The Virgin And The Vagabond. Elizabeth Bevarly

section to the left of the check-out desk, and her thirty-minute record was broken. Darn. All she could think about then was that with a brief, effortless investigation, she could easily verify James’s claim to worldwide notoriety and nationwide desirability.

      Glancing down at her watch, Kirby found, not much to her surprise, that she was fifteen minutes early for the meeting. She was always early for functions. Simply because, by virtue of her less-than-thriving business and completely inactive social life, she was pretty much overcome by leisure time.

      Without thinking about her motives, she strode casually toward the periodicals, her white flats scuffing softly along the marble floor. She scanned the shelves until she located the one where Tattle Tales magazine just so happened to be housed, then thumbed nonchalantly through the last few months’ worth of issues, until she located one whose cover carried a very familiar face.

      Good heavens, he’d actually been telling the truth. His name really was James Nash, and he really had been dubbed the Most Desirable Man in America.

      Her brain lurched into overdrive, but Kirby somehow managed to steer herself slowly to a nearby chair and park herself in it. Then she gazed dumbfounded at the magazine’s cover, a full-face photograph of the man who had stood on the other side of her front door just a few hours ago.

      Naughty Nash! the headlines beside his name screeched in big red letters. Then, in smaller type, was the added sentiment But Oh...So Nice!

      Chiding herself for being genuinely curious about the man, Kirby flipped through the magazine until she located the story about him. Another photograph of his beautiful face assaulted her senses, and that odd sparkle of heat fired to life in her belly again.

      “Playboy, paladin, parasite, pariah,” the article began. “They’re all words that have been awarded to this year’s Most Desirable Man in America. Whatever. Regardless of his rough reputation, one thing nobody can deny about James Nash is this: he’s plain perfection.”

      Well, my goodness, it sounds like someone’s been nipping at the alliteration juice again, Kirby thought uncharitably about the article’s author.

      Then, unable to break her gaze from the other words on the page, she continued to read. “He’s wonderfully wealthy. He’s incredibly intelligent. He’s appealingly adventurous. He’s gallantly gorgeous. And, of course, he’s sensuously sexy. What more could a woman desire in a man?”

      Gosh. Kirby thought to herself, maybe stalwart stability. Obeisant honor. Absolute affection. That sort of thing. Oh, but, hey, as long as he’s really rich and fabulously famous... She shook her head morosely and read further.

      “James Nash has seen all, done all, dated all. He’s been linked romantically with royalty and riches, glamour and glitz, fashion and fame, celebrity and sass. He has a string of relationships in his past, yet not a single one of his former loves has a negative word to say about him.

      “‘Every woman should have a man like James at least once in her life,’ stated starlet Ashley Evanston in a recent telephone interview. Debutante Sissy Devane, daughter of billionaire Russell Devane, concurred. ‘No man is more knowledgeable about what it takes to please a woman,’ she said with a little purr of delight this author couldn’t mistake. ‘James is quite thorough in his sexual technique.’”

      Oh, please, Kirby thought, slamming the magazine shut Was nothing sacred? Why did people air their sex lives for public consumption as if they were sharing recipes?

      She told herself to simply toss the magazine back on the shelf where she’d found it and forget about the fact that James Nash had ever darkened her door. But for some reason, she just couldn’t quite put the man to rest.

      She supposed there was really nothing wrong with reading the article, she told herself. Just so she’d know what she was up against should James Nash decide to come around again, of course. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she tucked the magazine between herself and her purse, then hastily made her way to the check-out desk and placed it on the counter.

      On the other side, Mrs. Winslow, who had been senior librarian since Kirby was a child, smiled as she rose from her desk. “Good evening, Kirby,” she said in that even, quiet librarian’s voice as she approached, tucking a pencil into the snowy bun atop her head.

      Kirby forced a smile in return and tried to pretend she really couldn’t care less about the item she had chosen to check out. “Hi, Mrs. Winslow.”

      “I see the festival committee is meeting upstairs tonight. Big plans this year?”

      “Oh, you bet.”

      “Did you ever find someone to replace Rufus Laidlaw as grand marshal of the Parallax Parade?”

      Kirby shook her head. “Not yet.”

      “Well, it’s going to be hard to find someone of Rufus’s caliber,” the librarian said with a certain nod. “There aren’t many people in Endicott who’ve achieved such celebrity status.”

      “No, ma’am. You’re right about that. Not many people from here have costarred in laxative commercials, that’s for sure.”

      “And don’t forget the one where he played a dancing can of corn.”

      “Oh, I could never forget that. It’s a shame he had to cancel, even if that cancellation came because of a boost to his career. But don’t worry. We’ll find someone.”

      “I’m sure you will.” Then Mrs. Winslow glanced down at Kirby’s choice of reading material and made a soft tsking noise. “I’m sorry, dear, but periodicals don’t circulate.”

      Kirby arched her eyebrows in surprise. “They don’t?”

      The librarian shook her head. “That’s why we have the reading room over there. Of course, there are those who prefer to photocopy the articles they wish to read. Be aware, however, that should you do so, you might potentially be violating copyright law.”

      “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do that,” Kirby assured Mrs. Winslow. “I have a few minutes before the meeting. I’ll just go to the reading room.”

      Mrs. Winslow smiled, clearly satisfied that Kirby had made the right moral choice.

      Kirby spun around, her attention drawn to the picture of the man staring at her from the magazine cover. The glossy paper James’s smile was as flirtatious as the real life one’s had been, and his eyes in the photo held all the mischief she had seen in them in person. She supposed a man like him could turn the charm on and off like a faucet, adjusting the flow and temperature in accordance to whether or not there were flashing cameras and/ or his adoring public within range.

      So caught up had she become in studying the smiling, handsome face on the magazine’s cover, that it came as a tremendous surprise to her when a familiar, masculine voice said out of nowhere, “Then again, why would you want to photocopy the thing when you can have the genuine article?”

      Kirby snapped her head up at the question, only to find herself falling into the depths of those pale gray eyes that had so captivated her earlier. James Nash had changed his clothes, too, she noted, and now wore charcoal trousers, a white, open-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, and a knit black vest. His jet hair was still bound at his nape, and for some reason, she found herself wondering just how long it was.

      “What are you doing here?” she asked, hoping she only imagined the husky, breathless quality her voice seemed to have adopted.

      “Following you,” he told her frankly.

      The tremor that had begun in her belly when she first saw him began to rattle throughout her entire body at the ease with which he offered his statement. “Why?” she managed to ask.

      He shrugged casually, as if his answer should be obvious. Then he took a few idle steps toward her, his gaze never leaving hers. “Because wherever you were going, I wanted to go there with you.”

      “Why?” she repeated.

      He