What the Librarian Did (8 page)

“Yeah, because I’m a ‘bottling preserves’ kind of guy.” Devin poured her a cold drink, then turned to find her rifling through the kitchen drawers. When she pulled out a chopping board and a paring knife, he took them away from her. “And I don’t need to think up excuses. I’m perfectly comfortable telling you to mind your own business. Shouldn’t you be going home to get ready?”

“Unlike you, I can be ready in five minutes.” Katherine took the utensils back. “Now find me a pot.” Perching on a bar stool at the marble-topped island, she started peeling and chopping peaches straight out of the fruit bowl. His mom never sprayed her trees and there were spots of brown rot on some. Devin shook his head as she carefully pared away the good flesh before discarding the rest.

Only a couple of months earlier he’d thought he would lose her. “You’ve got a big birthday coming up.” He found the pot she wanted and placed it at her elbow. “How would you like to celebrate?”

“Quietly.” Katherine tipped the peaches she’d already sliced into the pot. “I intend staying sixty-nine for at least another four years.”

Devin got the compost bucket she had insisted he buy, and cleared away the discarded peelings. “So dinner at the island’s best restaurant with your son sound okay?”

Katherine didn’t answer. Glancing over, he caught her pensive look. “No big deal if you’ve already made plans with girlfriends.”

“Let me get back to you on that. So tell me all about
your date.” Katherine dropped the knife and gripped her thumb. Blood welled above her nail. “Bother!”

Grabbing a paper towel, Devin wrapped it around her thumb, then guided her to the sink, where he rinsed the cut and inspected it. “Nothing a bandage won’t fix.” He found the first aid kit, dug around for the right size and handed it to her.

“Your date?” she prompted.

“Technically it’s not a date.” No woman had ever insisted on platonic before.

“Really?” Katherine finished applying the bandage and looked up. “What is it then?”

Devin started to laugh. “Deluded.”

You’d have thought a smart woman like Rachel would know better. Nothing could have stoked his interest more than her No Trespass sign. If the librarian had been genuinely indifferent, Devin could have accepted it, but she wasn’t. The kiss had proved that. And the challenge inherent in her nonnegotiable decree…what kind of wuss would he be if he let the gauntlet lie?

Katherine rinsed her other hand, still sticky with peach juice. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally met a nice girl,” she said hopefully.

“I’m not telling you anything,” he reminded her.

“Spoilsport. In that case I might as well go.”

“What about the peaches?” he teased.

She poked her tongue out at him. “I know you’ll throw them out as soon as my back’s turned so give them to me. I’ll finish stewing them at home.” Drying her hands on a tea towel, she added, “Have you heard from Zander lately?”

Devin stopped smiling. “No.” When he’d raised the subject
of financial anomalies, his big brother had cut the phone call short. Since then Zander hadn’t returned any messages.

“Careful with those peaches, Dev,” Katherine protested. “You’ll bruise them.”

He slowed the tumble of peaches from the fruit bowl into the bag, and glanced at her. “So, how is he?” While Zander rarely initiated contact, Katherine kept the relationship going by phone.

“I can’t seem to get hold of him lately.” She busied herself searching in her bag for her car keys, which Devin could plainly see near the top. “But he must be terribly busy arranging the new tour.”

Running scared more like, if he was avoiding even Katherine’s phone calls.

“I’m sure he’ll phone soon,” he told her.

“Oh, I’m not worried.”

Which meant she was. Unfortunately, the mounting evidence suggested his brother had been siphoning off more than his share of royalties on the early songs they’d cowritten. But surely Zander trusted Devin not to involve Katherine? Damn it, this situation was getting more and more complicated. On impulse Devin kissed his mother goodbye, something he rarely did. “Have a great night.”

For a moment Katherine looked startled, then she patted his cheek. “You, too…and I expect to hear all about it.” On those ominous words she left.

All going well, he reflected as he closed the front door behind her, the evening’s activities wouldn’t be fit for maternal ears. Checking his watch, Devin calculated time zones, then rang Zander’s cell and left another message: “Call your mother!”

Then he finished getting ready for his date, turning his
mind to more pleasurable thoughts. Like teaching the librarian to forgo restraint, caution and common sense in favor of spontaneity, recklessness and instant gratification. And that was even before they reached her unmade bed. Her so-called vice perfectly complemented the only one he had left.

Sex.

R
ACHEL DIDN’T WANT
to be nervous.

It made the evening ahead feel too much like a date.

Which it wasn’t.

Peering past the mottled green patches in the antique oval mirror on her dresser, she applied a shocking pink lipstick and decided she was satisfied with her appearance. She wore a tight-fitting fifties cocktail dress of pink crepe overlaid with black lace, which had a scalloped edge at the strapless bodice and a mermaid ruffle hem. After straightening the black velvet bow at the Empire waist, she hunted for the lacy tights that went with the outfit. Holding them up, she frowned. They had a run, and the ladder was long enough for a fire brigade.

Reluctantly, she settled for patterned knee-high stockings—figuring the three-quarter-length skirt would cover them. She finished the outfit with a pair of dainty black ankle boots with a high heel, and clipped on velvet bows to match the one at her waist.

Opera presented a rare chance to dress up, but she was also trying to prove a point. Of course vintage could be sexy—look at Dita Von Teese, the famous striptease artist once married to shock rocker Marilyn Manson. Rachel hesitated, then picked up a tissue and scrubbed off the slutty lipstick, replacing it with a less provocative nude shade.

She glanced at the diamanté watch strapped to her wrist. Her car was being serviced so they’d go in his. She hoped Devin was allowing enough time for them to walk to wherever he’d parked.

The full-throttle throb of a powerful engine brought her to the door. Nervously wrapping herself in her fringed silk shawl, she stared at the leather-clad figure on the Harley-Davidson.

Devin lifted the black visor on his helmet. “No pre-car street layout defeats a red-blooded American,” he said with satisfaction, then scanned her shawl-swathed figure. “I brought a jumpsuit in case you wore a dress.” Reaching into a side satchel, he pulled out what looked like a pair of orange mechanic’s overalls, then unclipped another helmet from the pillion.

Rachel finally found her voice. “I’m not going to the opera on a motorbike!”

“Why not? It’ll be fun.” His gaze dropped to her feet. “Those boots should be okay on the bike.”

She tugged the shawl tighter around her shoulders. “What about my hair?” It was piled on her head, with loose tendrils softening the diamanté sparkles at her earlobes and throat.

Devin looked at it critically. “Very pretty.”

She had a sudden feeling he was doing this on purpose. “We’re catching a taxi.”

“Okay.” To her surprise, he got off the motorcycle without a murmur. “How long do they take on a Saturday night? Not that I mind missing the first half…”

Rachel held out her hand for the jumpsuit and helmet. “Wait here.” Inside, she put on the offending items, knowing better than to check her appearance in the mirror.
When she came out, Devin sat astride the bike, engine idling and his face hidden behind the visor again. “If you’re grinning behind that…”

He raised a gloved hand holding two tickets. “Front row mezzanine, overlooking the stage.”

Gingerly, Rachel approached the bike. “How do I get on this thing?”

“Put your left foot on the foot peg, then swing your right leg over the seat. Watch out for the exhaust.”

She followed his instructions, trying not to touch him, and he checked the position of her feet. “You can hold on to the grab rail or me. If you haven’t ridden before you’ll probably feel more secure with your arms around my waist.”

Rachel reached behind her for the grab rail. “This is fine.” She couldn’t see his face, but it sounded as if he was trying not to laugh.

“Let’s go then.”

He accelerated slowly, but her knees tightened instinctively around his hips. The Harley picked up speed and Rachel dropped the grab rail and clamped her arms around his waist, hanging on for dear life. A rumble of laughter vibrated through his torso, matching the rumble of the bike’s engine.

She’d never been on a motorbike before, never comprehended the delicious assault on the senses. Speed cooled the air and pushed the scents of the city under her visor. Exhaust fumes, a sizzle of food from passing restaurants, the whiff of trash from a downtown Dumpster, and from the waterfront the salty tang of the sea.

Devin knew the streets well, bypassing traffic lights to detour down narrow alleys. If she wanted to, Rachel could lean out and touch the parked cars, talk to passing pedes
trians. There was no barrier between her and the pulse of the neon city, the pulse of the powerful bike vibrating beneath her.

Under the thin jumpsuit the skirt of her dress had hiked up, and Devin’s legs warmed her where she gripped him, from knees to inner thighs. Her spirits soared with a heady sense of freedom. Naughtiness was addictive. She could have been a teenager again, but a teenager without responsibility, without the burden of having to make adult choices.

Rachel felt an almost overpowering urge to stand on the foot pegs with her hands on Devin’s broad shoulders and yell, “Forget the opera! Let’s just ride until we run out of gas.” Except she had a disquieting feeling he would agree.

“Hey!”

Twisting, she saw a stranger waving and gesturing from the sidewalk. Rachel waved back. Twice more, she returned salutes—from two openmouthed kids staring out the back window of a passing car, and from an old lady waving her walking stick. Amazing who turned out to be Harley fans.

Too soon they were at an underground parking lot on Queen Street where Devin cruised into a parking bay. In the enclosed space the rumble of the Harley was deafening.

Rachel touched his shoulder and pointed to a sign, Owners Only.

He turned off the engine. “I’ve got an apartment here,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll dump the gear first, then walk across the road to the opera house.”

Standing on the foot pegs, Rachel swung her right leg up and over the seat.

That was when she noticed the rubber heel of her dainty boot was on fire.

T
AKING OFF HIS HELMET
, Devin turned at the sound of Rachel’s gurgle of laughter, then caught sight of her smoldering boot. “Hell!” Hunkering down, he grabbed her foot with his gloved hands, wrenched down the zip and hauled off the boot, dropping it on the concrete.

“All those people—” peals of laughter escaped under the visor “—waving and yelling—” she hauled off her helmet, gasping for air “—and I—” another paroxysm of laughter shook her “—I thought they were just being
friendly.”
Leaning on the bike for support, Rachel dabbed at her eyes.

Devin inspected her ankle. The stocking wasn’t touched. Dropping her foot, he stood up. “What the hell part of ‘keep your feet on the foot peg at all times’ didn’t you understand?”

Without waiting for a response, Devin launched into a blistering reprimand. Rachel bit her lip and tried to stop laughing. It felt almost like an out-of-body experience, looking down at himself—the never-loses-his-cool Prince of Excess—ranting at his passenger on the importance of following the damn rules. Finally he ran out of steam and stopped for breath.

Holding her helmet, Rachel bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I promise to be more careful on the way home.” She didn’t sound contrite, she sounded as though she was still laughing. And when she raised her head, her eyes confirmed it. “But you have to admit it’s quite funny.”

Tomorrow it might be funny. Right now he wasn’t ready to let her off the hook for giving him such a scare. Scowling, Devin picked up her boot, looked at the indentation where the rubber had melted, then waved it under her nose. “On your leg this would be third-degree burns.”

Rachel’s face fell. “And they were so expensive,” she
said, remorseful for the wrong reason. “One hundred dollars on sale.” The boots he wore were worth three grand, U.S. “Will it last through the opera?”

In answer, Devin snapped off the fragile heel. “We’ll knock the other one off upstairs. That will get you through the performance at least.” Leading her to the elevator, he used his key to access his floor.

The elevator opened into a private lobby. Rachel stepped out and, like all his guests, immediately gravitated to the panoramic view through the hall’s archway. “My God, I thought you said you had an apartment…this is a penthouse.” As her gaze swung around the living room, with its rough-hewn stone columns and steel spiral staircase, Devin willed himself not to stiffen. Seeing his wealth changed some people. He didn’t want the librarian to view him any differently than she did now.

“I like the casual comfort,” she commented, stroking the saddle-brown leather couch, “but I would never have picked you as a flower man.” She gestured toward the orange poppies on the sideboard, ignoring the expensive cast-bronze sculpture beside it. “Those are a homey touch.”

His mother did the flowers. Devin relaxed. Nothing had changed.

“Right,” Rachel said briskly, dumping the helmet. “Let’s take off this gear, fix my shoe and get Cinderella to the ball.”

He peeled off his leathers, but when he turned around she was still in her jumpsuit, staring at him. “I should have told you to dress up,” she said in dismay.

Devin looked down at his black jeans and bloodred, V-neck silk T-shirt. The pin-striped jacket had been personally tailored for him by top American designer Tom Ford. A dragon motif, the exact match of his tattoo, was embroi
dered in red silk down the length of one sleeve and across his shoulder. The whole ensemble, including the red snakeskin boots, cost more than her pip-squeak car. Manfully, he resisted the impulse to tell her that.

She misread his inner struggle as hurt.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I should have mentioned that men wear tuxedos to the gala opening night.”

He grinned. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“You’ll get stared at.”

The woman was a delight. “Okay,” he challenged, “show me what normal people wear.”

Self-consciously, Rachel wriggled out of the overalls and smoothed the skirt of her satin-and-lace dress. Devin shook his head. “As I thought, still channeling the fifties. Although—” he assessed the outfit again “—lose the bow, drop the lace to get some cleavage and Dita Von Teese would probably wear it to the Grammy’s.”

For some reason Rachel started to laugh. “You’ve got helmet hair,” he said. “Let me fix that.” Removing the pins, he ran his hand through the silky, shoulder-length mass to loosen it. She used a peach blossom shampoo and for a moment Devin was back in his mother’s orchard, in that fleeting new state he’d come to recognize as peace.

Without conscious thought he lowered his head. His lips brushed Rachel’s. They were as soft as petals, and parted in surprise, but he didn’t deepen the kiss.

Something in the moment stopped him…a freshness, an innocence. A promise? Shocked, he lifted his head.

Rachel cleared her throat. “We’re not doing that, remember?”

“Why?” He needed to know.

She had to think about it, which was good, because he
didn’t want to be the only one shaken by this. “I don’t know you well enough.”

“What do your instincts tell you?”

For a moment she stared at him, then shrugged helplessly, unable—or unwilling—to answer. Devin didn’t push it, simply touched his lips lightly to hers and stepped back. He could seduce her; he’d had the power too long to doubt himself. But suddenly this…thing wasn’t about what he wanted.

In silence, he levered the heel off her remaining boot with a screwdriver. In silence they walked to the elevator.

R
ACHEL FOUND
her legs were trembling, and it had nothing to do with her reconstituted boots. Something odd had just happened and she felt light-headed and breathless. While they waited for the elevator she stole a look at Devin.

He was watching her in a way that made her want to kiss him. It wasn’t desire, it was awareness. He attracted her. He just did.

Before she could rationalize her action, she lifted a hand to the nape of his neck, slowly drawing him down until their lips were inches apart. And stopped. They were both deadly serious. Then he closed the gap and the heat of his tongue set off a rush of sensation. They kissed, broke apart, then kissed again. Her hands roamed restlessly under his jacket and over the silky fabric delineating every taut muscle in his back.

The ping of the elevator sent them springing apart.

The lift doors opened. They looked at each other. Long seconds passed and neither moved. The doors closed. Rachel moved into his arms like a woman used to indulging in spontaneous passion with unsuitable men.

She didn’t think, didn’t question. She didn’t do anything
Rachel Robinson normally did. It didn’t seem to be that important. She couldn’t stop. Not even when his mouth settled on hers with a possessiveness Devin wasn’t entitled to, and his hands slipped under the flounces of her dress and pulled her closer to the erection under his jeans.

Tugging out his shirt, she slid her hands beneath it and across his broad chest to the tight male nipples. His body was extraordinary, every ridge and indentation a moving, living landscape for her exploring fingers. Someone was panting, and Rachel became conscious that it was her and tried to shut up. But he kept doing things that made her gasp as he steered them toward the bedroom.

When they came up for air, she saw a white bed on a black granite floor in a starkly beautiful room that overlooked a thousand twinkling city lights. Devin kicked off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket and pulled off his shirt. The dragon on his right arm glared at her. Under his right pectoral, another tattoo began—an abstract of curves and spirals in the Maori style, tracing over his ribs and disappearing into his jeans.

“You okay?” Devin asked, and Rachel realized she’d stalled.

“Yes.” Trying not to feel self-conscious, she unzipped her dress and stepped out of it, remembering too late she was wearing those awful knee-high stockings.

Devin’s gaze roamed hungrily over her lingerie and stopped below her knees. “What the hell are those?”

“Sex toys…you never know when you’ll need ties.”

“Great, let’s use ’em.”

“Have you no inhibitions at all?”

“None.” He took her into his arms once more. When he
bent to kiss her again she couldn’t remember which way to turn her head, and they bumped noses.