Secrets in the Stone (12 page)

“Rooke? You in there?”

“Hold on, Pops, I’m coming.”

“You know it’s going on suppertime,” her grandfather said when she opened the outer door. Beyond him, snow fell again.

“Was I supposed to cook?”

“No, you’re supposed to eat. Did you today?”

Rooke hesitated, reconstructing the day, hoping she hadn’t lost track of too much time. She thought of Adrian and was immediately back in the parlor. When she’d emerged from the fireplace to find Adrian watching her, her awareness of the room, the place, the time—all of it had slipped away, until all she could see or hear had been Adrian. Adrian had had the strangest expression on her face, as if she were in pain or afraid. Rooke couldn’t explain it, but seeing Adrian’s discomfort had stirred an overwhelming desire to protect her. Then Adrian had almost fainted. Recalling how fragile Adrian had seemed for those few seconds, Rooke grew more and more uneasy. She glanced toward her grandfather’s truck, wanting to rush back to Adrian’s to make sure she was all right. The urge was so strong it was like a huge weight on her chest, making it hard for her to breathe. The heaviness built until she braced her arm against the door and gasped.

“What’s the matter?” Pops grabbed her arm. “You been taking your pills?”

“Yes,” Rooke said hoarsely, tugging her arm free. “It’s not that.”

Pops studied her silently. “Come up to the house. I made stew.”

“I need a shower.”

“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re a bit of a mess. Don’t be too long.”

“I won’t.” She saw the worry in his eyes. She hadn’t had a seizure in almost four years, but with the last one she’d ended up in the hospital for two days. She still couldn’t remember much of what happened. What she did recall, and Pops for sure did too, was that right before it happened she’d worked for almost forty-eight hours straight without sleeping or remembering to take her medication. He found her on the floor of the shop, dazed and disoriented, blood on her face from where she’d bitten her lip. She hated that she’d scared him, and she’d been careful since then.

“Fifteen minutes,” Rooke said.

Pops nodded and headed back down the narrow, snow-covered path to the main house. Rooke went upstairs to her apartment, but instead of heading straight for the shower, she dropped onto the sofa, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. The weight in her chest hadn’t disappeared and the hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood up, as if in silent warning of some danger she couldn’t identify. She shifted agitatedly, an image of Adrian—her face drained of color, her crystal blue eyes clouded—all she could see. She remembered how helpless she had felt when Adrian had been overcome. Her powerful need to shield her, not knowing from what or even how, had created the same crushing pressure in her chest then as she felt right now. The only thing that helped her take a breath was reliving the sensation of holding Adrian in her arms. She still registered every detail—the coconut and cream scent of her hair, the satiny glide of fingertips over the back of her neck, the soft swell of breasts and firm muscles crushed against her chest and abdomen. Her hands trembled and she recalled the heat of the stone she’d carved—the curves and hollows giving freedom to sensuous valleys and lush hills as she carefully chipped away at the granite. Then stone became flesh and she imagined skimming her hands over the rise of Adrian’s breast and lifting the weight of her in her palms. She felt the hard prominence of an erect nipple, and when she danced her fingers over it, heard a soft moan. Her own. When her hand drifted lower to caress Adrian’s hip, she caught the musky aroma of mystery and desire. Then Adrian’s hand was on her cheek, stroking her, reaching inside her, seeing inside her.

Gasping for her next breath, Rooke dug the heels of her boots into the floor as the heaviness in her chest moved lower. The muscles in her abdomen turned rigid and her pelvis flexed in the air. She groaned and heat washed over her, coalescing into a ball of fire deep within. Her inner thighs tightened. Sweat dripped from her hair and trickled down her face. The pounding in her head echoed the staccato rhythm of her heart. She was close to exploding, so close.
Never been like this before.
An agonizing yearning, a want so powerful it pummeled her senses, threatening to rend flesh from bone and shred her sanity. Frantically fighting down the wild storm rising within, she cast about for an anchor, a rock to hold her earthbound, and finding none she lurched to her feet and stumbled across the room.

She jerked up the window over the sink and frigid air and snow whipped into her face. Tilting her head back, she gripped the edge of the counter and swayed as the storm lashed her, dousing the inferno that threatened to consume her. Gradually, the pressure eased and she could breathe again. The flames licking at her insides receded to glowing coals and she opened her eyes, finally able to bear the merciless demand for release.

“Not yet,” she whispered. Not time. She would know, somehow she would know, when it was time. Until then, she would wait, as she had always waited.

“There has got to be an easier way,” Melinda said, leaning back in a creaky wooden chair in the dimly lit basement of the Ford’s Crossing
Daily Chronicle.
“There should at least be minions to help us.”

“I think the newspapers call them interns.” Adrian suppressed a smile and dragged the next stack of
Chronicles
toward her. The managing editor had been gracious when they’d arrived unannounced, requesting access to back copies of the paper. They’d shown her the photo of the sculpture and explained they were hoping to find something in the arts section to point them toward the artist. The editor, a forty-ish brunette who might have stepped out of a Lands End catalog in her hunter green slacks and Irish fisherman’s knit sweater, led them downstairs into the cavernous basement where rows of shelves filled with what looked like hundreds of years of newspapers were stacked in boxes labeled by year.

“Make yourself at home,” the editor had said, pointing to a long wooden table against one wall with three mismatched wooden chairs in front of it. “I wish I could help, but I’m not aware of any local sculptors, and I’ve lived here all my life.”

“The artist might not be local,” Adrian said, “but it’s a place to start. And we might get lucky.”

“No computer?” Melinda asked, surveying the area.

“Sorry.” The brunette laughed. “I’m afraid the cyber age has come slowly to Ford’s Crossing. We’re just now getting online.”

“Microfiche?”

“I’m afraid not. But we are very careful with our labeling. Everything should be exactly where it’s supposed to be, in chronological order.”

“Thanks for letting us barge in like this,” Adrian said.

“No problem. Good luck.”

After checking out the stacks to get familiar with the organization, Adrian and Melinda had agreed that there was no need to go back more than thirty years, at least to start. Although it was impossible to date the sculpture, the artist was unlikely to have been from a much earlier era because other pieces from his body of work would probably have surfaced by now. It made more sense to assume that the artist was young and undiscovered. Melinda took the current issues, while Adrian started with the older ones to work forward.

“You know,” Adrian said, searching for the arts section in a twenty-five-year-old newspaper, “maybe that piece is the first thing he, or she, has ever done.”

“No,” Melinda said with certainty. “The work is exquisite. Whoever he—or she—is, they are no novice.”

“What would you sell a piece like that for? Or is that a trade secret?”

“Mmm, top secret.” Melinda gave Adrian a heavy-lidded look. “If I answer your question, will you answer one of mine?”

“Not unless you tell me the question first.”

“Are you always so suspicious?” Melinda teased.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll save my question for a more intimate moment, and you can decide then if you want to answer it.”

“That’s very trusting. What if we never—”

“We will.”

“Are you always so confident?”

“Yes,” Melinda said, her green-gold eyes boring into Adrian’s. “As to the sculpture, if it’s as good as I judge from the photo, in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand.”

“Then why do you suppose they aren’t making an effort to display their work?” Adrian didn’t avert her gaze, even though the pull of the dark pupils made it hard for her to concentrate on the conversation.

“I don’t know. There have certainly been instances where artists have created a substantial oeuvre before ever making their work public.”

“Then this might all be wasted effort.”

“No. Nothing about an afternoon spent with you is wasted.”

Adrian forced her attention back to the papers, and they worked in silence until Melinda complained, “Thank goodness these papers aren’t bigger. We’d be here forever.”

“Well, at least until dinner,” Adrian murmured, distracted by a familiar name in an article she’d just come across in an issue from twenty-four years before.

Local Woman Killed in Freak Accident

Grace Tyler, 19, was killed in a one-car accident Friday when her vehicle skidded off River Road into the Hudson River during a blizzard. Emergency crews did not discover the partially submerged vehicle for 10 hours due to hazardous road conditions and poor visibility. Tyler’s death was proclaimed to be a result of drowning. Her infant daughter, secured in the rear seat, survived the crash and is hospitalized in critical condition. Tyler’s husband, Army Sergeant Charles Tyler, was on maneuvers in an unnamed location at the time of the accident. Services will be private with interment at Stillwater Cemetery.

Adrian reread the article, a sick feeling in her stomach. Rooke looked to be in her mid-twenties, so the timing was right for Grace Tyler’s infant daughter to have been Rooke. The thought of Rooke losing her mother in such a horrible way, and nearly having been killed herself, made her ache. The sadness and sympathy was so overwhelming she wanted to find somewhere private and call Rooke on the phone, just to hear her voice, just to…to do what? Say how sorry she was? Rooke would probably think she’d lost her mind. Maybe it wasn’t even Rooke’s family. After all, how many Tylers were there in Dutchess County? Dominic had said there had been a Tyler at Stillwater Cemetery for generations. This could be a distant cousin or someone completely unrelated. But the scar on Rooke’s forehead made her think otherwise. She studied what appeared to be a senior high school photo of Grace Tyler printed with the obituary. The young woman was pretty. Wavy dark hair framed a heart-shaped face that was saved from being delicate by a slightly squared chin. She was smiling, her expression filled with anticipation. She didn’t look like Rooke, although Adrian couldn’t help thinking she was somehow familiar. She studied the image but couldn’t make any connections. The longer she stared, however, the more the slightly hooded dark eyes, intense and penetrating, drew her in. Adrian caught her breath. Rooke’s eyes.

“Did you find something?” Melinda said.

Adrian quickly turned the page. “No. So far the only thing I’ve seen are notices for craft shows and one regional juried art show. That appeared to be primarily paintings, though. You?”

Melinda draped her arm over the back of Adrian’s chair, her fingers resting on Adrian’s shoulder. She stroked along the curve of muscle toward Adrian’s neck. “No, but I’ll admit to being somewhat distracted.” She leaned closer. “You smell wonderful.”

“The only thing you could possibly be smelling is my shampoo,” Adrian said. “And it’s off-the-shelf at Rite Aid.”

“Mmm. I don’t think it’s your shampoo.” Melinda’s voice was low and teasing. She slipped her fingers onto Adrian’s neck, playing over the pulse that hammered rapidly. “You smell…alive. Earthy. Fertile.”

Adrian leaned into Melinda’s touch, envisioning a room drenched in golden candlelight, whisper-soft cotton sheets beneath her naked back. Melinda moved over her, her body insistent, her mouth so close to Adrian’s she could drink Adrian’s breath. Senses soaring, Adrian arched, anointing Melinda’s satiny thigh with her own silken heat. Soon, soon the last thread holding her earthbound would snap and she would give Melinda everything. Everything. Adrian couldn’t stop her body from responding. The desire Melinda telegraphed with just a touch was too potent, but she’d had a lifetime of practice shielding herself from the thoughts and wishes of others. Shuddering, she met Melinda’s gaze. “Melinda.”

“Yes?” Melinda murmured.
Say yes. Give me leave, Adrian. Say yes.

“I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Melinda laughed throatily. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take that as final.”

“Just so we’re clear.”

Melinda trailed one finger along the edge of Adrian’s jaw and traced the curve of her ear. Adrian shivered and Melinda raised an eyebrow. “Why are you struggling so hard to deny it?”

“Enough,” Adrian said.

Melinda dropped her hand and sat back with a sigh. “I know you like women. You’re far too passionate to be satisfied any other way.”

“I like women.” Adrian was grateful for the small amount of distance between them. She was as aroused as she had been after awakening from the dream the previous night, her body clamoring for release. Melinda was unbearably attractive, her persistent desire mesmerizing. For an instant, Adrian had wanted to kiss her.