Книга - The Virgin And The Vagabond

The Virgin And The Vagabond
Elizabeth Bevarly


BLAME IT ON BOB AFTER YEARS OF WAITING FOR MR. RIGHT…Hometown girl Kirby Connaught was saving herself - if not for marriage, then at least for the perfect man. Someone who was husband and father material. Someone who was clearly… not the arrogant and sexy, no-strings-attached playboy at her door. So why was she having such a hard time resisting him?WAS IT OKAY TO SAMPLE A LITTLE OF MR. WRONG? Globe-trotting bachelor James Nash was the "most desirable man in America," yet suddenly a small corner of it was looking mighty appealing to him. He knew that Kirby really wanted happily-ever-after with a local boy - but what was the harm in getting her to expand her territory a little?BLAME IT ON BOB: The comet passes through only once every fifteen years… but it leaves behind a lifetime of love!







“Why Have You Been Keeping Every Man Who Shows An Interest In Me At Arm’s Length?” (#u4e7273f7-c4f1-53ae-97b6-f81fa8d0fefa)Letter to Reader (#ua3fca777-eb6f-5dfe-96af-83b024df3acf)Title Page (#u497125d2-13ad-56d8-835c-c91637d6c28b)About the Author (#u104b955c-f846-5ec7-b770-80b92c565e33)Dedication (#u9d6a26b9-a109-5bfe-81be-8812a3f04695)Prologue (#ude502509-0cd2-5ab4-b197-91ed55e5e58c)Chapter One (#ub520b504-88e9-53d1-805b-901a89f9d144)Chapter Two (#uf297eeb9-eb68-57d9-824c-1fd6a94c14ab)Chapter Three (#u8dcd1c87-7134-568e-911f-6a00d25658eb)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“Why Have You Been Keeping Every Man Who Shows An Interest In Me At Arm’s Length?”

Kirby asked James again.

Oh, yeah. That. “Um...” he began eloquently. “It’s because, ah ... Well, you see...”

But try as he might to answer the question, James realized he simply could not. So what did Kirby do? She asked him another one.

“Because wasn’t the whole point to find a man who would fall in love with me forever-after?” she began again, evidently unwilling to let it go until he gave her an explanation for his behavior.

He really wished he had one to offer her. Or to himself, for that matter....


Dear Reader,

This month Silhouette Desire brings you six brand-new, emotional and sensual novels by some of the bestselling—and most behaved—authors in the romance genre. Cait London continues her hugely popular miniseries THE TALLCHEEFS with The Seduction of Fiona Tallchief, April’s MAN OF THE MONTH. Next, Elizabeth Bevarly concludes her BLAME IT ON BOB series with The Virgin and the Vagabond. And when a socialite confesses her virginity to a cowboy, she just might be Taken by a Texan, in Lass Small’s THE KEEPERS OF TEXAS miniseries.

Plus, we have Maureen Child’s Maternity Bride, The Cowboy and the Calendar Girl, the last in the OPPOSITES ATTRACT series by Nancy Martin, and Kathryn Taylor’s tale of domesticating an office-bound hunk in Taming the Tycoon.

I hope you enjoy all six of Silhouette Desire’s selections this month—and every month!

Regards,






Senior Editor

Silhouette Books

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service requests to:

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609. Fort Erie. Ont. L2A 5X3


Elizabeth Bevarly

The Virgin And The Vagabond










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ELIZABETH BEVARLY

is an honors graduate of the University of Louisville and achieved her dream of writing full-time before she even turned thirty! At heart, she is also an avid voyager who once helped navigate a friend’s thirty-five-foot sailboat across the Bermuda Triangle. “I really love to travel,” says this self-avowed beach burn. “To me, it’s the best education a person can give to herself.” Her dream is to one day have her own sailboat, a beautifully renovated older model forty-two footer, and to enjoy the freedom and tranquillity seafaring can bring. Elizabeth likes to think she has a lot in common with the characters she creates, people who know love and life go hand in hand. And she’s getting some firsthand experience with motherhood, as well—she and her husband welcomed their firstborn, a son, three years ago.


For Aunt Sissy,

who thinks my books are way too racy.

I hope you like this one, too.


Prologue

“I’m saving myself for marriage.”

Fifteen-year-old Kirby Connaught uttered the words without even thinking about them, such a staple of her vocabulary had they become. Then, with an angelic, self-satisfied smile, she forked a huge bite of potato salad into her mouth and chewed with much gusto.

Her fnend Angie Ellison, who sat across from her at the picnic table in Goldenrod Park, rolled her eyes heavenward. “Well, duh,” she replied eloquently. She fished a pickle spear from the Tupperware container near her hand and crunched it loudly. “Tell us something we don’t already know, Kirb.”

Rosemary March, who completed the trio of tenth-grade friends enjoying the sunny September afternoon, had perched herself atop the table with her sandal-clad feet flat on the bench beside Angie. “Yeah, Kirby,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s not like this is news to anyone.”

“It is to Stewart Hogan,” Kirby muttered, gazing suspiciously at the blond-haired, blue-eyed senior a few picnic tables down. “When we went out the other night, you wouldn’t believe what he wanted to do.”

Angie and Rosemary exchanged knowing, wistful httle smiles that made Kirby’s face flush with heat. Her two friends had been dating since they were thirteen, and both had steady boyfriends now. And Kirby was vicariously familiar with all the things that went on with teenage courtship—the arms around each other, the hands in each other’s back pockets, the hugging, the kissing, the necking.

She was sure her friends thought she was the biggest prude in the world because she never dated at all—the only reason Stewart had asked her out was because he’d just moved to town a few weeks earlier and didn’t know about her spotless reputation that kept most of the boys at bay.

But Kirby’s lack of experience with the opposite sex had nothing to do with a code of morality or a cold disposition. On the contrary, she often lay awake at night wondering what it would be like to do the things she longed to do with a boy, tried to imagine the feel of a boy’s mouth and hands on her body, fantasized about experiencing for real all the scandalous things she’d read about in her favorite books by Anya Seton and Kathleen Woodiwiss and Erica Jong.

And when she finally did fall asleep, Kirby was often plagued by the most feverish dreams, dreams that left her feeling empty and achy upon waking. Despite what her friends—and everyone else in Endicott, Indiana—thought about her, she had a perfectly healthy adolescent libido and an equally healthy adolescent sexual curiosity. But she wanted to make sure it was the real thing with a guy before she went too far. Or anywhere at all, for that matter. Simply put, she wanted to be in love. Maybe that made her old-fashioned, but it certainly didn’t make her a prude.

“Yeah, but Stewart Hogan just moved here,” Angie said with a shrug, bringing Kirby’s attention back to the conversation at hand. “He doesn’t realize what a nice girl you are. Give him a few weeks of seeing you in action. Then he’ll leave you alone. Just like all the other guys in Endicott do.”

Rosemary chuckled. “Yeah, one look at you in your Cadet Scout uniform or your candy-striper outfit ought to cool any ideas he might have about taking liberties with you. And when he finds out you’re president of Future Homemakers of America, he’ll run screaming in the other direction.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be a homemaker,” Kirby stated crisply.

“I never said there was,” Rosemary pointed out. “But what guy wants to think about starting a family when he’s only seventeen years old?”

“Don’t worry, Kirby,” Angie interjected. “You’ll find the right guy for husband and father someday. I think it’s great that you’re planning to wait for him.”

“Yeah, you’re a braver man than me,” Rosemary agreed.

Kirby smiled, but something deep inside her felt shut up tight. She was confident that the man of her dreams was out there in the world somewhere. She just wondered what it was going to take to bring him to a little nothing-ever-happens-here town like Endicott, Indiana.

The three girls, like everyone else who called the small town home, had turned out for the traditional Parsec Picnic in the Park, an official event that was part of the Welcome Back, Bob Comet Festival. Comet Bob actually had a much more formal, much more comet-appropriate name, but because everyone outside the scientific community was pretty much incapable of pronouncing the word Bobrzynyckolonycki unless they were three sheets to the wind, the name had been shortened some time ago to simply Bob.

And because Bob was such a habitual visitor to the skies directly above Endicott, the small southern Indiana town had come to claim him as their own. Despite the fact that it was unheard of for a comet to be so down-to-the-minute regular—speaking both in terms of time and of longitude and latitude—Comet Bob was exactly and unscientifically that. Every fifteen years, like clockwork, the comet returned to the earth during the month of September. And when it did, it always made its closest pass to the planet right above Endicott.

Hence the Comet Festival, which had been occurring in town every fifteenth September since the end of the nineteenth century. For whatever reason, Bob behaved with a regularity and predictability that had puzzled the scientific community since the comet’s discovery nearly two hundred years ago. Furthermore, because of Bob’s mysterious behavior, the comet had become something of a mythical being, in and of itself.

And as was the case with mythical beings, much folklore had grown up around Bob as a result. A lot of people in town said the comet’s return to the planet made for a host of strange behaviors in Endicott. Put simply, people acted funny whenever Bob came around. Otherwise normal, functional folks would suddenly become...well, abnormal and dysfunctional. Elderly matrons donned leather miniskirts. Grunge teenagers became big fans of Wayne Newton. Husbands offered to do the cooking. Very odd behavior all around. And, too often for it to be ignored, people who would normally dismiss each other without a glance, fell utterly and irrevocably in love.

And then, of course, for those who liked their folklore to be magical, there was the myth of the wishes.

It was widely believed by the Endicotians that people who were born in town during the year of the comet had a distinct advantage over those who were not. It was said that if a native Endicotian’s birth occurred in a year of Bob’s appearance, and if that person made a wish during Bob’s next visit, while the comet was passing directly overhead, then that person’s wish would come true when Bob came around again.

Kirby, Rosemary and Angie had all been born the year Bob had made his last visit. And two nights before, as the girls had lain in the soft, green grass of Angie’s backyard, each had sent a wish skyward while the comet was making its closest pass to the planet.

Angie, Kirby recalled with a smile, had wished for something exciting to happen in the small town. It was a fitting wish for someone who exaggerated everything and saw spectacles where there were none, simply to spice up an otherwise mundane, mediocre, midwestern life. Kirby, however, would be satisfied if Endicott never changed. She liked the slow pace and predictability. It was the perfect place to settle down and raise a family.

Rosemary, she recalled further, her smile broadening, had wished that, someday, her thirteen-year-old lab partner, a pizza-faced little twerp named Willis Random, would get what was coming to him. Another appropriate wish, Kirby thought, seeing as how Willis and Rosemary were generally at each other’s throats. But Kirby kind of liked Willis, even if he did have an IQ the size of the Milky Way and didn’t let anyone ever forget it. There was something decent and lovable about him, something that would make him a good husband and father someday.

Kirby had made a wish that night, too, she reminisced as her smile grew dreamy. A wish she had made often for years. She’d asked Bob for true love, the kind that outlasted eternity. She wanted someday to find a man who would love her forever, a man she would love in return with all her heart. A man who would build a home with her, start a family with her, share her dreams and desires for all time. A forever-after kind of love. That was what Kirby had wished for.

And because she knew Bob had granted wishes before, and because hers was so very noble, Kirby was certain the comet would see fit to answer her prayers. Bob was constant, after all. Predictable. Dependable. Just like the man she hoped to find for herself someday.

Bob would grant her wish by the time he made his next approach to the planet—she was sure of it. By her thirtieth birthday, Kirby would be settled down, married with children and happier than she had ever imagined she could be. Of that she was completely confident. Because Bob, she knew, had never proved himself wrong.

Bob always made wishes come true.


One

Ah, September.

The blue skies and languid days. The stretches of sunny summer weather that made a person feel as if he were cheating the universe somehow by enjoying them. The subtle fusing of one season to another, as days shortened and nights grew longer almost seamlessly. The soft splashes of early-autumn color dashing the leaves of green. The quiet shift of the wind from warm to cool and back again as it whispered over one’s face.

The golden, burnished glow on the skin of naked sunbathers.

James Nash trained lus telescope not on a heavenly body up in the sky, but on one that was nestled on a chaise longue. A chaise longue in a backyard he estimated was a bttle over a mile away from the twelfth-story hotel suite where he’d set up his makeshift observatory. Providence had surprised him with the magnificent view as he’d been surveying his temporary surroundings, and now he was making the best of it.

He’d been scoping out the area, so to speak, trying to get a feel—from a safe distance, naturally—for Endicott, Indiana, the small town that would be his home for the next few weeks. But now he found himself wanting to get a feel of something else entirely. And from considerably more close up.

Originally, the only reason he had come to this dinky little backwater town was to observe a comet, an opportunity he’d been awaiting since he was a little boy. Simply put, James loved comets. He was fascinated by their travels, by their legends, by their mystique. Comets never stopped moving. Never slowed down. Vagabonds, that’s what they were. And he could really relate to that.

In fact, there was only one thing that James loved more than comets, and that was the feminine form. So he smiled as he shamelessly studied the naked woman who was enjoying the sunny afternoon the way God had intended. And he thanked his lucky stars that he had come by his massive fortune the old-fashioned way—by inheriting it—and not because he had a lot of money invested in useless things like privacy fences such as the one surrounding this particular feminine form’s backyard.

She was a sight beyond celestial beauty, with a body whose perfection made James want to lift his voice in song. Lying on her belly with her face turned away, her hair caught atop her head in a spray of silver-white, she boasted a golden back and bottom, unspoiled by the telltale white of bikini interruption. And her legs... Aye, caramba. Her legs were long and lean and bronzed, quite possibly the most perfect legs he had ever seen in his life.

And James Conover Nash IV had seen a lot of female legs in his time, of virtually every nationality. Since skipping out ten years ago on a Harvard education he hadn’t wanted in the first place, he’d trotted around the globe at least two dozen times.

And since his father’s death six years ago, he’d had little reason to curb his activities. James III hadn’t exactly been a monk by any stretch of the imagination. But even he, old hedonist that he had been, had tried while he was alive to put a leash on his son’s ceaseless partying from continent to continent.

Out of respect for the old man, James IV had tried to be discreet in his debauchery. But since his father wasn’t around to be embarrassed by his son any longer, James didn’t bother to hide his many and sundry appetites. Instead, he fed them without inhibition, unconcerned that they regularly grew more voracious.

However, he wasn’t thinking about all that right now. Right now, what he was thinking was that he’d really like to get to know those legs in that chaise longue better. And that bottom attached to them, too. And the back. The hair. Oh, what the hell. He wouldn’t mind making the acquaintance of the entire woman.

“Begley!” he called out as he reluctantly pulled back from the telescope.

Before he’d even completed the summons, the valet he had also inherited from his father stood stiff and waiting beside him. “Yes, Master Nash?”

James squeezed his eyes shut and drove a restive hand through his shoulder-length black hair. “Would you please call me James?” he asked the ancient-looking man, as he did on a daily basis. “I’m thirty years old, for God’s sake.”

Instead of commenting, Begley sidestepped the request—as he always did—and asked, “What was it you required?”

“I’m going out”

The announcement was more monumental than it sounded, because James never went out in public. Not voluntarily, at any rate. And certainly not without a disguise. A man of his world-renowned celebrity couldn’t afford to be seen among the masses, because those masses would good-naturedly rip him to shreds in search of a souvenir to recall the moment.

“And what shall you be wearing?” Begley asked.

At the moment, James wore nothing but a pair of pewter-color silk boxer shorts, accessorized with a cut-crystal tumbler of Scotch. So he thought for a moment, sipped his drink, then thought some more.

“The eggplant Hugo Boss, I think,” he finally decided. “No, wait,” he interjected as Begley turned toward the closet on the other side of the room. “This occasion calls for something more casual.” He wiggled his dark brows playfully at the valet. “After all,” he added, “the woman I’m going to see isn’t wearing anything at all.”

Begley’s expression didn’t waver. “May I suggest the Armani, then. The gray trousers and white...what I believe you Americans call a ‘T’.” He gritted his teeth as he concluded speaking, though James was too much of a gentleman to call him on it.

“Perfect,” he replied with a smile. “The gray will match my eyes.”

Begley arched a single snowy eyebrow. “Quite.”

As the elderly valet went to collect James’s wardrobe, James himself turned back to the telescope that remained trained on the naked blonde. Her face was still turned away from him, but she had arced an arm above her head and stretched her toes to pointe, as if she were a prima ballerina executing a pirouette. Something inside James tightened fiercely, and he felt himself stirring to life.

“Down, boy,” he instructed a particular part of his anatomy that suddenly seemed to defy his control. “There will be time enough for that later. Lots and lots of time, if I have anything to say about it.”

And of course, he was certain that he would. It was easy for James to make assumptions about women, because all women invariably reacted to him exactly the same way. They fell recklessly and utterly in love with him, often for weeks at a time. There was absolutely no reason for him to think that the woman at the other end of his telescope would behave any differently.

“Shall I have Omar bring the car around?” Begley asked from the other side of the room.

James nodded, a smile curling his lips. “Most definitely,” he told his valet.

“And what shall I tell him is your destination?”

Reluctantly James shifted the telescope until he located a street sign two houses down from the one where the woman lay sunbathing. “Tell him we’ll be visiting a pink stucco house near the corner of...Oak Street and...Maple Street.” He turned to Begley with another smile, then downed the rest of his Scotch. “Isn’t that great? Oak and Maple streets. Is this midwestem stuff quaint, or what?”

Begley arched that single white brow once again. “Quaint. Quite. I shall telephone Omar immediately.”

“Yeah, do that. Tell him I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.” With one final glimpse through the lens at the sunbathing beauty, James turned toward the clothes Begley had laid out on the king-size bed. “And tell him to bring a book with him. War and Peace, maybe. Because I’m planning on being a while.”

Kirby Connaught was teetering on the precipice of unconsciousness, enjoying the sensation of the warm sunlight soaking into her bare skin, when the hair on the back of her neck leapt to attention. She snapped her eyes open wide. How odd. She’d had the strangest sensation that someone was watching her. But that was impossible. The eight-foot, privacy fence surrounding her backyard was impenetrable. And besides, her neighbors on all sides were at work.

She would have been at work herself, if she’d had any work to do. Unfortunately, she was quickly discovering that trying to get a business off the ground in a small town was next to impossible. Especially when that business involved something like interior decorating.

Simply put, no one in Endicott, Indiana, wanted change. Ever. Not to their small-town culture, not to their small-town values, not to their small-town economy. And not to their small-town homes, either, evidently. Nothing ever happened in the tiny community, anyway, so why should anyone be amenable to change? Kirby would probably be more successful trying to launch a career as a voodoo queen.

There had been a time in her life when Kirby had loved her hometown for the very reason that it did resist change and development. She’d liked the quiet pace, the simple pleasures. She’d wanted nothing more than to marry a local boy, settle down and start a family here. In fact, she still wanted those things. Which was probably why Endicott was starting to annoy her so much lately. There were reminders everywhere of all the things she had wanted and hadn’t been able to find.

She closed her eyes again, but couldn’t quite shake the sensation of being watched—and very intently, at that. Nonsense, she tried to tell herself. The only way anyone could be watching her would be if they were on the roof of the Admiralty Inn, the tallest building in town, a good mile away. And even if someone were watching her from that lofty standpoint, she’d just be a smudge of chaise longue amid a sea of grass. No one would be able to tell that she was naked. No one in Endicott had ever seen her naked.

Not that she hadn’t tried.

In fact, Kirby had spent the last two years of her life trying to get naked with men, but no man in Endicott had ever been even remotely interested in getting to know her that intimately. She was the town good girl—too nice, too sweet, too innocent, too virginal for anyone of the male persuasion to even attempt to try that with her.

But then, she had no one but herself to blame. She’d always chosen the path of goodness—had been the most highly decorated Girl Scout, the most conscientious candy-striper, the perlaest cheerleader, the most dependable baby-sitter. And after her father’s death when she was twelve, she had become the sole caretaker for her mother, who had been weakened by heart disease shortly after Kirby was born.

Everyone had considered her a saint after that, even though Kirby had just thought herself a daughter who loved her mother. And when her mother passed away shortly after Kirby’s eighteenth birthday, the entire town had turned out in sympathy. After that, Endicott had, in effect, become Kirby’s caretakers. Older folks became surrogate parents. Younger folks became surrogate siblings. And no man in town wanted to get intimate with his sister.

Too, when Kirby had become old enough to understand what sex was all about, she’d insisted on saving herself for marriage. Of course, now that she was thirty years old and a potential life mate was nowhere to be found, she had altered her philosophy on that in a number of respects. Two years ago, as a matter of fact, shortly after her twenty-eighth birthday, when she’d realized that thirty—and Bob’s next visit—were so near on the horizon.

It had occurred to her then that if she was going to find that forever-after kind of love she’d wished for when she was fifteen, by the time the comet made its next visit, then she was going to have to give Bob a little help.

Unfortunately, by the time she began to rethink her virginal status, most of the eligible men in Endicott had been chaimed—a good many of them by women who hadn’t shared Kirby’s opinions where their own maidenhead had been concerned. What few available men were left simply didn’t view Kirby in a particularly sexual light. Not that any of the others had felt any differently.

She sighed heavily, thought about moving someplace where no one knew her, then, as always, dismissed the idea completely. Endicott was her home, the only place she’d ever known. Although she had no family left to speak of, her friends were here. She’d never traveled as a child, and simply had no desire to move. The thought of starting up all alone somewhere just held no appeal.

So she lived in the house where she had grown up, existed on a small income from investments, struggled to make her decorating business a viable source of income and spent most of her time alone.

She opened one eye and gazed up at the cloudless, pale blue sky. “Thanks for nothing, Bob,” she muttered.

Darned comet. So much for the myth of the wishes. So far, Bob was zero for three. Angie’s excitement had yet to materialize, Rosemary’s lab partner had yet to get what was coming to him and Kirby was nowhere near finding a forever-after kind of love. Endicott was still boring, Willis Random—if you could believe the gossip—was thriving as a brilliant astrophysicist teaching at MIT and not one single example of husband-and-father material had come close to entering Kirby’s orbit.

“Some wish-granting comet you turned out to be,” she added morosely, closing her eye again.

But when she heard what sounded like the faint ding-dong of her front doorbell singing through the soft silence of the backyard, she jumped up from the chaise longue and thrust her arms through the sleeves of a short peach-colored kimono, then dashed into the house.

“I’m coming!” she shouted as the doorbell sounded impatiently several more times. “Will you please lighten up on that thing? I’m not deaf,” she concluded as she jerked the door open.

“No, what you are is incredible.”

The rich, masculine voice poured over her like something hot, liquid and sticky. For a moment, Kirby could say nothing in response to the man’s observation, so surprised was she by his appearance on her doorstep. So she only gazed at him in silence, mouth slightly agape, wondering if she hadn’t simply fallen asleep on the chaise longue and been plunged into one of those erotic dreams that plagued her from time to time.

Her guest was, in a word, gorgeous. His jet-black hair, sleek and straight, was bound at his nape in a ponytail by some currently invisible means of support. A white short-sleeved T-shirt, deceptive in its simplicity and clearly not Fruit of the Loom, loosely covered—but not quite loosely enough—a torso corded with muscles. The baggy, pale gray trousers were also obviously of expensive cut, cinched around a slim waist, trim hips and legs she would have killed to know more about.

But what caught her attention most was the single, exquisite, apricot-colored rose the man held in one hand, and the dewy magnum of champagne he held in the other. Quickly she forced her focus back to his face, where her surprise at his appearance had prevented her gaze from lingering. Now she took in his features, one by beautiful one, and felt the world drop away from beneath her.

His eyes were as pale as his hair was dark, an almost mystical gray framed by long, sooty lashes and straight, elegant black brows. His nose was narrow, his lips full and his cheekbones had evidently been carved from Italian marble. As she watched, his magnificent mouth curled into a smile, and he tipped his head forward in greeting.

“Hello,” he said simply.

When Kirby realized her mouth was still hanging open, she quickly snapped it shut. “Uh, hi,” she began eloquently.

He smiled a mischievous little smile. “My name’s James. What’s yours?”

“Kirby,” she replied without thinking.

“Wanna come out to play?”

She blinked at him three times quickly, as if a too-bright flash had gone off right in front of her eyes. “Wh-what?” she stammered.

He shrugged. “Okay. We can stay in and play. I’d like that better anyway.”

She shook her head hard in an effort to clear it of the muzziness that had overtaken it, and wondered if maybe she had spent too much time in the sun. Behind the beautiful man who stood on her front porch, everything appeared to be the same. The yellow chrysanthemums she’d planted along the walkway were starting to bloom, a few early fallen leaves were scattered about her impeccably groomed yard, and there was still a pothole at the foot of her driveway that she was going to have to call the city about seeing to again. Nothing at all out of the ordinary.

Except, of course, for the silvery Rolls-Royce, complete with livened driver behind the wheel, that was parked at the curb in front of her house. That was certainly something she didn’t see everyday.

She turned her attention back to her unexpected visitor. “Who are you?” she managed to ask.

His smile fell some, as if he couldn’t quite believe she had just posed the question she had uttered. “Who am I?” he repeated. He expelled a single, incredulous sound. “I’m James Nash.”

Kirby said nothing, waiting for him to elaborate. But when he only stood there gazing at her, she added, “What are you selling?”

His beautiful eyes nearly bugged out of his head at her question. “Selling? What am I selling?”

She nodded, gripping the front door more tightly, ready to close it tight. It didn’t matter how good-looking this guy was or that he had been ferried by Rolls to her front door. She was tired, she had a headache and she was in no mood for fun and games.

She remembered then that she was also naked under her robe, and the thought of fun and games suddenly took on a more sinister connotation. Certainly Endicott was one of the safest places on the planet by national standards, the kind of town people normally only chose to visit by sticking a pin in a map. Then again, there were a lot of weirdos out there who could stick a mean pin.

“Whatever you’re selling,” Kirby said as she began to push the front door closed, “I don’t want any.”

Before door met jamb, however, her visitor stuck the toe of his obviously expensive, clearly Italian, loafer in the opening, effectively interrupting the brush-off. A thrill of something slightly scary shivered up her spine, and Kirby tried to push harder.

“You don’t understand—I’m James Nash,” the man repeated slowly and clearly, as if he were speaking to a two-year-old child. “Nash,” he said again. He paused a moment before adding, “You might have seen my face on the cover of Tattle Tales magazine a few months ago. They’ve designated me the Most Desirable Man in America this year.”

Although Kirby could certainly believe a man who looked like he did was capable of winning such a distinction, she didn’t for a moment put credence in his claim. “Um, congratulations,” she said as smoothly as she could. “But you evidently have me mistaken for the Most Gullible Woman in America.” Without missing a beat, she added, “That would be my friend, Angie. She lives on the other side of town. Now if you’ll excuse me... Goodbye.”

She tried again to close the door, but the man who called himself James Nash, Most Desirable Man in America, kept his foot firmly planted between it and the latch. And he smiled again, looking devastating and yes, darn it, desirable. She frowned as a spark of heat sputtered to life in her midsection. Boy, she really was desperate for a man if a total stranger was flicking her Bic.

“You really don’t know who I am?” he asked. “You honestly don’t recognize my name?”

Kirby sighed impatiently, chanced opening the door wider and said, “No. Sorry. Should I?”

He chuckled with genuine delight. “You’ve really never seen me before?”

She shook her head.

“Not on TV? In magazines? On the Internet?” He leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially as he added, “I’m a regular weekly feature on the show, ‘Undercover Camera’—it’s syndicated, so you’ll have to check your local listings—and there’s an entire web site dedicated to sightings of me. If you’d like, I can write down the URL for you.”

Kirby paused, utterly bewildered by what the man was telling her, but reluctantly entranced by his deep, resonant voice. When she finally regained her senses—what few of them she could collect—she shook her head again. “Sorry.” she repeated. “But I have no idea who you are.”

He gazed at her in silence, as if he weren’t quite sure of her species origin. Then a shimmer of amusement lit his eyes. “How utterly delightful,” he murmured. His smile turned dazzling as he ran a hand modestly over his hair. “Think a minute. Surely you’ve heard my name somewhere. James Nash. I’m an icon of popular American culture.”

Kirby smiled back—indulgently, she hoped, because one could never be too careful when one was confronted by mental instability. “Well, gee, I guess that would explain it,” she said carefully. “I’m not much of a fan of popular American culture. I don’t own a television or have access to the Internet, and the only magazines I read are related to the decorating industry.”

“There you go,” he said with a nod. “Two of my houses were featured in Architectural Digest last year. And Metropolitan Home‘s latest holiday issue was practically devoted to my Central Park condo.”

Kirby nibbled her lip thoughtfully for a moment as she searched through the files in her brain. She eyed the man more carefully. “Don’t tell me that leopard-print sofa and zebra-striped club chair were yours.”

He beamed. “You remember!”

“And you need a new decorator,” she said, making a face. “I hated that spread.”

His smile fell. “But I love that sofa.”

This time when she shook her head, it was with a cluck of disapproval. “Look, that whole African explorer thing went out a long time ago. Today’s decorators are getting back to the basics. Doing more with less. Simple lines, clean colors. Lots of light and space. Not dead animals.”

His expression was crestfallen. “But I like dead animals.”

“Hey, guy, so did Ernest Hemingway, but that didn’t make him an expert in interior design.”

She suddenly remembered that she was standing at her front door wearing little more than a suntan, jawing with a man of indeterminate psychological status about home furnishings. With the hand she didn’t have wrapped around the doorknob in a whiteknuckled grip, she clutched more tightly the top of her robe.

“Um, look,” she tried again, “it was, uh, nice, um, meeting you, Mr., ah...Nash, was it?”

He nodded, his dashing smile returning full-blown. “Please...call me James.”

“Okay. Goodbye, James. I really have to go.” And she tried, again without success, to push the front door closed.

He gazed at her through the Italian-loafer-wide opening in the door, as if he couldn’t believe what she’d just told him. “Go?” he echoed. “But I just got here.”

She arched her eyebrows silently at his announcement.

“I brought champagne,” he added, holding up the bottle of what even she, with her very limited knowledge of such things, could see was extremely expensive wine.

Still not quite certain that she wasn’t dreaming the entire episode, Kirby said softly, “I don’t understand what that has to do with anything.”

“I brought champagne,” he repeated in that voice of put-upon patience, as if she should know exactly what he intended by the statement.

“And that would mean...what?”

His lips curled once more into that devastating smile that kindled a quick fire in her belly. “It means that by the time we finish dinner this evening, we’ll both be feeling pretty frisky.”

The fire in her belly exploded at that, sending flaming debris all through her system. She told herself he couldn’t possibly be intimating what he seemed to be intimating. He couldn’t possibly be intimating that they should get drunk and get...well, intimate. Was he?

“Um,” she began. But she couldn’t make herself say more than that.

James evidently interpreted her lack of response as the positive reply he seemed to be expecting, because that twinkle of something scandalous came back into his eyes. “You don’t even have to change your clothes,” he said softly. “It just so happens that my favorite outfit for a woman is nudity. Especially when there’s no tan line to act as an unnecessary accessory.”

Kirby gaped at that, because she suddenly realized that her earlier sensation of being watched while sunbathing had been founded after all. She didn’t know how “Mr. Desirable” Nash had managed it, but now some man in Endicott had finally seen her naked. And she hadn’t even had to try.

“What?” she said, the odd encounter becoming more and more surreal with every passing moment.

He nodded, smiling, obviously not noticing her growing fury. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I won’t tell your neighbors what a hedonist you are. And I don’t know if you realize it or not, but sunbathing nude is rivaled only by one thing in pleasure.” He winked lasciviously. “Sunbathing nude with a friend.”

He held up the bottle, now sweaty with condensation, and the sight of the moisture streaking down its sides wreaked havoc with something dark and dangerous inside her that she immediately tried to tamp down. But still, Kirby was unable to utter a sound.

So James continued blithely. “Well, sunbathing nude with a friend and a big bottle of champagne. You just never know where the combination of the two might lead you.” He dipped his head forward and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “But wouldn’t it be fun to find out?”

Instinct told her to slam the door as hard as she could and hopefully break at least one of his toes. Reason told her to scream at the top of her lungs and hope that one of her neighbors dialed 911. But ultimately Kirby did neither of those things.

Instead, with one swift move, she snaked a hand out the door, grabbed the bottle of champagne, and then pushed James Nash as hard as she could. It wasn’t hard enough to send him sprawling onto his fanny, as she had hoped, but she surprised him enough to knock him off balance, forcing him to remove his foot from the door. When he did, she slammed the door tight, bolted it and slid the chain into place.

Then she opened the six-inch-by-four-inch door-in-a-door that served as her peephole and told him, “Thanks, Mr. Nash, but I think the champagne will suffice very nicely on its own.”

And with that, she slammed the little door on him, too, and left him standing there bemused, and gorgeous—not to mention all alone—on her front porch.

James could only gape in disbelief at the sight of the big wooden door so close to his nose. A woman had actually slammed the door in his face. Two doors, if he counted the little one, too. And she’d stolen his champagne. An entire magnum. Of Perrier-Jouët.

That meant war.

Outraged, he lifted his fist to knock again, then hesitated when a startling realization smacked him right upside his head.

This was a new experience.

After all his years of globe-trottng and debauchery, he had begun to think there were no new experiences left for him to enjoy. He had embraced Been There, Done That as his motto long before it had been silk-screened onto T-shirts for mass consumption. He had indeed been virtually everywhere in the world, and he had done virtually everything there was to do.

African safari? Circumnavigating the globe? Done that. A visit with the Dalai Lama? Tea with the Queen of England? Done that. Slept in the Blue Room at the White House? Yawn. Done that, too. Seen Siegfried and Roy perform? Done that twice. It was all a big crashing bore by now. For years he’d been convinced that there simply was, for him, no such thing as a new experience.

Yet this Kirby person was presenting him with exactly that. Not only was she absolutely clueless as to his identity and notonety—something with which James had never been confronted—but she seemed in no way interested to learn more about him. Women always knew who he was. And they always wanted to get to know him better.

There were women out there who had actually formed a club, the members of which made it their sole purpose in life to sleep with him. They even had special little badges available to award to those who succeeded in their quest—if they succeeded.

Not that James approved of such a single-minded goal. People should have some hobbies, after all. And in spite of all the sordid stories printed and broadcast about him, he was nowhere near as promiscuous as the tabloids and trash TV made him out to be. Oh, sure, he loved women to distraction, but he wasn’t totally without standards. He never involved himself with women who were on the rebound. He avoided women under the age of twenty-one. And he certainly steered clear of married women.

Still, he did like women. Very much.

His gaze skittered to the mailbox, a tidy little brass rectangle, embossed with a tidy little frog on a tidy little lily pad, and tidy little letters proclaiming the property as 231 Oak Street. And just below that, more tidy little letters spelling out the name Connaught. Kirby Connaught, he mused further. It shouldn’t be too difficult to uncover the secrets of her life. This was small-town America, after all, right?

Clearly he had a full afternoon ahead of him. Or, at least, Begley did. There was no way James could go out on a fishing expedition himself—he’d be netted and scaled in no time flat.

When he realized he still held the perfect, apricot-colored rose in his hand, he lifted it to his nose for an idle sniff, its tangy, sweet aroma filling his senses. He tucked it into Kirby’s tidy little mailbox and spun on his heel to leave, awed by the episode that had just transpired.

A new experience. How very extraordinary.

A blond, blue-eyed beauty who’d had no idea who he was had slammed the door right in his face. A door on a neat little pink stucco house, sitting on nothing less than Oak Street, U.S A. A pink stucco house that had a frog on its mailbox and yellow flowers sprouting along the walk.

James shook his head in wonder. Kirby Connaught was about as small-town, middle-American a woman as he could conjure up in his wildest dreams, the epitome of all that baseball-and-Mom-and-apple-pie mentality.

Except for that naked sunbathing business, he thought further, something he really wanted to investigate more thoroughly. Her enjoyment of such an activity suggested that beneath the delectable exterior of this small-town girl there was a hedonist’s soul to rival his own just begging to break free. Now all James had to do was make her realize the true nature of her inner self.

But then, he was the Most Desirable Man in America, he reminded himself in matter-of-fact terms, without a trace of arrogance. And no woman could resist that for long. Not even a small-town, middle-American one who lived in a tidy little pink stucco house, right?

Smiling, James spun around toward his waiting car, feeling more purpose than he’d felt in a long, long time. A new experience, he marveled again. A true adventure. Kirby Connaught, he decided resolutely, was going to provide him with both.

Kirby peeked through the curtains of her living room window, and observed with what she assured herself was only idle interest the departure of James Nash, icon of popular American culture.

What a jerk, she thought. Acting as if he need only show up at her front door to have her fall to her knees and beg him to make love to her. Obviously he was unaware of her high standards where men were concerned. Clearly he had no idea that she was only interested in men who were decent and warm and conscientious, not to mention local. What would she possibly want with the likes of James Nash?

Other than hours of unbridled physical satisfaction, of course. She squeezed her eyes shut tight to banish the uncharacteristic idea that leapt to life in her brain. Unfortunately, closing her eyes only brought the graphic images into stark focus.

She really had gone far too long without experiencing the sexual satisfaction any normal human being required, she thought with a sigh that sounded disturbingly wistful. All her life she had saved herself for the perfect union, and now that perfect union seemed well beyond her reach. No man in Endicott was interested. The way things looked now, she was going to end her days as a dried-up old spinster, a local legend for every young girl to whisper about, and for every young boy to fall back on in efforts of seduction.

Better be careful they’d tell their would-be conquests. Or you might end up like Old Lady Connaught, who at ninety years of age has never even come close to enjoying the Big O.

Kirby sighed wistfully again, not even trying to deny the fact that she was just that—wistful. If she was so worried about winding up a shriveled old virgin, and if she knew she would never find the perfect match, then why couldn’t she be satisfied with an imperfect one? she asked herself, not for the first time. Why hadn’t she just jumped at James Nash’s more-than-obvious offer?

Immediately she knew the answer to that question. Because deep down, she still harbored some small hope that Bob would bring her a man who would love her forever after. And she wanted it to be special when that man appeared James Nash, she was certain, wasn’t that man.

Even if he’d been telling the truth about making the cover of Tattle Tales magazine—which, of course, she sincerely doubted—he was far too caught up in himself to ever give a woman any kind of attention. And if he was a celebrity—again, something Kirby suspected was a complete fabrication—then that was all the more reason for her to avoid him. Because there was no way any celebrities would ever settle down and start a family in Endicott.

The sound of his car rumbling to life outside brought her attention to the window again, and something inside her trembled in time with the purr of the Rolls’s engine. Through the sheer curtains, she watched as the silvery car pulled slowly away from the curb. And for some reason, the only thought that tumbled through her head was that her very last chance was slipping right out of her grasp.

She shoved the odd idea away and headed for her shower, determined not to give another thought to James Nash. It wasn’t like she didn’t have enough to keep her mind occupied for the next few weeks, anyway. She was, after all, serving on the committee of the Welcome Back, Bob Comet Festival, something that would keep her unusually busy for the month of September. She had a million things to organize, a million events to oversee, a million places to go, a million people to meet. She had a comet to welcome back. Whether Bob was bringing her a wish come true or not.


Two

A few hours later, she was feeling fresh and clean, dressed in a loose, white cotton sheath with three-quarter sleeves, a wide, scooped neck and sailor-type collar. But better than that, she thought as she strode into the Endicott Free Public Library to meet with the other festival committee members, she had gone a whole half hour without a single vision of James Nash erupting in her brain.

Upon entering the cavernous marble structure, however, her gaze was drawn to the periodicals section to the left of the check-out desk, and her thirty-minute record was broken. Darn. All she could think about then was that with a brief, effortless investigation, she could easily verify James’s claim to worldwide notoriety and nationwide desirability.

Glancing down at her watch, Kirby found, not much to her surprise, that she was fifteen minutes early for the meeting. She was always early for functions. Simply because, by virtue of her less-than-thriving business and completely inactive social life, she was pretty much overcome by leisure time.

Without thinking about her motives, she strode casually toward the periodicals, her white flats scuffing softly along the marble floor. She scanned the shelves until she located the one where Tattle Tales magazine just so happened to be housed, then thumbed nonchalantly through the last few months’ worth of issues, until she located one whose cover carried a very familiar face.

Good heavens, he’d actually been telling the truth. His name really was James Nash, and he really had been dubbed the Most Desirable Man in America.

Her brain lurched into overdrive, but Kirby somehow managed to steer herself slowly to a nearby chair and park herself in it. Then she gazed dumbfounded at the magazine’s cover, a full-face photograph of the man who had stood on the other side of her front door just a few hours ago.

Naughty Nash! the headlines beside his name screeched in big red letters. Then, in smaller type, was the added sentiment But Oh...So Nice!

Chiding herself for being genuinely curious about the man, Kirby flipped through the magazine until she located the story about him. Another photograph of his beautiful face assaulted her senses, and that odd sparkle of heat fired to life in her belly again.

“Playboy, paladin, parasite, pariah,” the article began. “They’re all words that have been awarded to this year’s Most Desirable Man in America. Whatever. Regardless of his rough reputation, one thing nobody can deny about James Nash is this: he’s plain perfection.”

Well, my goodness, it sounds like someone’s been nipping at the alliteration juice again, Kirby thought uncharitably about the article’s author.

Then, unable to break her gaze from the other words on the page, she continued to read. “He’s wonderfully wealthy. He’s incredibly intelligent. He’s appealingly adventurous. He’s gallantly gorgeous. And, of course, he’s sensuously sexy. What more could a woman desire in a man?”

Gosh. Kirby thought to herself, maybe stalwart stability. Obeisant honor. Absolute affection. That sort of thing. Oh, but, hey, as long as he’s really rich and fabulously famous... She shook her head morosely and read further.

“James Nash has seen all, done all, dated all. He’s been linked romantically with royalty and riches, glamour and glitz, fashion and fame, celebrity and sass. He has a string of relationships in his past, yet not a single one of his former loves has a negative word to say about him.

“‘Every woman should have a man like James at least once in her life,’ stated starlet Ashley Evanston in a recent telephone interview. Debutante Sissy Devane, daughter of billionaire Russell Devane, concurred. ‘No man is more knowledgeable about what it takes to please a woman,’ she said with a little purr of delight this author couldn’t mistake. ‘James is quite thorough in his sexual technique.’”

Oh, please, Kirby thought, slamming the magazine shut Was nothing sacred? Why did people air their sex lives for public consumption as if they were sharing recipes?

She told herself to simply toss the magazine back on the shelf where she’d found it and forget about the fact that James Nash had ever darkened her door. But for some reason, she just couldn’t quite put the man to rest.

She supposed there was really nothing wrong with reading the article, she told herself. Just so she’d know what she was up against should James Nash decide to come around again, of course. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she tucked the magazine between herself and her purse, then hastily made her way to the check-out desk and placed it on the counter.

On the other side, Mrs. Winslow, who had been senior librarian since Kirby was a child, smiled as she rose from her desk. “Good evening, Kirby,” she said in that even, quiet librarian’s voice as she approached, tucking a pencil into the snowy bun atop her head.

Kirby forced a smile in return and tried to pretend she really couldn’t care less about the item she had chosen to check out. “Hi, Mrs. Winslow.”

“I see the festival committee is meeting upstairs tonight. Big plans this year?”

“Oh, you bet.”

“Did you ever find someone to replace Rufus Laidlaw as grand marshal of the Parallax Parade?”

Kirby shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Well, it’s going to be hard to find someone of Rufus’s caliber,” the librarian said with a certain nod. “There aren’t many people in Endicott who’ve achieved such celebrity status.”

“No, ma’am. You’re right about that. Not many people from here have costarred in laxative commercials, that’s for sure.”

“And don’t forget the one where he played a dancing can of corn.”

“Oh, I could never forget that. It’s a shame he had to cancel, even if that cancellation came because of a boost to his career. But don’t worry. We’ll find someone.”

“I’m sure you will.” Then Mrs. Winslow glanced down at Kirby’s choice of reading material and made a soft tsking noise. “I’m sorry, dear, but periodicals don’t circulate.”

Kirby arched her eyebrows in surprise. “They don’t?”

The librarian shook her head. “That’s why we have the reading room over there. Of course, there are those who prefer to photocopy the articles they wish to read. Be aware, however, that should you do so, you might potentially be violating copyright law.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to do that,” Kirby assured Mrs. Winslow. “I have a few minutes before the meeting. I’ll just go to the reading room.”

Mrs. Winslow smiled, clearly satisfied that Kirby had made the right moral choice.

Kirby spun around, her attention drawn to the picture of the man staring at her from the magazine cover. The glossy paper James’s smile was as flirtatious as the real life one’s had been, and his eyes in the photo held all the mischief she had seen in them in person. She supposed a man like him could turn the charm on and off like a faucet, adjusting the flow and temperature in accordance to whether or not there were flashing cameras and/ or his adoring public within range.

So caught up had she become in studying the smiling, handsome face on the magazine’s cover, that it came as a tremendous surprise to her when a familiar, masculine voice said out of nowhere, “Then again, why would you want to photocopy the thing when you can have the genuine article?”

Kirby snapped her head up at the question, only to find herself falling into the depths of those pale gray eyes that had so captivated her earlier. James Nash had changed his clothes, too, she noted, and now wore charcoal trousers, a white, open-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, and a knit black vest. His jet hair was still bound at his nape, and for some reason, she found herself wondering just how long it was.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, hoping she only imagined the husky, breathless quality her voice seemed to have adopted.

“Following you,” he told her frankly.

The tremor that had begun in her belly when she first saw him began to rattle throughout her entire body at the ease with which he offered his statement. “Why?” she managed to ask.

He shrugged casually, as if his answer should be obvious. Then he took a few idle steps toward her, his gaze never leaving hers. “Because wherever you were going, I wanted to go there with you.”

“Why?” she repeated.

He smiled as he halted a few inches shy of her. “Because I’m very curious to learn more about you.”

“Why?”

His smile grew broader. “What are you? Generation Why?” he mimicked. “I should think the answers to all your questions would be obvious.”

“Well, they’re not.”

This time he was the one to inquire, “Why?”

Because no man has ever been in the slightest bit interested in finding out where I was going, she wanted to shout at him. Because no man has ever been curious to learn more about me, that’s why. Instead of answering him, however, Kirby remained silent.

He sighed with what she could only interpret as disappointment. “Whatever. You know, for some reason, to see you go scuttling up the steps of the local library was in no way surprising.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, finally finding her voice.

He met her gaze levelly. “Just that after what I’ve learned today, I shouldn’t be surprised that you would indulge in such quiet, safe activities, that’s all.”

Kirby narrowed her eyes at him. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Instead of answering her directly, he said, “You know, most people wouldn’t feel guilty about reading something like Tattle Tales magazine—its circulation is huge. And most people sure wouldn’t feel compelled to hide it under their purse as they carried it up to the check-out desk.”

She gaped at him, fighting off a blush, burning inside that he had been observing her as she read about him. “I did not hide it under my purse.”

He chuckled, a sound that was soft, certain and seductive. “Like hell you didn’t.”

“Mr. Nash—”

“Please, Kirby, I thought we’d gotten past that. Call me James. After all, I have seen you naked.”

Even without turning around to look at her, Kirby knew Mrs. Winslow’s head snapped up at that pronouncement. She knew, because she heard the little gasp of horror that accompanied it. Kirby closed her eyes tight and tried to rein in her mortification.

“Only because you’re a...a...a promiscuous...playboy... Peeping Tom,” she declared through gritted teeth.

She spun around to look at the librarian. “Mrs. Winslow, he didn’t really...! mean, he and I didn’t... What I mean is, I would never... Especially with someone like... You know my reputation in town is...” She halted suddenly when she realized she was making absolutely no sense.

But Mrs. Winslow only raised a steady hand, palm out, and shook her head. “You owe me no explanation,” she said. “Bob has been officially sighted out there in the cosmos, and we can’t be held responsible for our behavior once the comet is within range. Whatever you do in your spare time now, no one can fault you.”

“But I’m not doing anything in my spare time,” Kirby insisted. “Least of all...that. Especially not with someone like...him.”

“Whatever you say, dear.” Unfortunately, the librarian didn’t look at all convinced.

“Honest,” Kirby reiterated. “He was spying on me.”

“Kirby, don’t be embarrassed,” Mrs. Winslow continued. “I myself have even succumbed to the comet’s influence. Last night, I went to the Videoramajama, intending to rent a Jane Austen double feature, and came home with two Keanu Reeves movies instead. And they were actually quite good. He’s a rather remarkable actor, even without a shirt.” She paused a thoughtful moment then added, “Yes, indeed I would venture to say that shirtless, he is without question in his milieu.”

And with that, Mrs. Winslow dropped her gaze back to the assortment of colored index cards littering her desk and continued with her task.

Great, Kirby thought. She supposed she should feel thankful that no one other than Mrs. Winslow had overheard James’s comment. The librarian was one of the few people in town who frowned upon idle gossip. Then again, whatever was going on between her and James felt anything but idle. She lifted a hand to her forehead and rubbed ineffectually at a headache she felt threatening. Then she spun back around to face her accuser.

“Let’s get a couple of things straight right now,” she told him.

He smiled. “Gladly.”

She took a few steps forward, lowering her voice as she drew nearer. “Number one,” she began slowly, “you did not see me naked.”

James rocked back on his heels as his grin turned smug. “Oh, yes I did. And quite a sight it was, too.”

“You didn’t have my permission to look, therefore, it doesn’t count.” Then, before he could protest, she held the copy of Tattle Tales aloft and hurried on. “Number two, I did not pick up this magazine because there was an article about you in it.”

Now his grin turned really smug. “Oh, no?”

“No,” she assured him. She lifted the magazine up for his inspection and pointed to a small box in the upper right hand corner. “See this? There’s an article about Joe Piscopo in here. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve always been a big, big fan of Joe Piscopo.”

“Have you now?”

“Oh, yeah. I used to have a cat named Joe.”

“Do tell.”

“And that’s not all,” she continued, riffling through the pages until she came to the back of the journal. She scanned the columns fiercely, then thrust her finger against the first ad she saw. “Just look at this.”

Nash bent forward, squinting to see what she was pointing at. “What?” he finally asked.

“It’s an ad for...for...” She, too, turned her attention to the magazine, then swallowed hard when she realized what she had selected by chance. She tried to make her certainty convincing as she said, “An ad for...um...ThighMaster. And I...uh...I really need one of those.”

His expression was impassive. “Really? You’d never know it to look at you. And if you’ll recall, I have looked at you. Thoroughly.” As she fought off another blush, he bent forward and extended his hand toward the hem of her dress. As he did so, he added playfully, “But I suppose, if you insist, it wouldn’t hurt to have another look.”

Viciously she smacked at his hand just before it made contact. “Mr. Nash,” she began again.

“James,” he interjected, jerking his hand out of the way.

She ignored the distinction and instead continued. “I don’t know why you keep bothering me, but I assure you I—”

“I’ll be more than happy to explain it to you,” he interrupted her. “Over dinner. In my suite. Tonight. How about it?”

She emitted a brief, quiet sound of disbelief. “I don’t think so,” she stated emphatically. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”

“That’s okay. I’ll wait.” This time he reached for the magazine. “I can read all about my nationally desirable status.”

Instead of handing over the magazine that still dangled from her fingers, Kirby snapped it shut and spun on her heel toward the stacks where she’d found it. As she went, she threw a comment over her shoulder. “I’d advise against it.”

James followed close behind, his step perfectly aligned to hers. “Against reading about myself? Or against waiting for you?”

“Both.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not all that interesting, and I’m not at all interested. That’s why.”

“You might want to at least listen to my offer.”

She glanced over at him hesitantly, felt that odd heat starting to unwind in her midsection again and quickly looked away. “Oh, I think you made it abundantly clear this afternoon what you were offering. And as I told you then—whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want any.”

“Who says I’m selling it?”

Before she tossed the magazine back down onto its shelf, Kirby held it up for his inspection. “It’s all right here in black and white, illustrated in living color.”

“That doesn’t say I’m selling it,” he argued. “On the contrary, that article only goes to describe what a very giving person I am.”

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.

How could such a thing have happened?

Of course, there was always the possibility that Kirby herself was responsible for her untouched status, he thought further. Maybe she simply gave any man who approached her the brush-off. After all, hadn’t she just done that very thing with him? She could be frigid, completely uninterested in sex. Or even a manhater, for that matter.

Immediately, though, he knew that wasn’t true. He could tell by the way she had responded to his touch only a few moments ago that she was in no way frigid. There was, without question, a wantonness in her that ran deep and strong. Kirby had a healthy sexual hunger—there was no question about that. What James couldn’t figure out was why she tried so hard not to feed it.

He returned his attention to the copy of Tattle Tales that sat innocently on the shelf. Although he had shouldered the mantle of Most Desirable Man in America with some pride, he hadn’t read the accompanying article in the magazine. Mainly because he honestly hadn’t cared what it said. Not until he’d seen Kirby perusing it. Now he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of conclusions she had been drawing as she read.

Probably none that were any worse than the ones she had already drawn about him, he thought dryly. For such a scion of innocence, purity and goodness, she sure was quick to see the worst in people.

Reluctantly he reached for the copy of the glossy tabloid and gazed at the picture of himself as indifferently as he could. Not the best shot that had ever been snapped of him, but it wasn’t bad. The headlines, however, were a little extreme. He wasn’t nearly naughty enough to warrant an exclamation point. Nor was he nice enough to have commanded an ellipsis. Not the way they meant it anyway.

He glanced up again at the door through which Kirby had passed with her colleagues. He had meant it when he’d told her she was worth waiting for. Folding himself into the chair she had vacated, oddly thrilled by the knowledge that his fanny was occupying the same cushion hers had, James sat himself down and began to read.


Three

Almost an hour after running away from James, Kirby exited the committee meeting, filled with both anticipation and dread. Part of her was praying that after their parting, he had become bored with whatever game he had initiated with her, and had abandoned both it and her to hunt for bigger game. But another—and if she were honest, a bigger—part of her was hoping like crazy that he was still in the library reading room waiting for her.

He was.

Lounging comfortably in the overstuffed, burgundy-colored chair she had occupied earlier, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles, he had his head bent down over a magazine in his lap, his attention utterly focused on whatever he was reading. One elbow was propped on the arm of the chair, and his hand, with knuckles bent slightly, cradled his strong jaw. Kirby’s gaze was drawn to the bare forearm exposed by the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, and she wondered why she’d never noticed before just how sexy a man’s arms could be.

And his hands, too. James Nash may be a globe-trotting celebrity, but he had great hands—big, bronzed, broad, blunt-fingered. They looked like a laborer’s hands, yet she was certain he’d never performed an honest day’s work in his life. Sailing, perhaps, or mountain climbing maybe, or some other adventurous activity, must be what had given him such roughened, strong-looking hands and such a fit, well-formed body.

How would those hands feel caressing a woman’s skin? she wondered out of nowhere, both shocked and fascinated by the idea. Then she realized she already knew the answer to the question. She had already felt his hands on her face, the rough tips of his fingers gliding over her cheek and neck and throat. But how would it feel to have his fingers skimming over other, more sensitive parts of her anatomy?

She felt herself coloring at the thought and banished it, assuring herself that she would never discover the answer to that question, because from here on out, she intended to maintain a very safe distance from James Nash. Then, in direct opposition to her resolution, she strode toward him with slow, hesitant strides.

It amazed her still that he had selected her for the focus of his attentions. Why? She had no idea. There were dozens of single women in Endicott, all of them far more capable than she was of handling a man like him. Why had he singled her out, especially after she’d made it clear to him that she wasn’t interested?

Then again, she knew he had a reputation for being a little eccentric. She knew this, because the topic of the festival committee’s discussion all evening had not been about the numerous festival issues facing them, but had instead focused on none other than James Nash, Kirby’s new best friend.

Even after she’d assured the other members that she and James were anything but friends, that she’d only made his acquaintance that very afternoon—and under dubious circumstances, at best—everyone had insisted she should be the one to ask him the Big Question.

The Big Question being: Would he be interested in appearing as the grand marshal of the Parallax Parade, replacing the until-now irreplaceable Rufus Laidlaw, Hollywood wannabe?

The Big Question was, to Kirby’s way of thinking, a Very Bad Idea, something that would force her to be in contact with him a lot more than she really wanted to be. Part of her position on the committee was seeing to out-of-town visitors, making them feel welcome, being sure they had everything they needed, presenting them with the absolute best view of Endicott that the small town had to offer.

PR—that was Kirby’s main objective. But where James Nash was concerned, somehow the P in PR came to stand much more for personal relations than it did public.

She slowed her step as she drew nearer, wishing she could do something to stifle the shudder of electric heat that tried to overtake her every time she came within ten feet of him. But that little incident they’d shared in the library stacks a short time ago was still far too fresh in her memory for her to be able to banish any kind of trepidation she felt around him. On the contrary, seeing him again so soon after such an encounter only made her feel more wary, more cautious, more scared.

And alas, more turned on.

She told herself that she was merely the victim of her own libido. Any man who had said to her the things James had said, who had touched her the way he had, would make her overreact, simply because she’d never had a man speak to or touch her that way before. It wasn’t James Nash specifically who caused her to feel so...so...so wanton, she decided. So needy. Goodness, so hot. It was the man’s behavior, nothing more. Once the novelty of being treated like a sex kitten wore off, surely she’d see past his handsome, sexy, erotic, hot, uh...handsome exterior, to the promiscuous playboy Peeping Tom beneath.

As if he knew how she’d just labeled him, he lifted his head slowly from his reading material, then met her gaze with laughing eyes. She forced herself to look away and found herself staring at the copy of Tattle Tales unfolded in his lap.

When she stopped a few feet shy of him, he rose from his chair and carefully closed the magazine. “It’s true,” he said in a library-appropriate whisper. “You really can’t believe everything you read. I had no idea there were so many errors in this article.”

Kirby arched her eyebrows in surprise. “You mean you hadn’t read it yet?”

James shook his head. “Nah. Why would I want to read about myself? I already know everything. It would be boring. I really don’t care for nonfiction, anyway.” He glared down at the magazine again. “Then again, seeing as how this article is almost complete friction, you’d think I would have enjoyed it a bit more than I did.”

She feigned shock. “What? You mean the press has succumbed to sensationalism? I had no idea. How very appalling.”

“Sensationalism?” he echoed, her sarcasm evidently lost on him. so sharp was his anger. “Are you kidding? This is filled with flat-out lies.”

Kirby, not sure whether to believe him or not, only adopted what she hoped was a bland expression and replied, “Really.”

He nodded fiercely. “I mean, I can’t believe Sissy Devane said what she did about me. She and I only dated for a week, and we never slept together.”

“Oh, no?” Kirby asked dubiously.





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