“IT’S ALL ABOUT DESIRE. Wanting. Needing. Right to the core of your being. You can’t breathe. You can’t see. Until the lust is fulfilled. Truly fulfilled.”
Miranda shifted in her seat, grateful that the theater department had replaced the old, creaky folding chairs with soft, quiet benches before her sister became artist-in-residence. She’d slipped into Teri’s workshop unseen, hoping to catch her as soon as the actors completed their rehearsal of a montage of scenes from Tennessee Williams. It would be Tennessee Williams, Miranda lamented. No staid, Victorian tea-time comedy for her sister. She specialized in producing and acting in plays that pushed the limits of propriety and social mores. Much to Miranda’s chagrin, Teri’s entire life pushed that limit—and was a certifiable mess as a result.
Just like hers was, since Teri had finally managed to inject her personal chaos into the order that was once Miranda’s life.
“Some of you are just too young to have experienced an all-consuming passion,” Teri lectured, finally catching sight of Miranda in the darkened corner. Her Cheshire-cat grin sent chills up Miranda’s spine. “Not that age has anything to do with it, really. Take my sister, for example.”
Miranda covered her eyes with her hands, pressing her fingers into her forehead, hoping to alleviate the pain. No, this wasn’t happening. Not again! Did no one is this university understand the word discretion?
“You all read the article this morning. Here’s a woman, just over thirty, sickeningly attractive…” Teri added a sneer that was only partly meant to invoke a laugh. “A virtual paragon in her chosen field, and she can’t get a decent date.”
Okay, Miranda decided. Enough was enough.
“Excuse me, Ms. Carpenter.” Miranda held up her hand and stood, strengthening her aim to be recognized by the professor, with permission or not. “But let’s stick to the facts. I can get a date. I have a date.”
Teri’s penciled eyebrows shot up beneath her jet-black bangs. “Really? That’s news.”
News? Miranda bit back a snide remark. “Weren’t you just about to dismiss your class? It’s after two o’clock.”
Teri, who’d never worn a watch in her entire life, squinted to read the portable alarm clock she’d perched on a piece of errant scaffolding. “So it is. Go forth, thespians! Learn about lust and love if you can this week. You’re going to need to if this production is going to work.”
Miranda moved up to the front of the theater, eyeing each of the students pointedly. No one lingered, as was her intent. She was done airing her private life for public consumption—at least until Friday night.
After a substantial silence, broken only by the jingling of Teri’s numerous bangle bracelets, Miranda climbed the steps onto the stage and slipped onto a stool near the dimmed footlights.
“What did I do?”
Teri continued to collect scripts from around the stage, pushing scenery and props out of her way. “What do you mean, ‘What did I do?”’
“It must have been pretty horrible. Was it because I stole your Malibu Barbie when you were four and I was eight? I’m pretty certain I apologized for that. She didn’t die in vain. My experiment on the burning point of plastic and rubber was the hit of the third-grade science fair.”
“Miranda, what are you talking about?”
Miranda closed her eyes. If Teri knew what was good for her, before Miranda opened her eyes again, Teri’s dumbfounded expression would be wiped from her pale pancaked face and russet lips and replaced with a repentant one.
“Think a minute, Teri.” Miranda blinked open her eyes, but her sister’s blank stare hadn’t changed. “I’m talking about the same thing everyone else on campus is talking about. My pathetic attempts at romance? My status as an impostor in the arena of sexual knowledge? The damn article in The Bull Report?”
Teri threw her hands up and down as if washing away Miranda’s concern. “Oh, that! Gosh, isn’t it old news yet?”
Miranda took a deep breath and counted to ten. Her sister, who had always preferred the land of make-believe, sometimes had trouble grasping the nuances of reality. As always, Miranda took the responsibility of leading her back through the looking glass. Right now, she felt like shoving her through, but as always, she retained a tight hold on her impulses.
“It’s not old news until it’s old. Outdated. Join us here in the real world, Teri. We miss you.”
Teri flipped up the houselights from a control at the edge of the stage. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Miranda. Didn’t Mother waste several bars of soap trying to show you that?”
“I’d take the sin of a smart mouth over the sin of betrayal anytime.”
“I didn’t betray you! Now who’s being melodramatic?”
“I didn’t call you melodramatic.” Not today, anyway. “What do you call it then when your sister reveals your most intimate secrets—to the press, no less?”
“Publicity?”
Miranda paused, hoping first that she hadn’t heard right, and second that Teri would add something to her inane, one-word explanation to make her reasoning more clear.
She repeated her sister’s word, making sure she’d heard her correctly. “Publicity?”
“Of course. Why else? I really didn’t say everything the way it came out in the article, and I intend to give that young man a severe dressing-down when I see him, but you know what they say—bad publicity is better than no publicity at all.”
Miranda slid off the stool. “Care to explain why I need publicity? I’m a professor, Teri. A scientist. Scientists don’t need to be on the cover of the National Enquirer.”
Teri rolled her eyes. “You can be so dense! Scientists probably don’t need radio shows either.”
Radio shows? Miranda’s backside slapped the stool as the connections finally came into place—tenuously, but a pattern emerged. Last month, Miranda told Teri about the offer she’d received to host a syndicated call-in show discussing, of course, sex. She’d followed her story with a wayward comment to the effect of, “Who would want to listen to me?”
Had she inadvertently started the wheels of Teri’s warped mind turning toward her humiliation?
“Let me get this straight. You wanted to drum up some interest in me as a personality so that I’d have a better chance at getting that syndicated show? And to do that, you revealed to my students my most private secrets?”
Teri’s triumphant smile sent Miranda into a dizzying spin, even while sitting down. She pressed her elbows against her knees and cradled her head in her hands.
“Are you going to pass out? Do you need a pill?” Teri shot across the stage to the fringed bag she carried as a purse. “I have a pill. Give me a minute.”
“I don’t want a pill,” Miranda said with a groan. I love my sister. I love my sister. The mantra did little to ease Miranda’s migraine, but it did keep her from leaping onto her sister like an incensed Wonder Woman, as she’d done plenty of times during their childhood.
Miranda was always the superhero. The defender. The paragon of virtue and righteousness. Teri preferred the role of evil villain, plotting maniacal schemes to take over the world, or at the least, steal freshly baked cookies from the metal racks where their mother cooled them. From all sides, their upbringing had been unusually traditional. Their father taught library science at Florida State, while their mother ran the household with love and precision. And yet, Miranda and Teri couldn’t be any more different than if Teri had been the lost changeling of an alien race—a theory Miranda had never quite been able to prove to her sister, or her parents, despite her flowcharts and probability studies.
When Miranda looked up, Teri was sitting on the floor amid the spilled contents of her bag, watching her. And smiling. That devilish smile that meant Miranda was in for more trouble if she didn’t clear out fast.
“What?” Miranda asked. “No. Never mind. Don’t answer that.”
“You look different.”
“A migraine will do that to you.”
“You don’t get migraines. It’s a stress headache. I’m done for the day. Let’s go by the student union and I’ll buy you a herbal tea.”
“No thank you. The last place I want to be is in a crowded building filled with students who now know I’ve never had an orgasm.”
Miranda flipped back her hair, patting the back of her head in search of the mate to the chopsticks that had, when she’d dressed this morning, held her hair in a loose twist.
“Want a pencil?”
“I want you to get me out of this mess!”
Teri shook her head. “No can do. Not my job. You get me out of messes, remember? And besides, you may be a little embarrassed, but you have a date! Tell, tell. With whom?”
Miranda smirked and pressed her lips together. She’d confided in her sister once before and look where that had gotten her. Luckily, she’d been smart enough to keep her errant sexual fantasies about Noah Yeager completely to herself. She didn’t even write about him in her journal, a book her sister invariably found “by accident” whenever she came over for dinner. Unfortunately, Teri never once hid her attraction to the psychology professor with the hair that brushed passed his collar and the car with the removable top. She’d been making plays for Noah ever since she moved to Tampa from New York City.
“Never you mind. You can read about it in the Monday Bull Report just like everyone else.”
“So you’re going to go through with the contest? It really is a great idea.” Teri shoved the contents of her purse back into place then slung the knitted strap over her shoulder. “I mean, I hear these kids talking about their sex lives. I’m the poster child for irresponsible behavior, but some of them make me look like…well, they make me look like you.”
Miranda followed Teri off the stage and toward the exit. “Heaven forbid.”
“Heaven gave up on me a long while ago, sis. I’m just glad you never have.”
Bingo! And out of left field, too! Miranda winced as the guilt she shouldn’t feel stabbed her smack in the gut. She’d prepared herself, prepped every righteous and indignant word she planned to unleash on her sister for her imprudence. Instead, Teri managed to find a way to make Miranda feel bad for getting angry.
“It’s not going to work, Teri.” Miranda stamped her foot for emphasis while Teri flipped off the light switches and turned the lock on the theater door. “I’m mad at you. Really mad.”
Teri’s smile was the ultimate example of condescension. “You’ll get over it. Now, what are you going to wear Friday? Do you want to borrow something? I just bought this delicious butter-yellow, backless halter dress. In leather.”
Miranda groaned as tendrils of anger slipped away. She was such a sucker when it came to her sister. “It’s summer. No leather.”
“You’re worried about the heat? Trust me, there’s not enough leather in this dress to make you sweat.”
Sighing, Miranda followed her sister through the lobby while Teri described in detail the style of dress she had no intention of wearing, never mind the time of year. Even in the breeziest clothes, she wouldn’t be able to escape the scorching temperatures Noah Yeager evoked with only his smile.
NOAH STOPPED, one foot over the threshold. With a hand on the doorjamb to keep him steady, he pushed back into the shadow of a tall bookcase overflowing with outdated newspapers and bound literary journals. This late at night and with a safe distance between now and final exams, the microfiche room at the library was usually deserted—which it was, essentially. Except for Miranda, and a student tending the desk way on the other side of the third floor, he hadn’t seen anyone else since he jogged in to grab some reference materials for tomorrow’s class on schizophrenia.
Dressed in a sleeveless sweatshirt and coordinating pants the soft, textured color of athletic gray, Miranda sat in front of a bulky microfiche scanner, her lavender eyes, pale cheeks and tawny hair reflecting the dim amber light. He’d caught her like this once before, alone in the stacks, engrossed in her work. He’d sneaked up behind her that time, jabbing her in the ribs and making her scream so loudly the desk attendant called campus security.
Tonight, he didn’t feel so rambunctious. Now that he’d had his nefarious glimpse into her personal life, thanks to her sister and a reporter with an ax to grind, he found himself aware of her on more levels than he dreamed imaginable. The smell of her perfume not only beckoned him, but the very body of the fragrance—every crisp hint of ocean breeze, every subtle scent of citrus—reminded him that he’d read she adored the beach, an aspect of her he had never imagined. Even her hair color, a natural blend of blonds and browns kissed with a tinge of auburn, dared him to slip behind her and loosen the confining clips holding the strands sharply away from her face.
For the first time since this morning, when she’d tentatively agreed to honor their arrangement for Friday night, he wondered seriously if he was making a huge mistake. On the surface, Miranda seemed like a sweet, intelligent woman who just needed a little help loosening up. But he’d been wrong about women before. Best to tread lightly.
“Noah? Were you looking for me?”
He stepped fully into the room, chagrined that she’d caught him spying until he realized she obviously hadn’t noticed his long stare. She’d already returned her attention to the microfiche, slipping the transparent card out of the viewer. From what he gathered, she’d already forgiven him for shanghaiing her class this morning. Not that he should feel relief. He had no doubt he’d soon give her another reason to be angry.
“I promised a student I’d find this article I’d read on the links between schizophrenia and prenatal cocaine use. What are you doing here so late? It’s nearly midnight.”
Miranda smiled ruefully and glanced at her watch. “I had some reading to catch up on. Sometimes I get restless at home or in my office. I like the library. The outdated equipment and musty smells have a certain charm, don’t you think?”
Noah nodded, wondering how she could sense the odor of mildewing paper and decaying leather when all he could smell was her. All he could see was her. Even his hands, when he brushed by a stack of magazines waiting to be reshelved, itched to touch the suppleness of her skin. Before he could ask how the rest of her day went, she injected the silence with small talk.
“What about you? I thought you did all your research on the Internet.”
He stopped across from where she’d swung her chair around to face him, her hands folded softly in her lap, her glasses slipped into the zippered neckline of her shirt. Her skin shimmered softly, as if she’d just worked out and the library’s air-conditioning had cooled the sweat on her skin.
He licked his lips, wondering how salty she would taste if he kissed her right now. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—kiss her, but he couldn’t help reaching out to stroke a wayward strand of hair from her cheek. “You shouldn’t come here alone—at night. It’s not safe.”
For you or for me.
Her frown only intensified the plum pink of her mouth. With amazing subtlety, she leaned back in her chair, parting his touch from the soft plane of her blushing skin. “I’m a big girl, Noah. I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a long, long time.”
Standing, she slid her chair under the desk, grabbed her bag, slipped a pencil behind her ear and scooped up a handful of note cards adorned with her illegible scribble—all without invading his personal space. “I have an article to find. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She breezed by, leaving a gulf-scented trail in her wake. Noah had no choice but to follow.
“Miranda, wait.”
He shook his head. One date—and an unconfirmed date at that—did not give him the right to go into Neanderthal mode. Just as he’d predicted, he’d wasted no time in pissing her off. But dammit, she didn’t have to bolt. His comment had come from nothing more than a natural concern for her safety.
“Miranda?”
His voice echoed against the metal shelves that were spaced less than three feet apart and stacked with rows and rows of books. Without the sunlight from the wall of floor-length windows on either side of the building, the library’s lighting was muted. Dim. Intimate. If he was a sane man or a man whose IQ accurately reflected his good sense, he’d turn tail and leave his research for another day. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t do that.
He found her leaning against a bookshelf in a far corner, a book in hand, her tennis-shoed foot propped on a lower shelf just across from her. Sliding beside her into the cramped space, he stole a glance at the title of the article—“Virgins at Thirty.”
She pressed the open book against her chest. “I don’t need a bodyguard, Noah. You can go about your business. Forget I’m here.”
“I can’t forget.” He turned so his back pressed against the shelves opposite her and propped up his foot so they stood in identical stances, like images in a mirror. “Since this morning, I’m feeling responsible for you.”
She slipped a note card between the pages to mark the article, then slid the heavy book onto an empty space on the shelf. “I’m not the psychologist here, but don’t you think that’s a natural reaction to the guilt you’re feeling?” Crossing her arms over her chest, she resumed her relaxed stance, as if conducting a private conversation in a darkened, deserted library was something she did every day.
But Noah didn’t. Images raced through his mind, the first a hazy fantasy of his fingers clutching the zipper on the front of her sweatshirt and pulling down. Slowly. Anticipating the shape and size and skin tone of her breasts beneath the soft cotton fleece. Did she wear a bra lined with lace? Perhaps the athletic type, with straight lines and a snug fit. Maybe, just maybe, she wore nothing at all.
“There could be a dozen causes,” he answered.
“Like the fact that you need me to help you impress Amelia Henson on Friday night, and if I’m attacked in the deserted halls of the library, you’ll be without a suitable date?”
“That’s logical.” But unlikely. More and more, Noah realized that the tight rein he held on his attraction to Miranda was quickly slipping away. If he didn’t regain control soon, he’d find himself on the same dangerous path to heartbreak he’d been on before. First with Trish, his ex-wife, and then with Sarah. With each woman, he’d let his sexual attraction mute one undeniable fact—Noah couldn’t commit. Even when he thought he’d fallen in love and made the trip down the aisle, he’d learned that he just didn’t have the capacity to completely and honestly surrender that portion of himself that would make a union—marital or otherwise—complete and binding. And Miranda deserved more than that.
“I’ve been told logical is my forte,” Miranda claimed, reaching across to match another book to a pencil-scribbled note card.
Noah stepped aside, allowing both of them some space. “Then it’s only logical that I help you find what you need, so I can walk you to your car and you can get home safe and sound.”
Flipping pages with her thumb, Miranda found the article and, marking it with another card, folded the book in her arms. She slapped her first find on top, then turned back to him with a smile.
“I’m done. What about you? Didn’t you have something you wanted from the library?”
Wanted? Oh, yes. Miranda, naked, breasts round and ripe, her bottom pressed against the dusty books while he slipped inside and made her scream in ecstasy so loud the desk attendant called not only campus security, but the local police as well.
Not exactly a fantasy he could share with his wide-eyed colleague if he planned on her honoring their date Friday, an event he was looking forward to less and less as the minutes ticked by. They’d spent barely an hour together today and his mind brimmed with erotic reveries so vivid and so enticing, he wondered how he’d survive Friday night.
By using all your willpower, buddy. Every last ounce.
Gesturing toward the opening between the shelves, Noah stepped back so Miranda could pass. “What I need will have to wait.”