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.

Romance Plagiarism Project #2

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

"I don't usually take chances like this," said Celia, frowning as she glanced over the cliff edge to the black water some twenty feet below. The water was reflecting the clear blue sky, complete with a scattering of fluffy clouds, making it look even further away. Why had Evan brought her here?
Evan gave a breathy chuckle. "I thought you wanted some adventure," he challenged. Her cheekbones crested with scarlet.
"I do," she protested. Celia again looked tentatively over the edge. She couldn't believe she'd agreed to come cliff-jumping with a man she barely knew. She raked a hand through her hair, remembering it was in a ponytail only after her fingers snagged against the beaded scrunchy. She didn't think she'd be able to go through with it after all, despite the fact that she was desperate to impress the hunky cowboy who'd arrived in town last week. Celia looked at the big drop to the lake below and her heart thundered like the thud of a thousand horses' hooves on hard dirt. She took a deep breath. But there was no way a measly little breath of air was going to stop the pounding of her heart or the sweat that started dripping from her armpits.
"But I don't know if this is safe," she added. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. She couldn't do something so foolish as jump off this cliff just to please a near-stranger. So what if she was intensely attracted to him, and acutely aware that they were alone together in the woods. She looked at him again, admiring the mat of black curling hair on his imposing chest, which swelled magnificently, narrowing to his flat, muscled belly.
"Oh, it's safe," he said with a grin, "I just think that you're chicken. But I'd appreciate it if you'd hurry up and decide to take a chance. I've got to get home to feed the cows."
She started to laugh at Evan's provocation and seemingly lame excuse, but he wasn't smiling, so her smile melted like a deflating balloon into a pathetic shriveled pucker. "What's with you and your livestock?" she asked seriously. "I would think that you'd welcome the chance to sneak away for a day to spend it with...a cow from another species," she added playfully.
He arched an eyebrow at her. "One thing about a man and his cows is that it does a cowboy's heart good to see the hairy beast every day."
"Who are you calling a hairy beast!?" she cried.
His expression warmed with something primal, yet gentle. He stepped right up beside her and took her hand. The contact sent a pleasurable shiver up her spine. She suddenly felt even more exposed out on the cliff edge, as if the light summer breeze might be enough to blow her right off.
"Listen, you don't have to do this," said Evan, "but I really think you'd get a thrill from it." Celia wasn't so sure he was only talking about cliff-jumping. Maybe he wanted to get a look at her hairy beast. She felt like she was a slowly melting confection of syrupy warmth. Renewed determination surged up in her.
"Don't you think I'm good for a thrill?" she asked. He lifted his chin in acknowledgement, ,or challenge, his eyes boring into hers. She pulled the scrunchy from her ponytail, shook her hair free and gave him a challenge: "I'm right beside you, big boy."
With that, she took the final step and leapt out over the edge.
The sun caught on her honey-brown hair as she plunged toward the dark lake below. Evan burst with pride as she let out a whoop that echoed before it was cut off by her splash into the water. He'd thought all along that Celia had an adventuresome spirit just waiting to be set free ever since the first time he'd seen her at the diner in town. She'd looked as fresh as the dew in April as she'd poured him a hot cup of coffee and warmed his heart.
Suddenly the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach had nothing to do with hot coffee. It had been a few long seconds and Celia hadn't surfaced. He scanned the surface of the water anxiously and then spotted her slim figure, floating still and face-down. His chiseled jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle began to throb in his cheek. Alive with instinct, Evan jumped. He barely felt the wind rushing past his tanned skin, or the shock of the cold waster as he hit it a few long seconds later. He had only one thought: make sure Celia was all right.
A few powerful strokes brought him to her prone floating body. He slid his broad arm under hers and across her chest, flipping her face up. He upbraided himself that even unconscious, he found her beautiful. A shiver of desire went through him at the touch of his skin on hers. The desire was easily quashed, though, now that he was afraid. He realized he really was afraid. Afraid of messing up so badly that he'd lose the one female who'd come into his life unexpectedly and found a sure path to his heart.
He swam and dragged her to the grassy shore next to the swimming hole. He strode out of the water, the lean, hard muscles of his thighs flexing beneath the tight-fitting breeches. He gently lay her on her back. Nervously, he tried to remember the first-aid training he'd done as a teenager. He tilted her head up with two fingers underneath her chin. Leaning over her, he hovered his mouth a few centimeters above her full lips, preparing to do mouth-to-mouth.
She opened her eyes. "gotcha," she said saucily.
His heart kicked him in the ribs, but it didn't hurt because he'd gone numb. On the one hand, relief washed over him; on the other...
"How--how could you do that to me?" he demanded.
"I was just fooling around," Celia said, propping herself up on one elbow. She arched an eyebrow at him. "I thought you liked to play."
"I guess I should have told you that my parents both drowned when I was a kid," he said, gazing out at the lake. Surprise widened her eyes and her mouth formed a little circle as she sucked in her breath sharply. She threw her arms around his neck and cried, "I'm so sorry!"
She smelled as good as a fresh spring day when she wrapped her arms around him and gently tried to ease his pain. It was just plain distracting. How was he supposed to be sad and mad at her when her touch caused a pleasant reaction in his whole body. He shrugged free, his taut muscles rippled as he reached for a towel.
"Evan," she whispered, and he found his gaze was drawn to her like metal filings to a magnet. "I really enjoyed jumping off the cliff. You were right, it gave me a thrill. But it was nothing like the thrill I felt when I thought you were going to give me mouth-to-mouth."
And despite everything, he smiled, letting those dimples play havoc with her mind. He watched the corners of her lips tilt upward into a slow, warm smile. Her smile was like dawn breaking through the morning fog. He was drawn to it. He leaned in again, this time certain that their lips should touch. Sparks flew through their bodies as the kiss began, generating warmth that had nothing to do with the weather of the gorgeous summer day. Celia never wanted to stop kissing him. The kiss became needy and even a bit dangerous, powerful for a girl who didn't take chances. But when she pulled back and smiled into the face she'd come to love, she realized that this time, she wasn't taking a chance at all.

Romance Plagiarism Project #1

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


Anita spun around at the sound of a powerful motor pulling into her driveway. The air left her lungs in a rush when she saw it was Bryce's pick-up truck. She nearly dropped the trowel in her hand. Determinedly, she turned her back and focused again on the flower bed she'd been working on. She heard the truck door slam, and could picture perfectly in her mind Bryce's athletic body, nerve-taut, climbing out of the truck and striding across the lawn. From the glimpse she'd caught of him earlier that day, she knew he was looking handsome in chino pants and a short-sleeved shirt with a muted pattern of seashells. She dug fervently at the moist earth in front of her.
"You shouldn't believe everything you hear in this town," a husky voice said from behind her. She whirled around and fixed him with her frostiest glare. "I only believe things I've got proof of!" She declared, raising her chin in defiance.
Her eyes ran over his rugged countenance, taking in every familiar feature. She had stared at Bryce so many times before. It hurt her to confront him about this.
"I know that you're in love with Tammy," she choked out. He stepped back suddenly, heavily, realization hitting him like a gale-force wind. Could this really be the source of her ill-temper over the past few days? He ran a rough hand over his stubbled chin, and through his dark, unruly locks. His nose crinkled in dismay.
Staring down at the upturned earth all around Anita's feet, he finally managed to say, "Tammy was my dog. If you overheard my conversation at the post office the other day, you must have missed the beginning... I loved that dog like no other companion. I'd never even felt that depth of emotion before. That is...until I met you. You opened up a whole new world to me." He looked up. His gaze met hers and time stilled.
Anita's mouth hung open in shock. She was overwhelmed, amazed, uncomprehending. Her anger vanished immediately as she realized how mistaken she'd been about Bryce's true nature. All this time, she'd thought he was holding back because he was involved with some other woman. Now she understood, as relief washed over her, that the emotionally-wounded man needed to be taught how to love again.
She stepped closer to him. Her internal temperature had skyrocketed.
"I'm sorry, Bryce," she said softly. "I never would have been so cruel to you if I'd known that." Her voice was like a spring breeze, fresh and warm, and the first truly comforting balm to his wounded ego. "But still," she continued, "who were those flowers for? The ones I saw you carrying down Main Street?"
He narrowed his eyes and peered at her. "You," he said simply. "The flowers were for you. But I'm a coward and I never brought them over."
With that he came right up to her, took the gardening tool she was still holding out of her hand, and gently held her delicate hand in his coarse one. She tilted her head to gaze up at him.
"I'm through being afraid," he murmured, his lips almost brushing hers. A low moan escaped her throat as their lips met. He probed the line of her mouth with his tongue until she opened to him. She felt so much hope and promise in his kiss, mirroring her own desires. As they slowly collapsed onto the lawn, his mouth devoured hers, releasing their pent-up emotions in a blinding, mind-numbing blending of mouths, hearts and passions.
This was madness! She'd been furious with him only a few moments ago, and now here they were locked together, rolling around in her front garden. She was brought out of the moment for a second as she thought with regret that her award-winning peonies would be crushed. Madness! But with him, now, tonight, madness was what she wanted. Her senses were finally alive, botany be damned!
The soft earth beneath her was cool and damp. She could feel the slightly gritty texture of the dirt rubbing the backs of her arms and legs. Then, as he caressed her, gently at first but then with growing ardor, she could feel only him and his touches. The outside world ceased to exist and there was only the two of them, touching. She anticipated no less from him than this total annihilation of her senses.