The small lobby was empty save for the desk clerk when Adrian entered, so she walked through the bar to the parlor on the opposite side.

Melinda stood by the fireplace, one arm stretched out along the mantel, a glass of deep red wine cradled in her other hand. She was taller than Adrian had appreciated in the dark train, appearing particularly svelte in tapered black slacks, black boots with three-inch heels, and a black cashmere cowlneck sweater that hugged her full breasts and slender

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SecretS in the Stone

waist. Her long blond hair shimmered with reflected firelight, and her patrician features seemed pensive as she watched the flames. She was very beautiful.

“Melinda,” Adrian said quietly.

“Hello.” Melinda smiled, her gaze drifting languidly over Adrian’s face.

“You looked lost in thought.”

“Would you believe I was thinking about you?”

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” Adrian said, determined to resist Melinda’s tremendous allure. After all, she wasn’t twenty any longer, that a little attention should make her lose her head.

“I know you’ll find this hard to believe,” Melinda said as she neared, “but I’ve been waiting for you for far longer than you can imagine.” She kissed Adrian’s cheek, her lips lingering for a few seconds before she drew back. “It’s good to see you.”

Adrian willed herself not to react, even though the kiss sent showers of sparks dancing along the surface of her body. Despite the wave of arousal that followed, she experienced none of the instantaneous sense of rightness she’d felt when she’d touched Rooke, and remembering that brief but exquisite moment helped her keep her bearings now. She would choose when and with whom she shared herself.

“I’m parked out front. Unless you’d rather walk?”

Melinda scooped up a long leather coat from the back of the sofa and pulled it on. Then she hooked her arm through Adrian’s. “Let’s just wander, shall we. I always find it so much more exciting not to know what I might find.”

v

Rooke thumbed the button to pause her audio book and removed her earphones. After laying her tools aside and removing her goggles, she swiped her forearm over her face to mop off some of the sweat. She ran her palm over the smooth curve of a shoulder and part of an upper arm. The stone was warm and she imagined the firm flesh yielding beneath her touch. She ached to breathe life into the figure, yearned to fill the void in her heart with the beauty and grace of this woman.

“Who are you?” she whispered. “Where are you?”

Distant pounding drew her gaze away from the emerging form.

• 85 •

RADcLY fFe

She would have no answers this night or for many nights to come.

The sculpture would relinquish its secrets when it was finished, and not before. Shoving her iPod into her pocket, she strode into the outer room, found her keys, and locked her workroom. Usually she left it open, but not now, not with the work unprotected.

“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

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SecretS in the Stone

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

• 87 •

RADcLY fFe

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.

• 88 •

SecretS in the Stone

ChapTER TEn

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.”