Silence descended on her small world when the front door clicked shut. Amelia Perkins sighed, a smile teasing her lips. Sonja had, at last, gone home for the day, leaving Amy alone in the still, book-scented library. The setting sun offered a final illusion of warmth through the windows high above the shelves.

She rose, ambled to the record player to the rear of the building, pausing to tidy books, and rearrange a few before slipping a long-playing record out of its cover. She placed it on the turntable with a reverent touch, lifted the needle with a steady finger then lowered it.

Pavarotti's Viva La Traviata Le Brindisi filled the small confines of the quaint library. She closed her eyes, raised her face to the ceiling, and allowed his dulcet voice to soothe her. She shivered, wishing she knew a man with such a deep tenor. Her nipples hardened under her vintage button-up blouse.

Amy stored that feeling, having assessed it from all angles for her writing. Whatever lost desire, love, longing she experienced, she poured it into her novels. Then before she fell asleep, whatever lingered, she'd take care of as if she attended to her anti-aging rituals.

A spinster at twenty-eight? In tiny Gainsford, she was, with no prospects other than Phillipe, her neighbor's son, who insisted on treating her to dinner when he visited from the "big city". He tried every time for a little affection, but no, dinner did not equal sex in Amy's mind, no matter how much she longed for someone to love her.

Balancing a stack of books against her ample bosom, she navigated the shelves, waltzing, and sashaying down the aisles. She hummed or sang along, pausing only to replay it. As crisp as the digital version was, it couldn't compare to the authenticity of an LP.

To slide in a book at the base of the shelf, she had to bend at the waist and balance on her platform pumps—a weakness of hers. She hadn't seen the man enter the library or approach her, just sensed his shadow when it was too late. Amy bolted upright, yelped, leaped back, bounced off a bookshelf, teetered on her heels for a moment before sliding to the floor.

"What the f...physics 530 do you think you are doing?" She huffed her hair out of her face to glare at the intruder.

Her breath hitched and she blinked. The fashion for criminals must have changed. Since when did they wear crisp grey suits that molded to broad shoulders and bulging biceps? He was too tanned, as if he'd just returned from a tropical island. He had to be the head of a drug cartel. Now that made sense.

One moment she sprawled before him like a ritual offering, the next she was in his arms, his hands gripping her waist. His navy-blue shirt gaped, tuffs of ebony hair peeked through. His cologne overpowered the musty library, citrus and grass...delicious. He waited as if to ensure she didn't fall over, then with a curt nod, released her.

"My apologies..."

Whatever he said after that, she couldn't repeat. Holy Dostoyevsky, his voice rumbled like distant thunder. Her calmed nipples tightened and tingles spread with her breasts swelling. Wow, she had no words to describe the sensation. It couldn't be instant attraction. Sure, she wrote about it but was there proof of its existence, or was it an urban legend?

His cheeks darkened, and he clenched his jaw, waiting for her to speak.

Blinking at him, as if dazed, she opened her mouth but her mind wouldn't fire a thought.

"Listen, I don't have time for this bullshit. I'd like the contact details for Ms. Amelia Perkins."

She frowned. Why did he want to speak to her? In that harsh tone, she wouldn't be helpful, not when he'd scared her to death then hummed desire through her body. Here in Gainsford, a man had to buy a woman dinner, kiss her among other intimacies to get her to this stage of readiness. He just had to use that lethal voice of his.

She narrowed her eyes. "We don't give out staff information. You can leave a message with me and I'll let her know."

His arched brow looked like a crow's wing. "Are you the head librarian?"

"Sometimes." She wanted to snort, to roll her eyes but ladies never acted in such a vulgar manner, or so her mother claimed. Little did she know of Amy's other proclivities.

With Sonja as her assistant, many things happened in the library that Amy wasn't privy to which had her feeling like they'd swapped roles.

The phone rang and Amy darted around the man, ignoring his looming physique, tantalizing cologne, and glower. She launched herself across the check-in desk and grabbed the phone.

"Sonja, you're home?"

"Why are you breathless?" Sonja's voice sounded too eager and suspicious for Amy's liking. If she hinted she wasn't alone, ever-romantic Sonja would rush over to matchmake.

"Had to run for the phone." If she didn't answer, Sonja would return to the library and there went Amy's blissful evening.

She glanced at the man, watching him approach her. Long strides, pinched lips, and intense focus made for one hell of a brooding package. She clenched her thighs together against the rush of heat, which was a struggle when she had one foot on the floor and the other hovering mid-air.

"All right, have a lovely evening and don't work too late." Sonja clicked off.

Amy returned the phone to the cradle, her secret life curling her lips into a delicious smile. Sonja thought Amy worked all hours at the library, little did she know about her novels. She raised her gaze to rest on Sonja's photo of a pixie-haired she-devil mounted on the wall...right below her own.

Bloody Waterloo. Amy spun on her foot, lowered the other, and sidled in front of the pictures.

"Right, Ms. Perkins, let's discuss your book selection." He folded his arms across his chest and he seemed to grow in stature. An ebony curl fell across his temple but he narrowed his hazel eyes.

Amy gasped. "What? Why?" She had an extensive selection, had worked hard to make the right choices for such a small town. Today, two teenagers she'd never seen before had requested library cards.

He yanked a familiar book out of his jacket pocket, struggling with it for a bit. His massive hands must have wedged it in there. A semi-nude couple in a passionate embrace splashed across the cover. A black leather bustier hinted at something more than missionary style. Gemma James was the author, and that would be Amelia Perkins if one looked at her taxes.

He slammed the book onto the check-in counter, his fingers an inch from her hip. "This filth should not be in my grandmother's hands. What were you thinking?"

Filth? Fury pulsed her heartbeat behind her left eye and she settled her hands on her hips. How dare he? "Have you read it?"

Horror contorted his handsome features. "I don't have time to read drivel, Ms. Perkins."

She tapped her bottom lip with a fingertip and circled him, running a critical yet admiring gaze over his body. She wished she could peel his jacket off. With those biceps, he had to have a matching backside, tight enough to bounce quarters off.

"Mm, let me guess, you're a discontented accountant, an unfulfilled banker, some hot-shot litigator, or an egotistical executive with no appreciation for literature?" It didn't matter what he did during the day, images of him making her scream shot heat to all her extremities.

He growled and stepped closer, casting shadows across all her exits.

"Too close for comfort? Oh, dear me. Well, let me explain it in terms you'll understand. Banging the same type of bimbo for say fifty years, wouldn't that grow tiresome, sir?" She scooped her book off the counter and ran a caressing finger across its edges, as if to apologize for the Neanderthal's abuse. Forbidden Nights was her first and yes, she'd come far since then. "The same applies to reading. Some people can handle repeated sessions with the bimbo, sweet Maude asked for something steamier."

"My grandmother is—"

"—Tired of the same-old regency stories she's read since she was a young girl." Amy sighed, boredom tapping her foot. She wanted a roaring fire, a glass of sherry, and her laptop. "Listen, Mr. Banker, if you think for one moment I didn't try and talk Maude out of her choice, then you're an idiot. Contrary to your belief, she's a grown woman, stubborn, opinionated, and quite eloquent. Now, had she been underage, she wouldn't have left the library with anything this raunchy." She thumped the book against his chest. "Read it and form an educated opinion."

Amy scooped another stack of books and walked away, restarting Pavarotti as she meandered along the aisles. Her dismissal was all a pretense. Every one of her senses and ounce of energy in her cells focused on him. He didn't leave, hesitated, glared, huffed then stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Holy Whitman, he was gorgeous. As she hummed, an idea formed. Perhaps she should immortalize him in her Masculine Manipulation series, book twelve? Amy chuckled, she'd make it the dirtiest of the dozen.