Romance Plagiarism Project #3: A Love Forged in History

http://mmallinson.blogspot.com/2006/09/romance-plagiarism-project.html

Geraldine walked slowly down the aisle. She was confused, and certain that she’d been down this particular row before. She sighed, glancing from the piece of paper in her hand to the painted gold numbers on the sign at the end of the row. No wonder that training to be a librarian in the massive university library took nearly six weeks; it was only her second day, and she was well and truly lost. The arcane filing system was unlike any she’d ever encountered, governed by some internal logic that one couldn’t intuit, but only learn by practice. George, the head librarian, had sent her on a mission for a specific title; part of the training, she’d been told. She must have taken a wrong turn somewhere back in Classics, since judging by the titles on the two-story-high shelves surrounding her, she was in History. Geraldine wasn’t even sure if she was in the right wing of the library anymore, the dark brown wood of the shelves and the deep slate gray of the stone floor looked the same throughout. Maybe if she could just get a better view, she thought, she could orient herself from the large golden chandelier that hung in the center of the building. She grabbed one of the rolling ladders that reached the upper shelves and slid it to the end of the aisle. Grateful for her sensible loafers, but ruing her choice of pencil skirt, she carefully climbed up and leaned out the end of the row. The library stacks stretched out for miles, it seemed, no feature distinguishing one from the other. The chandelier was nowhere to be seen.
Resigned to wandering the library at random, she cautiously started back down the ladder. Movement down the end of the aisle caught in the corner of her eye, and she stopped her descent as she turned to see a distinctly masculine presence moving through the shadows. He came towards her with the swiftness of an animal, like a stalking wolf, graceful as a gentleman should be. By the arrogant poise of his posture, and the way his broad shoulders strained at the confines of his tweed jacket, Geraldine had an inkling of who this might be.
Professor Donovan Kendall. The other girls who worked in library had joked with Geraldine on her first day, which had only been yesterday, she reminded herself, that if she was lucky she might run into him while alone in the stacks. She stared at him as he approached, captivated by his powerful stride and the way his muscular thighs glistened in his worn brown corduroy pants. Suddenly, he was right beneath her in the aisle, beside the ladder, and looking up, his eyes laid siege to hers. All she could think was that his eyes were fringed with absurdly long and curling black lashes. Her heart almost ceased to beat as she gazed down at his face with a passionate intensity, never having seen a face so fair or so perfect in every feature. His dark blue eyes peered at her with curiosity.
“Are you looking for a special book?” He asked, the low timber of his voice sending an alarming thrill down her spine.
She found she could hardly form words. She upbraided herself for reacting like a smitten schoolgirl, and pulled herself together enough to sputter out: “Biology.”
The corners of his full lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile. “This is History,” he said. “Early History of the British isles, to be precise.”
“Then I am lost,” she whispered.
“Well, why don’t you come down from there and I’ll set you on the right track,” he said.
Geraldine started to descend again, realizing as she did so that she had to turn her back to him in order to slowly slide each foot successively down the rungs. His presence felt like a hot coal at her back. She became intensely aware that in going down the ladder in her snug skirt, she had to stick out her backside, and that soon it would be level with his eyes. She tried to turn, to say something to distract him from the prominent view of her rear, but with her torso twisted at the awkward angle necessary for such an interaction, she missed her footing and started to slip down the ladder. A cry broke from her lips.
Suddenly, strong hands gripped her waist as she was caught midair. He slowly lowered her to the ground, and then turned her to face him, his hands still on her. Her senses reacted quickly to the touch, the feel of him. Her eyes took in every detail of his chiseled face. Her ears listened to her heart pounding in rhythm with his ragged breathing. She could feel every centimeter of his hands on her. Her nose took the scents of musk and male that wafted over her. Looking at his full lips, she longed to taste him.
But then the sensible, highly trained librarian part of Geraldine took over. She realized that a strange man, and one who she would be dealing with on a professional level for the foreseeable future, was holding her mere inches from his broad chest. She looked up to his face, prepared to ask him to please let her go, only to find his rapier-sharp gaze holding hers.
"You were looking for Biology?" Professor Donovan Kendall asked.
"Yes," Geraldine breathed heavily.
"Anything in particular?"
"Gordon…he wants me to find…" Geraldine's voice caught in her throat as she realized the title of the book she'd been sent to retrieve. She weakly waved the piece of paper. Professor Donovan Kendall reached out and snatched it from her grasp.
"'Mating Habits of the Titmouse'" he read.
Geraldine flushed, embarrassed to be caught in such an obvious prank. Gordon had seemed so earnest that she should complete this "mission." Geraldine tried to wrest herself free of Professor Donovan Kendall's strong embrace, ready to run off and lose herself anywhere in the library where she could live down her embarrassment alone. Instead, she felt his hands slide further around her hips and tighten slightly on her bottom with the practiced ease of a born seducer. Geraldine gasped. Although somewhere deep within her a spark flickered and flared, setting her skin ablaze and filling her body with liquid fire, she felt she had to resist these physical impulses and think about her professional reputation; it would never do to get embroiled with Professor Donovan Kendall on only her second day! It did not occur to her that she was already falling under the spell of a practiced seducer, such men were beyond her realms of experience. She forcefully pulled back.
"Excuse me," she said. "We haven't even been introduced."
"Of course," Professor Donovan Kendall replied, "where are my manners? I am Professor Donovan Kendall. And you…you must be the new librarian."
"Geraldine," she said confidently, thrusting out her hand. Her small chin jutted courageously upwards and her flashing eyes met his. She thought she caught a glimpse of curiosity in his look, and maybe something more...
Professor Donovan Kendall griped her small hand in his. Even now, as she tried to reestablish a veneer of formality to the encounter, he was bombarding her with signals of powerful, vibrant sexuality that set her senses on fire. Never before had she wanted so badly to kiss a man and feel his body next to hers. Never before had she known with such certainty what a horrible mistake following those impulses would be.
Before she could continue her train of thought much further, Professor Donovan Kendall closed the small distance between them and laid his lips on hers. Stunned into complacency for a second, Geraldine experience a blur of pleasure. The moment she regained a modicum of her senses, she wrenched her lips free. Acting on pure instinct, she spun around and her hand came up to deal him a slap, but he caught her wrist before she landed the blow.
Her eyes were spitting venom from behind her tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses as her mouth spat out: "How dare you!"
Professor Donovan Kendall just smiled faintly, then, pulling her by the wrist, he brought her back into his embrace. "Like this," he whispered, and planted another searing kiss on her lips. Her soft lips parted in disbelief, and he took the moment to slip his tongue in to taste her. A sweet, hungering ache filled her.


Professor Donovan Kendall had been standing by the main checkout desk, checking out the grad students, when he'd overheard two of the librarians talking. They were joking about the way George, the head librarian, had sent the newest addition to their team out to find a book that didn't exist, ostensibly located in the furthest reaches of the confusing and ancient library. If there was anything that Professor Donovan Kendall hated, it was a bully. It was all he could do to keep from venting his smoldering fury on George. Instead, he thought to himself, he would simply go find the wayward librarian. If anyone knew their way around the quietest, most secluded corners of the stacks, it was he. He was well practiced at rescuing lost girls around the premises.
While he had been wandering through the stacks, he thought he would take a detour through his area of expertise, Early History of the British Isles, in order to pick out a few texts on the Viking invasions. And there, as though fate itself had intervened, he had found the lost librarian. Perched high upon a rolling ladder, pencil skirt and oxford shirt hugging her generous curves, the sight of her infused passion into his blood and loins.
Then, when she had almost fallen, causing him to pluck her off the ladder like so much ripe fruit, the feel of her underneath his hands had made him positively feverish with desire. And then she’d looked up at him, and their eyes became locked in a mesmerizing web. The force of her personality blazed through her eyes. It leaped out at him like a warrior band of Highlanders brandishing swords. More than anything, he was drawn to what he’d seen burning in those blue orbs. This was no regular conquest.
Even though his rational mind told him to take it slow with this phenomenal creature, he hadn’t been able to resist kissing her. He hoped that she wouldn’t resist him, either. He thought he looked quite dandy with his mustache freshly waxed and his hair shining like a wet beaver. His physical charms had always worked in the past. But instead of dissolving fully into the kiss, the way he’d felt her begun to, she’d retreated and tried to slap him. Now, deep in the thrall of their second intense kiss, he felt her–Geraldine, she’d said her name was—start to melt and kiss him back. He plunged his hands into the curly mane of her chestnut hair, pressing her even closer to him, plundering her mouth with his. His hands wandered down her back, feeling the curve of her spine as she leaned into him, the roundness of the cheeks of her behind, and then his hands strayed up the front of her soft cotton shirt and the sought fullness of her breasts. At the same time, her small hands were exploring the solid contours of his arms and chest, her soft hands delighting in the rough textures of his tweed coat, the smooth suede patches on the elbows, the ridges of his corduroy pants. There was no denying their mutual attraction, as rapidly though it may have overcome them. But he could sense her reluctance, a reserve. As though she were protecting her heart the way her eyes were protected by those tortoiseshell glasses. With a shuddering sigh, he ended the kiss, and sought her eyes with his. Her whole heart and soul seemed to scream at him through those eyes, which gazed hard into his, but he felt no weakening. How could he convince her that this was no chance meeting? That greater forces were at play? All the certificates and credentials in his office were useless in figuring out how to navigate this. Because out of all his library-stack conquests, he suddenly held a hope that Geraldine would be the one that would last.
“Geraldine,” he whispered softly, “I…I think…”
And now he was afraid. Afraid of the flood of emotions welling up inside him. As much as he wanted to touch her, hold her and make love to her, he was afraid. More afraid than when he’d had a dozen rifles pointed at his chest in a jungle in Africa.
"Don't." She lifted her hand to his lips, shook her head and then hurried away. He let her go. His heart was pounding the chant that he should stop her. Yet his mind was listing alphabetically the reasons why the hope in his heart wouldn't work.