The Librarian's Passionate Knight

And yet it did.

She was as far from ordinary as a dive along the outer reefs of a Micronesian atoll. As far from ordinary as the rare Lapp Orchid he’d had the pleasure of seeing in the wild in the mountains of Abisko in northern Lapland.

Far from ordinary.

Also, far from sophisticated. She wasn’t glamorous, wasn’t worldly. In fact, she quite possibly needed a keeper.

He should leave before he did something really stupid and volunteered for the job.

Instead of a quick goodbye, though, he shook his head and heaved out a sigh. Then he pried the key from her rigid fingers, inserted it into the lock and swung open her front door. Cool air gushed out of the house and into the heated night in welcome waves.

She was in the process of stammering out an, “Oh, um, well, thank you again,” when he propped his hand above her head on the doorjamb and looked down into a face that made him think of a very cute, very sweet, very vulnerable baby owl about two wing-fluffs away from taking flight.

“Exactly how nervous do I make you, Phoebe?” he asked with a twitch of his lips that was fast threatening to turn into another grin.

The breath that escaped her was less sigh than surrender. “On a scale of one to ten?” She glanced up at him, then away, then back again before admitting, “About a fifty-five.”

A dark thought had him narrowing his eyes in concern. “Because of that Jason guy? Because you think I might turn out to be like him?”

“No. Oh no. You could never be anything like Jason Collins,” she said so adamantly that he smiled. “It’s not that at all.”

“Because you don’t know me, then?”

She tried to stall a small sound that could have been a groan or a squeak. “Just the opposite. Because I do know you. At least I know who you are.” Slender fingers rose toward her hair again.

He snagged her hand midair, held it captive in his. Her hand was soft, graceful and trembling ever so slightly. He felt that tug again and, taking pity, let go with much more reluctance than was warranted.

“I realize it’s not very sophisticated to admit it,” she said, clearly flustered by the contact, “but I don’t know quite how to act around a man like you. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do…with my eyes…with my hands.” She stopped and lifted a hand in entreaty, her gaze landing everywhere but on him.

Most women knew how to act, he thought cynically. At least most of the women who approached him did. Maybe that was why he found this woman so intriguing. She was a refreshing change from the women he generally tried to avoid when he returned to Boston. The Beacon Hill Beemer set generally wanted him because he had money or because they had money and he filled the bill as their equal. Some wanted to “snag” him. Some wanted to “tame” him. He recalled the ridiculous statements in the Boston Globe article with a grimace. Some, he knew for a fact, simply wanted to be seen with him. And others, for some sick reason, wanted to be used by him. He, evidently, represented their personal brush with adventure.

It was all the more unsettling to realize that he appeared to be Phoebe’s personal brush with intimidation—unintentional on his part, but there anyway. The longer he stood here the less he liked knowing how he affected her. He could think of other ways—many other ways—he’d like to affect her. All of them involved something much more up close and personal than holding her hand.

“When I was a little kid,” he said, “I got my foot caught in the toilet bowl.”

Behind her glasses, her eyes, the color of apple cider, blinked, then opened wide and disbelieving. “Get out,” she said.

He grinned at her reaction. “It’s true. I’d been running from my brother, teasing him with the last cookie, I think. I ran into the bathroom and jumped up on the stool to hold it out of his reach. Because he wanted it, that automatically meant I wasn’t going to let him have it. Long story short, he reached, I dodged. I slipped and fell in.”

She lifted her hand to cover her mouth but not before he caught the grin twitching at its corners.

“It was very serious. And I had some anxious moments, I’ve got to tell you.”

“Oh, I would think so, yes,” she said, her tongue planted deeply in her cheek.

“Yep. It was quite the ordeal. They had to dismantle the whole shebang, but once they got the toilet free from the floor, I was still stuck tighter than a wet suit on a diver.

“So there I stood,” he went on, warmed by the sparkle of mirth in her eyes, “three paramedics, four firemen and a plumber all scratching their heads and trying to figure out how to get me out of the bowl. My dad was so angry at me that he threatened to make a harness and just let me carry the damn thing around on my foot for the rest of my life.”

“You’re making this up,” she accused as she leaned back against the door frame, her hands behind her back now, cushioning her hips from the molding as she visibly dropped her guard and grinned up at him.

“Scout’s honor.” He made an X over his heart with his finger. “I was ten years old and until they finally got me loose, I’d pretty much decided I’d be pitching Little League with fifty pounds of porcelain on my foot. The part I couldn’t figure out was how I was going to run the bases.”

Her lips twitched again and her shoulders relaxed even more.

“I’ll tell you another secret.” He leaned in, lowering his voice as if concerned someone else might hear his whispered confession. “I used to sleep with a night-light.”

That earned him a full-fledged and gorgeous grin along with a skeptical, “Is that a fact?”

“Yeah, but it’s been, oh, I don’t know, weeks now since I’ve felt the need to turn it on.”

She laughed finally, all gentle, bubbling pleasure and silky sounds that warmed him in places a Bora-Bora sun never had. The smile that lingered was relaxed. And amused. And quite wonderful. So was the sparkle in her eyes. Suddenly the words turned on took a leap to another forum entirely.

“I think, Mr. Barone, that you tell a very good story.”

“Daniel. And I was just putting things into perspective. We’re not so different, you and me—well, except for the male/female thing,” he clarified with another grin. “And you’re looking much more comfortable now, by the way.”

“I am. Thank you.”

Okay. Mission accomplished. He could go now. A smart man would.

He, evidently, was not a smart man.

Had he really done that? Daniel asked himself later. Had he really said: “How about thanking me with something cool to drink before I hit the road?”

Evidently he had, because the next thing he knew, her cheeks were pink again.

“Oh, of course. I’m sor—” she started, then caught herself. “I should have offered,” she amended. “I have tea or— Let me think. Tea,” she finally decided, dimpling beguilingly.

“Iced?”

She nodded.

“Works for me.”

And it did, he realized when she’d invited him in with a sweep of her hand and flicked on another light. It worked just fine, although he still didn’t have a scrap of insight as to why.

This wasn’t his thing. She wasn’t his type. Yet here he stood, shutting the door behind them while she disappeared into what he suspected was her kitchen. For several moments, he stood in cool silence and the pale glow of lamplight, one of which she’d evidently left on for the cat.

Daniel walked over to the window seat. Golden eyes set in a placid, furry face tracked his every move.

“Nice kitty?”

The cat set its tail in motion in quick, impatient snaps and gathered itself on the balls of its feet.

“Maybe not,” Daniel concluded having seen that same tail flick on a cheetah just before it attacked.

He decided to leave well enough alone and check out his little owl’s nest instead.

His little owl?

He shook off the absurd notion and looked around him. Her living room was small but carefully decorated in sea greens and silver grays and a sort of pinkish color he thought he’d heard his sister refer to as mauve. The fabrics were— Hell, he didn’t know. Something soft and shiny. Chintz, maybe. Definitely not brocade. He shrugged, out of his element, although he recognized brocade when he saw it because every piece of furniture in his mother’s sitting room at the brownstone was upholstered in it. He’d been warned from the time he’d been old enough to reach it that he was not to put his sticky fingers on the brocade.

The walls were painted a rich, frothy cream; the floor was polished hard wood partially covered by a plush area rug with roses or cabbages or something that mirrored the colors in the furniture and the drapes that she’d tied back from the windows.

From the glass-globed lamps to the white tapers and delicate pieces of pottery set in artful clusters around the room, the effect was all very feminine, and yet, the room felt very comfortable. A little fussy for his tastes, but still warm and inviting. It surprised him to realize that he sort of liked it.

It was also very romantic. Like her? he wondered. Did Phoebe Richards hide a romantic side behind her utilitarian clothes and no-nonsense haircut? It would explain the dreamy look he’d seen on her face as the streetlights flashed across her features on the drive across town.

To the castle.

Her words had made him grin. They made sense now. Made more sense when he crossed the room to inspect the contents of her overflowing bookcase. He lifted a book out of a stack and smiled again.

Definitely a romance if the covers were to be believed. This one appeared to be a sweeping saga of a manly man and a virginal woman, with a royal crest and towering turrets in the background. He put the book back and discovered more of the same, along with a large collection of contemporary romantic suspense and several classics. Wuthering Heights. Camelot. Romeo and Juliet.

He felt another tug of tenderness for the woman who ate plain vanilla ice cream by herself on a Friday night, a traditional date night in Boston culture. At least it had been before he’d thrown a few things in his duffel and set out to see the world almost eight years ago.

A swift surge of anger boiled up when he thought of Jason Collins. The man was a predator. He was also slime. He was having a problem piecing together any scenario in which Phoebe Richards would be linked to him, and yet they had a history.

Daniel worked his scowl into a smile when Phoebe appeared in the doorway, a tall glass of iced tea in each hand.

“Hey, thanks.” He drained half the glass. “That hits the spot. And this is nice.” He lifted his glass to encompass the room. “Very nice.”

She attempted to hide her pleasure and pride over his statement behind a dismissive smile. “Only twenty-five more years of monthly payments and it’s mine, all mine—corroded pipes, peeling paint and all.”

He realized then what it was about her that captivated him so, besides the fact that she was pretty and refreshing and as tempting as the promise of the ice cream that was responsible for their chance meeting. Phoebe Richards was a real person. She didn’t have it in her to be anything else. Her earlier admissions of nervousness and now her smiles were as honest as her heart. It was a rarity in his world, where most women either jockeyed for a favorable position or wanted something from him. Phoebe hadn’t even wanted a ride home.

She crossed the room to the bay window where the cat waited with watchful eyes. She greeted him with a gentle scratch to the top of his head then stroked a slender hand lovingly down the length of his back. When the cat arched into her touch, Daniel damn near groaned, picturing himself the benefactor of that silky caress that was not only adoring but unconsciously sensual.

Well, there was a new wrinkle. He was jealous of a damn cat. Jealous. Of a cat. If he thought about it, it was probably as degrading as hell. He decided not to think about it.

“Guard cat?” he asked, shaking himself away from the concept and the picture of her hand stroking the tabby.

“Keeper of the kingdom,” she said with a small smile.

The smiles were coming easier for her now, and kind of like potato chips, he was afraid that he wasn’t going to be satisfied with just one.

“He’s also ruler of the roost. Arthur has made the rules and I’ve played by them since the day I brought him home from the pound three years ago.”

“Lucky cat,” he said, then looked up to find her watching him watch her hand continue to pet the purring feline.

He cleared his throat.

She dropped her hand self-consciously, her cheeks pinking prettily.

“Um, please, sit down,” she offered and perched tentatively on the edge of a side chair. “I’m not usually so lax in the manners department.”

And he wasn’t usually so easily distracted by beguiling eyes and a pretty face that got prettier by the moment. It was time to exercise the better part of wisdom.

“Actually, I need to take off,” he said, then immediately felt like a skunk when her face fell in disappointment.

Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe, he thought, helpless against another swell of tenderness. You are too open, too vulnerable. No wonder she made such an easy target for a creep like Jason Collins.

“Do something for me, would you?” he asked after hiding his unsettling reaction by finishing his tea in a long swallow. “Find someplace other than a frog to hide your house key. And get some decent locks on your doors, okay? You need a dead bolt,” he added and with grim determination walked to the front door. “Better yet, get a professional to come in here and set you up with a complete security system.”

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