Boxed Set: Books & Billionaires Page 5

  I sighed. “Alright, out with it!”

  “He asked what you read!” she squealed.

  I looked at her properly for the first time. “What?”

  The words came out in a tumble. “He came a week ago and asked what you read!”

  I held my hands up. “Okay Sandra, from the beginning. What the heck are you talking about?”

  “The cute foreman? He’s been popping in every day since he started. We’re all enormous fans, he’s so dreamy-”

  “Back on track Sandra. The books, remember?”

  “Oh yes. He asked what your favorite books were. Said he’d been talking to you about romances.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What did you say?”

  “We gave them to him, obviously. Pride and Prejudice, Romeo and Juliet—as many as we could find.” Her perfect eyebrows waggled conspiratorially. “Romances, Clara. That means he’s romantic.”

  “You didn’t think to call me first? Ask my permission?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Would you have said yes?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Exactly.”

  This was just what I needed—another lovesick suitor. Three years alone and now that the door was open, it seemed everyone was knocking. Time to shut it, hard. “If you see him again, give him one final recommendation. Something that’s a bit more realistic.”

  Her head cocked to the side; an inquisitive puppy.

  “Tell him to read Carrie, by Stephen King. That should give him the right idea.”

  * * *

  Sandra left me alone after that, but as I began to stack shelves my mind went back to another man, not so long ago, who had been interested in what I read. A man I’d shared one magical, terrible, wonderful night with in the library.

  How would the story have played out if I hadn’t walked him to his car?

  We’d have pet names for each other, maybe. Cute little things that only we understood. I’d call him Mr Lover, because he hated romances. He’d call me… I thought for a minute. Sheets. Because they were great in a book and great on a bed. I giggled at that, letting the scene play out in my mind.

  “Sheets! Baby. Put that book down and come give me a kiss.”

  “Now, now Mr Lover, you know I’m still working.” I’d put the books I was holding down anyway and fly into his arms. Sandra would be arching her eyebrows at us, but we wouldn’t care. “You really have to stop coming to visit me at work, you know.”

  “You don’t like being reminded of where it all began?” he’d ask. Then he’d pluck the Kamasutra from the shelf, and flick to a random page. “Let’s see… what shall we try tonight?”

  I’d laugh and snatch the book from his hand. “Get out of here, you. See you tomorrow.”

  He’d blow me a kiss then stride out the door; a gallant, magical prince about to get on his horse. Or maybe his Pegasus. He did own a helicopter, after all.

  I scowled, thumping another book onto the shelf in front of me. Pegasus—how appropriate. A mythical horse for a make believe man.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I saw Booker at lunchtime.

  He was sitting in a reading chair, legs flung casually over an armrest like he owned the place. He must have come in when I was in the stacks.

  I strode straight to him. “What the heck are you doing here?”

  His face lit up. “O Clara, my Clara! Wherefore art thou been my Clara?”

  I stopped. That was not what I’d expected to hear. “Are you… quoting Shakespeare to me?”

  He sat up straighter. “O, speak again, bright angel. For thou art as glorious to this day as is a winged messenger of heaven.”

  “That’s… Romeo and Juliet.”

  He held up the book in his hands. “One of your favorite romances, I believe.”

  “Wait. It’s you? The one that’s been borrowing the books?”

  He acknowledged my question with a dip of his head.

  “But… why?”

  “I want to know you, Clara—this mysterious, beautiful librarian who has stolen my heart.” His arms spread wide, adopting Shakespearean speech once more. “My soul is made out of lead, and it’s so heavy it keeps me stuck on the ground so I can’t move.”

  He was charming, sitting here quoting verse in my library, I’d give him that. But I was angry, and I knew Shakespeare too. “Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word,” I snapped. “Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.”

  His face fell. “You really feel that way?”

  I stared past him, afraid he’d see the tears in my eyes. “How could you? How could you do that to me?”

  He stood. “Clara. That’s why I’m here. I’m... I’m sorry.”

  I backed away. “No. You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to apologize. You’re married, Booker. Married! You led me down the garden path, made me fall in love, and then literally left me for another woman.”

  “Clara. That’s what I’m here to explain.” His hand went to the back of his neck. “I know it seems bad… but, well, it’s complicated.”

  I crossed my arms. “This is going to be good.”

  “It’s like this. We’re getting divorced.”

  My foot tapped until I realized that he had, in fact, said everything he wanted to say. “That’s it, that’s all you have to say? ‘We’re getting divorced?’”

  “No… but hopefully it’s a start. Clara… there’s a pre-nup agreement, and we’re separating, and it’s nasty, and-”

  “Stop,” I said. “Just stop.”

  He paused, puppy dog eyes that did nothing but infuriate me further. Did he think being handsome was all it would take? Did he think a couple of platitudes about the future would be enough to sway me? I’d heard it all before. Literally. It was like I was reliving a conversation from three years ago.

  Only this time, I knew how to answer. “That’s not good enough,” I said. “Answer me this. Are you still married?”

  “Technically… yes.”

  “Then you cheated on her. With me. Marriage is a contract Booker, and if you’ve broken it why should I trust any other promise?”

  “But-”

  “My only love sprung from my only hate!” I said, cutting him off with verse. “Too early seen unknown, and known too late!”

  He looked at me, helpless. “Clara. Please. Let’s talk about this. I have so much I want to say.”

  I beckoned him closer. “You made a fatal error if you hope to impress me by reading Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “I thought-”

  I cut him off again, tears streaming down my face. “The characters love each other, yes. But in the end, Juliet still dies of a knife through the heart.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  He was in the same chair, reading the same book, the following lunchtime.

  I stormed up to him once more. “This is stalking. You need to leave!”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why? I’m overseeing the renovations next door, and last time I checked it was a free library. Are you going to tell me I’m not allowed inside?”

  “You know what I mean. You’re not welcome.”

  “Romeo said it best. ‘I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.” He leaned forward. “Clara, I need to talk to you. To explain.”

  “Are you still married?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then what is there to explain? It’s over, Booker.”

  “Don’t be like that Clara, please. That night in the snowstorm—it was something special, you know it.”

  “I thought I did. But I’ll not be the third person, not again.” I turned, storming away before he could see the tears in my eyes.

  * * *

  I began to dread the lunch hour. Every day for three weeks he came to sit in the same spot and read his romances. He didn’t bother me, not after that first day. Just walked straight to his chair, sitting engrossed in his book until
his time was up.

  I also began to look forward to it. How could I hate someone so much, yet still covet that brief glance of tall, dark and handsome before I turned away with pointed cold shoulder?

  It got to the stage where I even sent Sandra to chat to him. She was better looking than me; she was also a lot more his type. If she could catch his attention…

  It didn’t work. She reported with annoyance that he’d spent more time asking how I was, than anything else.

  It didn’t matter that he was clearly still interested. It didn’t matter that reading my favorite romances was sweet. It didn’t matter that I was reminded about that night every time I walked past the reference section. He’d cheated, and he’d used me to do it. And he’d broken my heart.

  But then on a Saturday when the sun was shining and the snow lay thick on the ground, he didn’t show up. And suddenly I didn’t know how to feel.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’d walked around the library all morning with that anticipation I now felt at the start of every shift. Anticipation at seeing him, followed quickly by shame at the thought, masked quickly after that by anger. Anger kept me strong. Anger ensured that no matter how many times he appeared in the library, day after day, I wouldn’t give in.

  Truth be told, I missed him. For one beautiful snow filled night we’d been together—our bodies and minds joined, soul mates only just discovered. He’d looked deep inside me and seen the walls, then worked out how to climb over them.

  I knew I could never get that back. But I missed it all the same.

  And then he didn’t show up. And instead of anger, instead of shame, instead of anticipation, I felt new emotions. Disappointment. Fear.

  Maybe he’d had enough. Maybe he’d got the message.

  And maybe it was the wrong one.

  I paced back and forth, distress building for no sensible reason, until Sandra approached to fold me into a warm embrace. “It will be okay, Clara. I’m sure he’ll be back next week.”

  “I don’t want him back.”

  She pulled away from me, eyebrow raised.

  “Shut up!” I snapped. “You talk too much.”

  She laughed. “We’ve got some new books for the reference section. Why don’t you go place them, it will take your mind off things.”

  * * *

  The updated edition of Essentials of human anatomy and physiology slid between its companions with a smooth swish. I stood back to admire my handy-work. Sandra had been right. I did feel better—there was something about an ordered row of books that just made you feel…

  I paused. Something wasn’t right—as the kids might say, my spider sense was tingling.

  I scanned the shelf. What had caught my eye? Now that I was looking for it, it was hard to see… wait, there it was. One of the books was out of order. I tsked. Now who would do that?

  A scrap of paper fell to the floor as I pulled out the thick, green tome. I bent to pick up the paper. It contained a single word.

  Anarchy…

  I recognized the writing. Booker. My thumb caressed the cover, tracing the embossed ridges where text imprinted card. I recognized the book, too.

  A smile came to my face, unbidden. He knew me so well. How was that possible, after just one night?

  It hadn’t been just one night though. I’d seen him every day for the last week. And though I hadn’t said a word, he’d been learning about me. What kind of man did that? Put in that amount of effort?

  Someone worth breaking the rules for. The answer was there before I could stop it. I tried to push the thought away, but my eyes kept coming back to the book.

  There were memories here. Memories that even now I couldn’t entirely shut down; that even angry as I was, I couldn’t forget. I’d been so happy. Like a princess in a fairytale—an erotic one to be sure; 1001 Arabian nights, perhaps, but a princess in his arms none the less.

  I’d never felt that way before. So… treasured.

  I opened the book carefully, wary of the memories within. Indian imagery was an erotic art form wholly its own—all long fingers, body jewelry and rounded breasts. But it was the words I was interested in, now. I flicked to the page we had read together—that we had acted out. But when I opened it, I stared in shock.

  He’d written on it! He’d written notes in that casual scrawl of his right there in the margins of the page. How… how could he! This was a library book!

  Scandalized, I began to read. They were notations about how I’d made him feel.

  Step 1 had an arrow, with the words Holy Crap! penciled beside it.

  Step 7: Sucking a Mango Fruit was double underlined with exclamation marks.

  Beside Step 8, the handwriting was shaky. As if he’d actually been reliving the memory even as he wrote it.

  And then, at the very bottom of the page, a note written in clear, calm script.

  How many times I’ve dreamed of this. The feel of your mouth on my shaft, the smooth slide of your head as it bobs up and down below me.

  …and yet I’d give it all up for one more kiss. To raise you and have you in my arms beside me.

  I snapped the book shut, the clap echoing in the too silent library. I couldn’t—I’d made a promise, all those years ago. I’d broken the rules by accident. I wouldn’t break them on purpose. Not again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I didn’t want to admit it, but seeing Booker this week had awoken… emotions. Things I had thought buried. Things I hadn’t realized I’d felt until he never showed up.

  I checked the temperature of the bath and then lit the candles. It was time to forget about all that though. Most people went out on Saturday night. I had another tradition.

  I slipped into the water with a sigh, enjoying the just-too-hot heat as it slid up my legs and then my thighs. Wine, a good book, a hot bath. What more could a woman want?

  The bath bomb I’d used today had contained rose petals. They floated to the top of the water—tiny, red ballerinas dancing upon its surface. I sunk back and closed my eyes, breathing in the sweet, fragrant scent.

  It was on my third glass of wine that I pulled it from its hiding place. I couldn’t help it. I’d tried to read something else; one of my favorite stories, a saucy tale that usually got me excited and then very relaxed indeed. But tonight it wasn’t working. I kept thinking about… him.

  I hadn’t smuggled it home, not exactly. I mean, a librarian couldn’t technically steal from her own library, could she? I was going to put it back—I’d just wanted to read the comments one more time, that’s all.

  I ran my finger along the green spine, feeling the embossed lettering. I opened it slowly, careful to dry my fingers first.

  I would do this to you, if I could. The words were penciled neatly in the margins of a page showing two lovers intertwined. The page adjacent labelled it The Lotus Position.

  I began to read the printed text—there were no hand written notes on this page.

  The man sits cross legged and the woman sits on his lap, facing him, and lowers herself onto his member. The Ananga Ranga suggests that the man place his hands on his partner’s shoulders, but I would rather put my arms around your body, or perhaps your neck.

  I flicked to another page, but then flicked back. That hadn’t sounded right. I continued to read.

  Imagine us together, my mouth pressing into yours. My tongue reaching past your lips as, down below, other parts of our bodies mirror our actions.

  I’d read the book, and this was… different. The Kamasutra wasn’t meant to speak directly to the reader. It was clinical, a list of instructions. This had been changed somehow. How was that possible? I turned the page.

  The female stands with back arched against the wall as the male mounts her. Clara lifts a leg to ease his access. Both sigh in delight.

  I sat up, almost spilling my wine. That was my name! I opened another page at random. A new position.

  Riding the stallion: She mounts Booker in an athletic-

  Son of a bi
scuit! There we were, our names mentioned over and over again. I flicked through the book. Not scrawled in pen—although there were some of these as well—but instead, miraculously, within the very text itself; a part of the book, right there in front of me.

  I snapped the book shut with a clap for the second time today. But this time I opened it again after only a slight pause. An idea had occurred to me. An idea so audacious, so ridiculous it couldn’t possibly…

  The title page confirmed my suspicions. A hand written inscription:

  To Clara. A first edition romance we can both enjoy. B

  Blow me down and call me shorty, he’d made me a book. A gosh darned, honest to goodness book!

  My first thought was that this must have cost a fortune. Like, literally a fortune, to turn something like this around in the time that he had.

  My second thought was to wonder what else the story contained. I flicked to a random page.

  Erogenous zones:

  It is said that the most potent sexual organ is the brain. You taught me that, Clara. You turned me on with laughter, and wit, and intellect, and imagination. Never have I ever wanted to read a book so badly. Never have I ever wanted a woman so desperately.

  I turned the page.

  The nipples and surrounding areas are highly sensitive to touch. Some women can reach orgasm by oral stimulation of the nipples alone. I wonder if I could do that for you, Clara? If my mouth and tongue, applied with calm precision and excited lapping, could do the same as I did lower, that night of the storm?

  The night of the storm… I did remember that. I remembered the feel of being in his arms. The pleasure he created all over my body. Even now, the thought brought shivers to me. Shivers of desire. Shivers of anticipation.