The Virgin And The Vagabond. Elizabeth Bevarly

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