, this time hefting the fat, leather-bound book from her desk. Then she spun back around to stride toward him. “I always like learning about new things,” she said as she went. “And I found the fifth chapter in particular to be quite interesting.”
Professor Monahan grinned a bit shyly as he adjusted his glasses. “I know,” he told her. “I’ve read it three or four times myself. It’s quite outstanding. Thank you, Miss Thornbury,” he added as he took the book from her.
Somehow, though, during the exchange—and Miriam had no idea how it happened, truly—their fingers became entangled, and as they vied for possession, the book went spilling to the floor. It landed on its back with a loud thwack, and both she and Professor Monahan stooped at the same time to pick it up. But as each of them reached for it—and Miriam had no idea how it happened, truly—their fingers wove awkwardly together again, and before she knew it, her hand was linked completely with his, and a dangerous, outrageous thrill was dashing through her body.
And all she could do was think that if this was the reaction she had to simply holding hands with the man, then what would happen to her if the two of them joined more intimately?
And then all she could do was blush—furiously. Because she glanced up to find that Professor Monahan’s light-blue eyes seemed warmer somehow, and his cheeks were flushed with what might be embarrassment, but which could very well be something else entirely. His expression suggested that his own reaction to their light touch was none too sweet. Nor did it seem quiet. Nor did it seem harmless.
Oh, dear.
Immediately Miriam let go of both the book and Professor Monahan’s hand, then she pushed herself quickly back to standing. She tucked behind her ear a stray strand of blond hair that had escaped her barrette and did everything she could to avoid his gaze. She realized quickly, though, that such an effort was unnecessary. Because no sooner had she stood than Professor Monahan bolted. Right through the office door, out to the circulation desk, with a very hasty, “Good day, Miss Thornbury, and thank you again,” tossed over his shoulder.
And then Miriam was left feeling oddly dazed and disoriented, as if someone had just— What was the phrase they used in historical romances? She tried to remember. (Well, one couldn’t exist on a steady diet of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War, could one?) Ah, yes. Now she recalled the phrase. She felt as if someone had just…tumbled her. Quite thoroughly, too. It was an odd sensation. But not altogether unpleasant.
No, not unpleasant at all.
She smiled what was almost certainly a wicked smile. She was almost certain of that, because she felt wicked at the moment. And speaking of wicked…
She remembered then that there was still a window open on the computer screen which she very much needed to close. She returned to her desk and had just brought the screen back up, when she was interrupted yet again in her effort to get rid of the, um, hot…wet…bods.
“Miriam, I need a word with you right away,” Isabel Trent, Marigold’s mayor, said as she entered.
Hastily Miriam spun back around, positioning herself in much the same way she had done earlier, when she’d been trying to spare Professor Monahan’s tender sensibilities. Because Ms. Trent’s tender sensibilities would go absolutely ballistic if the mayor saw what the town librarian had been inspecting prior to her arrival, even if the mayor was the one who was responsible for the town librarian’s finding it in the first place.
“Yes, Ms. Trent? Can I help you?” Miriam asked innocently, feeling a wave of déjà vu.
“It’s of utmost importance,” the mayor told her.
Of course, everything was of utmost importance to Isabel Trent, Miriam thought with a sigh. Nevertheless she adopted her expression of utmost gravity as she replied, “Oh? I’m all ears.”
Ms. Trent, too, wore a standard uniform for her job, Miriam had noted some time ago, a uniform of tightly buttoned, very conservative suits. Today’s selection was dark-blue in color—almost the same dark-blue as her eyes—but it was as closely bound as all the others. Her spun-gold hair was closely bound, too, wound up in a terse knot at the back of her head. Huge, tortoiseshell glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, giving the mayor the appearance of someone trying to hide from something. Like the world, for instance.
Honestly, Miriam thought, lifting a hand to her own dishwater—drat it—ponytail. Isabel Trent was an even blander-looking person than Miriam was herself. And that was saying something.
“It’s about all those copies of Metropolitan magazine scattered about in Periodicals,” the mayor said.
Miriam nodded. “Those are checked out and read very frequently. I apologize if there’s a mess. I’ll have someone tidy them right away.”
Ms. Trent straightened to her full—and very militant—five feet four inches. “No, you’ll have someone get rid of them right away.”
Miriam’s dishwater-blond eyebrows—drat them—shot up beneath her dishwater-blond—drat them, too—bangs. “I beg your pardon?” she asked.
“I said you’ll get rid of them,” the mayor echoed. “Completely. Cancel the library’s subscription.”
“But…but why?” Miriam asked. “As I said, Metropolitan is one of the library’s most popular periodicals.”
“Yes, well, it’s also one of the library’s most unacceptable periodicals.”
“Unacceptable? In what way?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed some of those headlines that appear on the cover of the magazine,” the mayor stated in a cool, clipped tone.
“Well, no, I haven’t,” Miriam said honestly. “I don’t read Metropolitan myself.” She braved a halfhearted smile. “I’m not much of a Metro Girl, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I should hope not,” Ms. Trent