too close to me, his body warm and imposing, somehow making the aisle shrink. “I think you surprised me.”
“You fit here, which is strange.”
“Strange because I know how to read?” I ask tartly.
“Strange because you’re the epitome of the modern woman, but you look so comfortable in this stuffy old library. I think you’d fit in anywhere, wouldn’t you?”
“That comes from moving every few months,” I say, the words out before I can call them back. I don’t usually share that with anyone. Definitely not a man who thinks I’m beautiful and mysterious. “Not that I minded.”
He looks grave. “Are you going to settle down in New York?”
That’s where most of the people I know have moved. Or places farther away, like Milan or Bombay. Places to inspire an artist’s heart. I never told them that I long for something simpler. Something more like an old library that hasn’t been touched in forever.
“Maybe.” I snap the book shut and carry it to the front.
He follows, a little bemused. “You’re stealing a book.”
A gasp of outrage. “I wouldn’t steal. I’m checking it out, obviously.”
“Should I go behind the counter, then?”
“No one would mistake you for a librarian,” I say, glancing wryly at the elegant lines of his suit. How such a large man manages to move gracefully is something physicians can study. Something old Greek artists would have tried to carve out of marble.
I push aside a swinging wooden door to go behind the counter myself. There’s a time capsule back here, papers in stacks moved only by the wind from above. Old stools with the leather worn, probably old even when the library closed. What had the librarians done when they closed the doors? Had they mourned this place? Someone should have.
Sutton follows me behind the counter, his blunt fingers moving along a carving in the back wall. Leaves create a forest wall made out of mahogany. A place for a tired librarian to lean against between moving stacks of books around.
Finally I find the little cards that they would fill out to lend a book. There’s a place to write the full name and address of the person. A place to write the book information. An optional ten-cent donation check box. Sutton joins me, placing his hand on my waist—such a small touch. It shouldn’t make my heart race.
“Look,” I say, showing him. “You can earn back your two million with this.”
He bends close, his blond hair more golden in this dim and dusty light. “How many books would we have to lend? It’s not as fast of a return as we hoped for.”
A sense of lightness invades my chest because he plays along with me. Does that mean he respects me more or less than Christopher, who rejects my ideas right away? I’m not sure either of them see me as an equal, but they both want my body.
Looking down at the cover of Cleopatra, the artist’s rendition of an overpriced prostitute done with childish ideas of Egyptian fashion, I wonder if that’s all we ever have.
Sutton turns his face toward my neck, breathing in. I turn toward him, my mouth only a few inches away. We could kiss in this place, and it would be almost sacred.
He pulls away, only an inch. Enough. “We can go to the office,” he says, his voice rough. “I’ll show you the plans and then we can talk about next steps.”
So businesslike, those words. Next steps.
I turn so that the counter is against my back and I’m facing Sutton. He could step back, if he really didn’t want this. If he didn’t want me to grasp his red tie and pull. If he didn’t want me to push up on my toes and kiss the corner of his lips.
He groans and opens his mouth over mine. His tongue touches my lower lip, my tongue. He touches me in intimate, warm places, and I can only think about him kissing me between my legs. Especially when his palm lands heavy on my thigh.
“Here?” I ask, but it’s not really a question. It’s more of a command.
His hands grasp me in a brusque motion, pushing me so that I’m sitting on the counter. My legs open with a naturalness that surprises me, and he moves between them. Even with the way his waist narrows, he spreads me wide. His demanding kiss pushes me back, only an inch, enough to unbalance me. My hands fall back to catch me on the dusty stacks of