Rule Breaker

by Barbara Boswell

  He probably should take offense, Rand thought. After all, Land of 1000 Vices was his most successful book. It had sold thousands in hardcover, an additional million in paperback, and had been made into a successful TV miniseries. He’d received thank-you letters from candy manufacturers crediting him with boosting sales via that opening seduction scene.

  And she’d just said it had made her sick.

  “Granted, the shark scene was gory, but what did you find objectionable in the candy scene?” he asked with an ingenuousness that was strictly tongue-in-cheek. “The melted chocolate? The tub of marshmallow cream or—” “The whole thing!” Jamie snapped. He was needling her, and they both knew it. What bothered her most was her volatile response. She was an expert at ignoring teasing, taunts and gibes; she prided herself on frustrating would-be jokesters with her cool, unruffled calm. But not this time. This man seemed to get to her.

  “Do you want this book or not?” she asked, determined to repair the slip in her composure.

  “Okay, I’ll take it.” He examined the book she’d recommended. “This author is a darling of the literary critics, but his sales records are nowhere near Brick Lawson’s. I suppose you think that’s a regrettable commentary on the public’s taste?”

  He was baiting her again, but this time Jamie refused to nibble. “May I have your library card?”

  “Library card?” He hadn’t thought of that. But then his purpose for being here was to check out the librarian, not a book. “I...don’t have a card here. I have one from the Haddonfield Library, though.”

  “Haddonfield? Is that where you live?”

  He nodded. Here it comes, he thought. The then-what-are-you-doing-in Merlton question. He hadn’t bothered to dream up an answer and he should have. A Haddonfield resident wouldn’t come to Merlton without a very specific reason. Though the two South Jersey towns were only a few miles apart geographically, a mammoth chasm separated them culturally, economically and socially.

  Haddonfield was an elegant and well-to-do community with stately homes on tree-lined streets and a plethora of trendy little shops offering the latest in upscale merchandise. Real estate was at a premium, because it was exactly the sort of fashionable place the upper class—and those aspiring to it—wanted to live.

  Crowded, run-down, working-class Merlton was its antithesis, a dilapidated, decaying industrial town in decline. The kind of town the younger inhabitants couldn’t wait to leave and the older ones couldn’t afford to leave.

  “Not everyone who lives in Haddonfield is a yuppie or a preppie living on inherited wealth,” said Rand, guessing that she was aware of the town’s demographics. “We have some bona fide members of the traditional middle class living there, too.”

  Not that he was a member of that group, but instinct told him that Jamie Saraceni would prefer it if he were.

  “We have some of those living in Merlton, too.” Jamie’s voice held a slightly defensive edge. “Not everyone in town is a bookie or a numbers runner.”

  “Stereotypes.” Rand smiled and shrugged. “I guess we’re all guilty of believing in them to some extent. I admit that until I saw you, I pictured a librarian as a—”

  “Don’t bother to say it. By denying stereotypes, you’re actually enforcing them,” she said dampeningly. “Here, I’ll give you the form to fill out for a library card. Then you can check out the book.”

  She stepped back from the desk to open a drawer filled with papers, giving Rand his first opportunity to study her full length. He was quick to take advantage of it.

  His gaze swept over her tiny waist, which was accentuated by her wide navy and yellow belt, and lingered appreciatively on the smooth curves of her hips, discreetly revealed by her pencil-slim navy skirt. She was about five foot four, small-boned and slender, but femininely curvaceous in all the right places.

  He felt his blood pool and thicken in his groin and swiftly averted his eyes. But looking away proved to be too difficult, and he succumbed to the temptation of studying her legs, which were encased in tinted nylons. Her calves were well-defined and her ankles slender; he imagined her legs would look smashing in a pair of high heels. They were certainly shapely enough in her plain, practical low-heeled shoes.

  Jamie turned around just in time to see him staring at her legs. Sexual intent burned in his eyes, and she went very still. He looked hard and dangerous and way out of her league.

  A shiver of warning rippled through her. After all, what did she know of him, except that he’d evoked within her the most intense and powerful physical reaction to a man she had ever experienced? And what sort of reliable test of character was that? Hadn’t men like Bluebeard also exerted a charismatic effect upon the unfortunate females in their lives?

  And for all she knew, he might be married! She didn’t even know this man’s name!

  “Rand Marshall.” His voice was deep and low and velvety smooth, a sexy growl that made her heart jump. “I’m thirty-four years old, a graduate of the University of Virginia and am not now and have never been married.”

  It was as if he’d read her mind! Jamie swallowed and dragged her eyes away from his, feeling tense and edgy. This man was experienced; he knew and understood women far too well.

  Rand smiled what he hoped was his most winning, trustworthy smile as he filled out the paper she’d laid on the desk. He’d seen the apprehension in her eyes when she’d caught him appraising her and read it for what it was. Now he had to reassure her that he wasn’t the smooth, cocky heartbreaker she’d already pegged him as.

  “I live in Haddonfield but I’m here in Merlton on business,” he said chattily, slouching slightly, striving for a body language that conveyed the message that this was a nice, wholesome, harmless guy.

  He didn’t want her wary and on guard. He was too experienced not to know that he’d had the same powerful physical impact on her as she’d had on him. He studied Jamie covertly, trying to gauge the effects of his trustworthy smile and reassuring body language.

  By the expression on her face, she wasn’t buying any of it.

  “You’re in Merlton on business?” Her sardonic tone confirmed that she was extremely skeptical of him and his motives.

  Rand decided that his entire credibility hinged on his alleged business in Merlton. He could hardly mention Daniel Wilcox, nor was he about to admit to being Brick Lawson. She’d already made her opinion of his writing quite clear. If she were to learn that the author of what she considered nausea-inducing prose was standing before her, he wouldn’t stand a chance with her. She would rebuff him as totally and determinedly as she had Daniel. Rand was certain of that.

  His eyes landed on the sexy cover of Assignment: Jail-bait. “I’m an insurance claims adjuster,” he said, borrowing the occupation of his main character in the book. All the macho heroes in Brick Lawson’s epic adventures had dull, safe, ordinary jobs, which made their plunge into the world of sex and danger totally incongruous.

  “Today is my day off, but a client here in Merlton called me unexpectedly, so here I am. Not exactly dressed for success today, am I?”

  It sounded plausible, but there was something about the gleam in his eyes. A masculine challenge? A private joke? Jamie wasn’t sure but her feminine intuition, alerted by the impact of his virile intensity, warned her to beware.

  Rand finished filling out the paper and handed it to her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Marshall,” she said crisply. “I’ll have your card for you in just a few minutes.”

  “Call me Rand.” It was an order, not a request.

  She could hardly refuse; this wasn’t Victorian England where the use of first names was improper. Still, Jamie wanted to balk at his demand. She knew instinctively that he was a man who was accustomed to being obeyed, one who would try to dominate a woman and with most women probably succeed.

  But not with Jamie Saraceni. She’d held her own among the unconventional Saracenis all these years; she wasn’t about to mindlessly capitulate to this sexy, strong
and exciting ... insurance adjuster?

  Rand felt his impatience mount. Jamie had an expressive face, and her mental machinations were all too visible to him. She was hesitating, still drawing back. He thought of Daniel’s futile three-week campaign to get one date with her and rebelled. But that wasn’t going to happen to him. Rand Marshall did not scheme, beg or grovel for a date with any woman.

  “Give me your phone number and I’ll call you,” he said with the authority spawned by unshakable self-confidence. The ingratiating smile and body language were gone, replaced by his usual sexually dangerous, irresistible style.

  It had an immediate effect on Jamie. The volatile thrill of excitement shooting through her was staggering in its intensity. Any force capable of rattling her staunch self-control was to be avoided at all cost. “I’d rather not,” she said firmly.

  He stared at her. “What?”

  “I’d rather not give you my phone number. There is really no reason for you to call me.”

  He was incredulous, not quite comprehending. This had never happened to him before. When Rand Marshall asked for a woman’s phone number, she immediately wrote it down for him.

  “No reason for me to call?” he repeated. His voice cracked slightly. “How about to talk? Isn’t that what phones are for?”

  “We have nothing to say to each other.”

  “Nothing to say?” Confusion, frustration and rage boiled up inside him. “Listen, baby, I have plenty to say to you!” He paused for a moment to collect his scattered thoughts.

  Jamie jumped right in. “Then say whatever it is you want to say now because I’m not giving you my phone number.” This he didn’t need! He should storm out of the library right now and never come back. He was on the verge of doing exactly that when his gaze accidentally collided with hers. He saw the fire glowing in her eyes, making them even more vivid and beautiful. He looked at her mouth. Her sensuous, full lips were drawn into a pout he found both sultry and arousing. What would that sexy little mouth feel like against his lips?

  A shock of heat spread from his abdomen to his chest and went straight to his head. His eyes strayed to her breasts and he watched, hot and hungry, as they rose and fell beneath the soft, silky material of her blouse.

  Whatever anger he’d felt was abruptly transformed into something else entirely. He felt stimulated and challenged, the way he did when he was working on an especially interesting plot twist in one of his books. The way he didn’t with women whose predictable capitulation to him caused him to quickly lose interest.

  “I understand what you’re doing,” he said silkily, his eyes taunting her with challenge. “You think that playing hard to get will heighten your allure and I’ll—”

  “I’m not playing hard to get!” Jamie exclaimed. She was indignant at the very suggestion. “I don’t want you to—to get me, you big, conceited—”

  “Ape?” Rand supplied helpfully. “Big conceited ape. Although you could also go with jerk, jackass, creep or fool.” They were epithets that Brick Lawson’s heroines invariably flung at their leading men, before their eventual, inevitable surrender to the heroes’ sexual prowess. “I can come up with more, if you’d like. My mind is a virtual thesaurus.”

  “I can think up my own insults. I don’t need any assistance from you.” It was difficult to maintain a stern demeanor when what she really wanted to do was laugh. This was a first, Jamie conceded. She’d never met a stuck-on-himself heartbreaker with a self-deprecatory sense of humor.

  Rand saw the laughter she was trying to suppress lurking in her eyes. “Give me your phone number, Jamie,” he said smoothly.

  Jamie scowled. He’d sensed her momentary weakening and zeroed in on it. He was too quick and far too perceptive. He might be the most sexy, handsome, charming guy to ever come down the New Jersey Turnpike, but oh, she was so right not to let him into her life. “Not in a million years.”

  He was undaunted. “Jamie, I know why you’re trying to hold out. You’re afraid of the things I make you feel.”

  “The things you make me feel are contempt, disdain and—and sheer disbelief at the size of your ego.”

  “In that order?” Rand laughed. He was enjoying himself. He didn’t mind the sparring because he was confident she would give him what he wanted in the end. What woman hadn’t? Reaching over the desk, he tore a piece of paper from a notepad, then took a pen from the circular pencil holder. “Here, honey. Write down your number for me.”

  Jamie gaped at him, amazed by his confidence, persistence and, most of all, by his thick-skinned resistance to rejection. Truly, this was a man who seldom, if ever, had heard the word no from a woman. Her eyes narrowed to slits. He was about to hear it now.

  Two

  No.” Her voice, firm and clear, brooked no argument.

  Rand didn’t argue, he didn’t even attempt to. He genially ignored her refusal. “Okay, then I’ll write it down.” He poised the pen over the paper. “Just give me the first seven digits.”

  “There are only seven digits in a phone number.”

  He grinned. “Smart girl. I thought I’d catch you with that one.”

  She almost smiled back. His cheerful teasing invited one to laugh along with him—and made him far more dangerous than those other smooth operators with their pseudosincerity and faux compliments and promises. She had no trouble keeping those sweet-talking smoothies at bay; she’d never been remotely tempted by any of their lures. But with Rand Marshall—

  She had to keep her resolve firm. She had to keep reminding herself that he was the kind of man she’d spent her adult years deliberately and successfully rebuffing. So instead of smiling or making any reply at all, she simply ignored him, busying herself with the card file.

  Rand heaved an exaggerated sigh. “All right, you win. If you give me your phone number, I’ll call you at eight o’clock tonight.”

  Her eyes widened with incredulity. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

  “I’ve heard every word, honey. Which is why I finally caved in and gave you a definite date and time when I’d call. That’s what you’ve been angling for, isn’t it?”

  “What I’ve been angling for is for you to leave me alone!”

  “I’m not going to let you alone until you give me what I want.” His grin was rakish, his eyes gleaming, and Jamie guessed he wasn’t talking about a phone number.

  “After taking what you want from me, you won’t be able to let me alone fast enough,” Jamie blurted out. She wasn’t talking about phone numbers, either. “Forget it, Rand. I don’t want you to call me. I don’t want to go out with you. Is there any other way to say it? I don’t want to have anything to do with you!”

  He was momentarily nonplussed. He was planning his comeback—should he be glib? penitent? masterful?—when a shrill, ear-splitting voice filled the air.

  “Miss Saraceni, this little kid just had an accident!” Before either Jamie or Rand could move, a bright-eyed, grinning girl of about ten trotted over to the desk, holding the hand of an obviously damp story hour patron.

  “So it was that kind of an accident?” Rand was the first to speak, and he sounded amused.

  Jamie envied him his aplomb. Her emotions were still roiling. “What happened, Ashley?”

  “Cindy was trying to read The Three Billy Goats Gruff, and Mark stood up and yelled ‘Go potty.’ ” Ashley pointed to the little boy and giggled. “But he didn’t yell it soon enough. He’s soaked! Cindy said she couldn’t cope and told me to bring him to you.”

  Rand chuckled. He was inordinately relieved by the children’s interruption. His quest for Jamie’s phone number had dead-ended, leaving him uncharacteristically groping for what to do and say next. Now he could postpone his response and regroup his wits before launching his next offensive. Because he was going to get that phone number.

  He turned his full attention to the two children. “Looks like he could definitely use a change, all right. Where’s Mark’s mom?”

  “She’s
having an hour of peace and freedom,” young Ashley said knowingly. “I heard some of the mothers talking and they said they were so glad that Miss Saraceni started the story hour for the little kids ’cause it gave them at least one hour of peace and freedom a week.”

  “You mean there’s more of these little munchkins here?” asked Rand. “Without their mothers?”

  “There’s a whole roomful,” said Ashley. “And the story hour lady didn’t show up and Cindy is doing an awful job reading to them. The kids are starting to run around and jump off their chairs.”

  Jamie glanced at her watch. “Their mothers won’t be here for another thirty-five minutes. That’s an eternity in a roomful of running, chair-jumping toddlers. I’d better take over for Cindy and send her out here to work the desk. Hopefully, she’ll be able to cope with stamping the checkouts, especially since there usually aren’t many at this hour.” Little Mark suddenly raced off, turning to flash Ashley a big, catch-me-if-you-can grin. “He doesn’t want to go back to the story group, Miss Saraceni,” observed Ashley. “Can I play with him in the kids’ corner?”

  “I think that would be an excellent idea, Ashley,” said Jamie. “First you’d better have him change into these.” Jamie opened a desk drawer and produced a pint-sized pair of sweatpants, which she kept around for emergencies like this. “Then you can bring him to the kids’ corner.” She gestured to the corner of the library, which was set up especially for preschoolers with a child-sized table, wooden blocks and a dollhouse, among other toys. Ashley nodded and escorted Mark away.

  “Toys?” Rand said incredulously, staring at the area. “In the library?”

  “They’re all donated items or things I found at yard sales,” explained Jamie. “I wanted a special place with lots of things to do to keep the little kids occupied while their parents browse.”

  Rand gave his head a disbelieving shake. “You run your library a lot differently from the library in the town where I grew up. Absolutely no noise was permitted there, and the idea of toddlers running around would’ve given the librarian a cardiac arrest. She was one of—”