Men Made in America Mega-Bundle

by Gayle Wilson, Marie Ferrarella, Jennifer Greene, Annette Broadrick, Judith Arnold, Rita Herron, Anne Stuart, Diana Palmer, Elizabeth Bevarly, Patricia Rosemoor, Emilie Richards

  And waited, and waited, and waited…

  Five

  No matter how many times or how many ways he replayed the previous evening’s events in his head, Rory still couldn’t quite figure out how he had come to agree to have dinner with Miriam Thornbury. He only remembered that one minute he had been walking beside her, enjoying the comfortable silence that had settled over them and the tantalizing fragrance of her that seemed both familiar and exotic, and then in the next minute he had been gazing down into her clear gray eyes, noting how they reflected her smile as well as her mouth did, and marveling again at the lusciousness of that mouth.

  And then, in the next minute that mouth had opened and formed some words, mesmerizing Rory with their subtle movement and soft sound. And although he could vaguely remember eventually replying in the affirmative to Miriam’s request, he couldn’t remember precisely why he had replied in the affirmative. Because he had been promising himself for days that he would stay as far away from her as possible.

  It would, he was certain, remain one of history’s greatest unsolved mysteries.

  In spite of his confusion, though, he now stood poised to rap his—rather damp, he realized—fist lightly on Miss—on Miriam’s front door. His other—rather damp, he realized further—hand clutched a cellophane box that contained a pink corsage. Truly. A corsage. A pink corsage, at that. He couldn’t recall ever buying such a thing for a woman, not even for his date to the senior prom in high school.

  His date that night had been…Oh, let him think for a moment…The girl’s name was right there on the tip of his tongue…Daphne. That was it. Or per haps Danielle. Or maybe Denise. Anyway, he’d taken Daphne/Danielle/Denise Somebody to his senior prom—after she had asked him to—and although he did recall her wearing a wrist corsage, he was reasonably sure that the girl had purchased it, and donned it, on her own.

  It wasn’t that he was thoughtless, Rory hastened to reassure himself. It was just that he was…Well, he supposed he was thoughtless, when he got right down to it. About things other than his studies and his research, anyway. But it wasn’t an intentional sort of thoughtlessness. It was a negligent sort of thoughtlessness. Rory’s brain, for all its vast store of knowledge, was a simple organ. He just didn’t think about things he didn’t care about. Ergo, thoughts of corsages didn’t normally make appearances in his crowded cranium.

  Tonight, however, he had honestly had the foresight to stop by a florist on the corner near his apartment building and ask the proprietress what would be appropriate for a first date. Even though the phrase first date had suggested that there would be a second date, and perhaps even more dates, to follow it, and that was something Rory really didn’t want to get into right now. Which was why, when the phrase first date had initially unrolled in his head, he had shoved it back to the furthest recesses of his mind and focused on orchids instead.

  Orchids, he marveled now. Never in his life had he thought of orchids, until this night. Somehow, though, the moment he had beheld one of the splendid, extraordinary, intoxicatingly fragrant flowers, he had known it would be perfect for Miriam. He just hoped she didn’t misinterpret the gesture. He hoped she wouldn’t think he’d done it out of something like thoughtfulness. Because, truly, he was only doing it to be polite. If she misconstrued his gesture to be a thoughtful one, then it would only lead to trouble.

  He knocked on her front door with a trio of deft, confident raps before he even realized he had in tended to complete the action, and within moments he heard a soft shuffle of sound from the other side. Instinctively he lifted his free hand again, this time to straighten the knot in his tie and smooth out any wrinkles that might be lingering in the fabric of his best navy-blue suit. He hoped his attire was appropriate, as he had no idea where Miriam was taking him tonight. Which, in itself, signified a host of oddities.

  First, that he was allowing a woman to call the shots, an idea at which Rory would have thought his masculinity, however unmacho it was, would balk—but it did not. Besides, he had compensated by insisting that he would pick her up in his car, and not the other way around.

  Second, that he was allowing himself to be led into the unknown, something he normally would never do, because he always insisted on very detailed advance knowledge about any outing—but this time he had not.

  And third, that whatever their outing involved, it almost certainly did not include the quest for knowledge or the performance of research, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had engaged in any activity that didn’t include those things, at least in part—and tonight, he didn’t care.

  It was proving to be a most educational experience all the way around.

  The realization had just unwound in his head when the door to Miriam’s apartment opened completely, and he saw her standing on the other side. And, oh, what a sight she was. She’d left her hair loose again, and it fell in a silky, dark-blond cascade over one shoulder. One bare shoulder. At least, Rory assumed it was bare. Because the one he could see, the one that didn’t have silky hair cascading over it, was bare, and it only made sense to conclude that such would be the case with the other one, as well. Miriam Thornbury was nothing if not symmetrical.

  And her shoulders were bare, he noticed further, because her dress had evidently run out of the silvery, satiny fabric from which it was made not far above her breasts. Not that Rory minded, really. He just noticed, that was all.

  And there was a good bit of the dress above her breasts, because it nearly met with the necklace she wore, a silvery wisp of filigree that matched the earrings dangling from her ears. And the garment dipped well below her knees, too, at least on the right side, because her stance provided him with a very nice view of her leg extending from another one of those intriguing slits on the left side, a slit much like the one that had intrigued him in the library that day, except that this one wasn’t nearly as conservative as that one had been.

  Or something like that.

  My, but his thoughts were run-on this evening, Rory mused. What could possibly be the cause of that? Normally his thoughts were very well ordered and to the point. Then again, normally his thoughts focused entirely on historical data. Normally his thoughts didn’t include things like legs and side slits and silky hair and silvery dresses. His thoughts had sometimes included the goddess-gown thing, of course, he conceded, but even that reflection had generally tended to be well structured. Probably because he rehearsed it so frequently.

  At any rate, Miriam’s attire tonight indicated to Rory that he had, in fact, dressed appropriately by donning his best navy-blue suit. However, he couldn’t think of a single place in Marigold where her attire would be appropriate.

  “You look, ah…lovely,” he said with profound understatement after greeting her.

  She smiled, her cheeks pinking with the gesture. “Thank you,” she said shyly.

  Shyly, he marveled. In that dress. Amazing. “Here,” he said, extending the cellophane box of orchid toward her. “This is, um, for you.”

  She blushed even more as she took the corsage from him, and something inside Rory hummed to life at seeing it. A blush, he marveled. In that dress. Amazing.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. She glanced up demurely and asked, in that same soft voice, “Would you help me put it on?”

  Rory swallowed hard. Well. He hadn’t anticipated this at all. When he’d purchased the corsage, it hadn’t occurred to him that she might want help donning it. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might be required to…touch her. All in all, though, touching Miriam Thornbury didn’t seem like such a bad deal.

  “Of course,” he said.

  He reclaimed the cellophane box from her, deftly flipped it open, and carefully removed the fragile blossom from within. After handing the box back to Miriam, he lifted her hand and, very slowly, nearly hypnotically, slipped the elastic band over her fingers and hand, settling the flower resolutely on the back of her wrist. Immediately she lifted the delicate bloom to her nose, closing her ey
es as she inhaled deeply its sweet aroma. Rory, too, could discern the fragrance from where he stood, a powerful, exotic scent that seemed, somehow, wholly appropriate for her.

  “So…where are we going to be dining?” he asked.

  “I thought we could drive into Bloomington,” she told him as she held her hand before her, gently fingering the fine petals of the orchid.

  Something about the gesture captured Rory’s complete attention, making his heart race frantically in his chest as he noted the way she so gingerly traced each thin vein in each delicate petal. For one long moment he only watched the slow, precise, mesmerizing motion of that finger, his body temperature rising with each meticulous revolution it made.

  Then the gist of her comment hit him square in the brain, and he arched his eyebrows in surprise. “Bloomington?” he repeated. “But that’s a half hour’s drive, at least.”

  “More like forty-five minutes,” Miriam corrected him as she returned her attention to his face. “But it’s a beautiful drive,” she added. “And it will give us a chance to chat.”

  Chat? Rory echoed to himself. She wanted to chat with him? In that dress?

  “I-I-I…” he began.

  “And there’s the most wonderful restaurant in Bloomington called Winona’s,” she continued blithely, oblivious to his distress. “It only opened a few months ago, and it’s very popular. And I don’t mind telling you that I had to pull some pretty big strings with the owner to secure reservations for us this evening on such short notice. Usually one has to call weeks in advance to get a table at Winona’s.”

  “I—I—I—”

  “Fortunately, the owner happens to be my sister, Winona, so it worked out very well. She frequently does me favors like this, because she still feels guilty for beheading my Malibu Barbie when we were young.”

  “I—I—I—”

  “Not that it was an intentional beheading,” Miriam rushed on, still apparently unmindful of Rory’s state. “No, it was most definitely an accident. Winona had no idea Barbie’s head would explode that way when she attached a missile to her back and sent her rocketing down the clothesline.”

  “I—I—I—”

  “It was an experiment Winona was performing for her physics class—all very scientific, I assure you. She’s ten years older than me, you see. Which, now that I think about it, makes one assume she would have known better than to attach a missile to Barbie’s back and send her rocketing down the clothesline.” Miriam shrugged, a gesture that did wonderful things to her dress, Rory couldn’t help noting. “But there you have it just the same,” she concluded. “Well then. Are you ready to go?”

  “I—I—I—” he stammered again, still preoccupied with the comings and goings of her dress.

  “We’re driving in your car, yes?” she asked. “You did sound so insistent about that, after all.”

  “I—I—I—”

  “Well then,” she said again. “Let’s be off, shall we? Our reservation is for seven, and it’s just past six now. Thank you for being on time, by the way. It’s always so gratifying when a person is punctual.”

  “I—I—I—”

  Rory realized then that it would probably be best for him to just keep his mouth shut for the next several minutes—or, more accurately, for the next forty-five minutes—because, clearly, Miriam Thornbury could run rings around him in the chat department. Still, there was something about her loquacity that gave him the impression she herself was more than a little nervous about the evening ahead.

  Hmmm…

  “Drive,” he said. “My car. Yes. Let’s.”

  Oh, well done, Rory, he congratulated himself. Women were always impressed when a man was as articulate as a famous literary character. Unfortunately, in Rory’s current state, the literary character in question would be Frankenstein’s monster.

  He bit back a growl. “I’m ready when you are,” he said.

  Though, truly, where Miriam Thornbury was concerned, he was coming to suspect that he would never be ready.

  Winona’s, Rory noted upon entering the establishment, was a very busy place, and he could see why Miriam had been forced to take advantage of her sister’s decades-old guilt in order to ensure a table for the two of them. Winona’s was also, he noted further, a very nice place. The decor resembled a turn-of-the-century luxury hotel, very elegant, very opulent, very abundant.

  He was immediately reminded of the set for that movie that had been so popular a few years ago…. What was the name of it again? His ex-fiancée, Rosalind, had dragged him to see the film, oh…ten or twelve times, at least. Some blond prettyboy had appeared in the starring role…. What was the actor’s name again? Titanic, that was it. Not the blond prettyboy, of course. The movie Rory remembered because of the film’s historical significance.

  At any rate, the set for Titanic was what the restaurant reminded him of. But even he could see that the beauty and splendor of the place wasn’t the focal point of the decor. No, the focal point of the decor would have to have been the antique-looking telephones, one of which was perched at the center of each of the tables. They must be the focal point, he reasoned, otherwise, they wouldn’t have been perched there.

  Miriam must have noticed where his attention was directed as their hostess—whose outfit and hairstyle likewise resembled something from Titanic—seated them. Because she immediately told him, “The telephones are very popular here at Winona’s. Those, along with the food, which is quite excellent, are what keep bringing people back.”

  “Yes, but why are they sitting on the tables that way?” Rory asked.

  Miriam smiled. “So that people can call each other from the tables. It was Winona’s idea. The telephones have made for a very successful gimmick to bring people into the restaurant.” Her smile broadened. “And they’ve been rather effective matchmaking tools, as well.”

  “Matchmaking tools?” Rory repeated, not liking the sound of that at all.

  Miriam nodded. “Winona told me she’s hosting a wedding reception at the restaurant next month for a couple who met here on opening night, via the telephones on the table. There’s a number above us,” she added, pointing upward.

  Rory turned his attention in that direction, only to discover that the two of them were indeed numbered with an ornately scrolled sign—sixteen, to be precise. And, sure enough, as he arced his gaze around the rest of the room, he saw that every other table had a similar sign, complete with number, floating above it, as well.

  “Are you telling me,” he said, gazing back at Miriam, “that I can pick up this telephone, dial one of those numbers, and the phone on the corresponding table will ring?”

  She nodded again. Then, as if cued to do so, the telephone on their own table rang with a delicate whir. They glanced at each other in surprise, but Miriam was the one who answered the phone.

  “Hello?” she said into the receiver. Then she chuckled. “It’s Winona,” she told Rory. “She’s up at the hostess stand.”

  Rory turned toward the door where they had entered and saw a startlingly beautiful woman speaking into a telephone there. She had pale-blond hair and pale eyes, as well, though he couldn’t quite discern the color from this distance. She did, however, most definitely resemble Miriam, though he could see that she was a bit older. Her attire was in keeping with the rest of the restaurant’s mood, right down to her Gibson Girl hairstyle.

  “Yes, the table is perfect,” Miriam said into the receiver. “Thank you again for making room for us. It was very nice of you. No, honestly, Winona, I’m not mad about that anymore. Really. Yes, I know Malibu Barbie was my favorite, but all good things must come to an end. No, please don’t beat yourself up over it anymore. I grew as a person thanks to the loss. I did. Really. Yes, I did, too. Oh, Winona…”

  The woman at the hostess stand looked gravely distressed now, and Rory couldn’t help wondering why she didn’t hang up the phone and approach the table to address her sister in person. Perhaps she felt too guilty. Evidently, the
se childhood traumas ran deeper for some people than others, he mused.

  Then again, Rory himself recalled his own tragic loss of Sir Stuart, the Silver Knight of the Noble Knights, when he was seven. After all, all thirty-three pieces of armor had disappeared with Sir Stuart. Not to mention the twenty Medieval scale weapons. It had been heartbreaking. But, as Miriam had just told her sister, he, too, had grown as a person for having dealt with his grief afterward.

  After a few more minutes of reassurance from Miriam, her sister, Winona, began to look appeased. Then the hostess signaled for her employer’s attention, so the sisters broke off the conversation, and each hung up her phone.

  “Your sister seems very devoted to you,” Rory observed as Miriam completed the action.

  She nodded gravely. “I’m beginning to think that Winona was more traumatized by the Barbie beheading than I was.” She brightened, smiling again, and Rory was, quite simply, dazzled. “Still, it did get us a nice table, didn’t it?” she asked.

  He was about to agree with her when his gaze lit on a man who was seated by himself at another one of the tables behind her. What on earth was his brother Connor doing here? Rory wondered. Instinctively, he picked up the phone and dialed the number 27, which was what was hanging over Connor’s head.

  “Who are you calling?” Miriam asked.

  “I just saw someone I…Hello, Connor?” Rory said when his brother picked up at his end…or, rather, at his table.

  “Who’s this?” came Connor’s gruff reply.

  “It’s Rory, your big brother,” he told his sibling, “and don’t you dare use that tone of voice with me, young man. What are you doing here in Bloomington all by yourself? Does Mom know you’re out? Alone?”

  Connor began to gaze frantically around the room until his eyes lit on Rory, wherein they narrowed menacingly. “I can talk to you any way I want to, Rory,” he said tersely. “And I can go anywhere I want to, anytime I want to, and it doesn’t matter if I’m alone or not. I’m twenty-eight-years old, in case you’ve forgotten. You’re not my keeper.”