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“You can’t take those.” The voice was deep, male, and came
from very close behind me.

I spun around, heart hammering. The guy standing there was
big—broad-shouldered, and muscular as if he worked out. His blue shirt pulled
slightly over his chest, reinforcing his build. Rich brown hair fell past his shoulders, and his
eyes were velvety brown in a face that left me breathless. His jaw was defined, his nose
straight with slightly flared nostrils, and the firm line of disapproval his lips were pressed into
failed to hide their sensuality. He belonged in Hollywood, not an Oxford library.

He was so close to me that it was intimidating. Moving back a
few steps gave me the opportunity to take in allof him, and he was well worth it. The
softest-looking faded jeans I’d ever seen outlined thick muscled thighs that had come
straight out of my dreams. Callum was cute. This guy, though. This guy had me wanting to go
to my knees for him. I was practically drooling.

Unfortunately, he was glaring at me and showed no sign of
bending me over the nearest table and having his way with me.

I wrenched my mind back to the fact he’d said something to
me. “Sorry, what?”

“You can’t take those books.”

“I’m a research student.” I tore my eyes away from his face long
enough to thrust my library card at him. “I was told I could take up to twenty books out at
once.”

“Well, you can’t.”

“It says so in the library rules. I live in college, so I wouldn’t
have far to come if I got an alert saying someone else wanted them.”

“I don’t care. That’s too many books to take out of here.”

“Okay.” The intensity in him was something else, and I backed
down. “How many am I allowed to take?”

He glanced over them. “Four,” he said, and it sounded
reluctant.

My face must have shown my incredulity because he pointed
out, “You can only read one at a time.”

Anger stirred in me. These weren’t novels, to be read one after
another. They needed to be compared and cross-referenced as they were read. It was why
I’d applied to Mortimer in the first place—the college’s collection of scarcely remembered
German theologians was unrivalled and precisely what I needed for my dissertation.

“Sorry, who are you?” It finally occurred to me to ask. If he was
just another research student throwing his weight around with the newbies, I’d tell him
where to go. Surely he couldn’t be a tutor because he was only about thirty.

“The librarian.”

Holy crap, and I’d tried to argue the rules with him.
“Good to meet you,” I said weakly and tried to smile at him. “I’m Mark Stevens.”

He nodded and folded his arms. His shirt’s valiant attempt to
cope with his movement resulted in acres of silky material clinging to his muscles. I was
staring again.

“Sorry, I don’t know your name,” I said when it was clear he
wasn’t going to speak. He was still watching me as if to check I only took four books.

“Rufus Mortimer.”

“Like the college!” It was a stupid thing to say, but it was better
than telling him I wanted to lick him.

He looked unimpressed. “Choose your four books. I’ll replace
the others.”

The guy was kind of a prick, though I wasn’t sure what he could
have said to my comment.

Once I’d found the four texts I most wanted, he gathered the
remaining books into his arms. “Don’t forget to scan them,” he said as he moved away. “And
don’t keep them long. They belong here.”

Until he said that, it hadn’t dawned on me that there was a way
to keep access to all twenty books. And so many more. “I could have them all out on my
desk if I stayed in here?”

“Of course.”

The way he said that nagged at me. It reminded me of
something, but I didn’t know what. “In that case, please don’t shelve them,” I said. “I’m
going to get my stuff from my room and work here.”

“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t put them down. He watched me
leave, holding the books close, cradling them like they were his babies.

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