Secrets in the Stone

by Radclyffe

  Adrian led the way down the central hall that led to the kitchen that spanned the entire rear of the house. A library and parlor opened off one side of the hall and the dining room off the other. “And then what?”

  “We’ll get a tarp up there until the weather lets up.”

  “If you’re not a carpenter…” Adrian switched on the kitchen light. Her grandmother had kept the country kitchen decor, replacing worn-out appliances with modern versions of classic styles. A huge oak table took up the center of the room, its surface scarred from the preparation of countless meals. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” Rooke pulled out a wooden chair at one end of the table, set her cap and jacket on a nearby chair, and watched Adrian move with swift economy around the kitchen. When she stretched to reach for teabags in a cabinet above the sink, her T-shirt pulled up, revealing an expanse of her lower back and the soft swell of the top of her buttocks. Rooke stared unintentionally, then looked away.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Adrian said, turning around with the teabags in her hand. She caught a flicker of uncertainty on Rooke’s face. “Something wrong?”

  “No. Nothing.” Rooke shifted in her chair. “I’m a stonemason.”

  “Really? That’s got to be tough work.”

  “No more than any other.”

  Adrian remembered how Melinda had deduced a person’s occupation from the appearance of her hands, and she looked at Rooke’s pressed flat on the table. Her hands were broad, her fingers long and sturdy. Even from a few feet away Adrian could see a few abrasions on her knuckles and a half-moon-shaped scar on the outer edge of her right hand. She had the hands of someone who did hard work, and although she didn’t appear all that muscular, her body seemed tight and fit. She was a few inches taller than her own 5'7", and a little broader in the shoulders and narrower in the hips. From the way her T-shirt molded to her chest, her breasts were probably a bit smaller too.

  Adrian flushed, realizing she was close to blatantly cruising a stranger sitting at her kitchen table in the middle of the night. What was wrong with her?

  “A stonemason,” she said, busying herself with the tea. “What do you do exactly? Build patios and sidewalks and things like that?”

  “No,” Rooke said slowly. “I carve gravestones.”

  Adrian spun around, her mouth curved into a faint smile. “And just when I thought the day couldn’t get any more interesting.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Rooke shrugged self-consciously. She wasn’t used to discussing anything about herself. “Most people don’t find it very interesting.”

  “You’re going to discover I’m not most people,” Adrian said softly.

  Chapter Four

  Edgy and aggravated, Melinda paced in the parlor adjoining the hotel bar. She sipped her Remy Martin and took perfunctory stock of her surroundings. The room, while not showy, was opulently appointed. The rug was definitely Persian, and in very good condition. An original oil painting by one of the Hudson Valley’s more notable painters hung above the fireplace. The polished wainscoting, staircases, and floors were all original and scrupulously maintained. If the hotel was any indication of the village, there was money here. Melinda sighed. What there wasn’t, at the moment, was a woman.

  Her body still resonated with the connection she’d enjoyed for a brief while earlier with the woman on the train. The promise of something quite extraordinary had been there. Melinda swirled the cognac, then lifted the glass and drained it in one long swallow. The exquisite burn only reminded her of her unrequited hunger. Adrian Oakes fascinated her. She sensed power, and knew the feast of her flesh would be exquisite. I would drink you, taste you. I would satisfy you in ways you never dreamed.

  Melinda stalked to the window and glared out into the snow, as if the storm itself were her enemy. In a way, it was. The wind and precipitation had been the interloper, destroying the first tendrils of intimacy she’d established with her traveling companion. Adrian would have accepted the dinner invitation, because she too had been tempted by the energy that had flowed between them. Melinda had almost succeeded in enjoying her, if only in a dream, but even that small triumph had been denied her. She’d awakened just as she was about to ignite, dragged alert by a distant pounding—loose shutters or trees lashing against her window. Now her anger and frustration simmered close to the surface, her body still vibrating with the urgency to discharge that exquisite tension. She wanted Adrian, certain their joining would surpass that of mere flesh, but that was not to be tonight. Like so many other nights, she would have to settle for less than she desired.

  “Can I get you another?” the young woman cleaning up behind the bar asked.

  Turning, Melinda walked back into the bar. “I’m sorry to take you away from your desk duty”—she casually glanced at the small brass nametag pinned above the redhead’s left breast—“Becky. I know the bar is supposed to be closed. Thank you for getting me the drink. The storm…I was having trouble sleeping.”

  “Believe me, I don’t mind.” The pretty young woman, in her early twenties and dressed informally in black slacks and a long-sleeved white blouse, joined Melinda. She gestured to the empty bar and lobby beyond. “The desk is always quiet this time of night, and no one’s going to complain if we pour a drink after hours for one of our guests.”

  “Were you studying?” Melinda touched the hand resting on the table near her own. There was no special connection, no pulse of power as there had been with Adrian, but her skin was soft and her lips full and appealing. “I saw you with a textbook through the door to the office.”

  “Oh. Yes. I’m on break for another couple of weeks. Just trying to get a jump on the semester.”

  Melinda trailed her fingers up and down the young woman’s arm, holding her surprised gaze. “Would you mind company for a few moments? I’m not looking forward to going back to my room alone.”

  Becky’s lips parted and her eyes grew liquid and soft. “There’s no one down here except me. No one will need me.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” Melinda whispered, watching the young woman’s breasts rise and fall rapidly as her breath quickened. I need you. I need the scent of your pleasure and the taste of your passion. I need to feel your blood rush and your flesh tremble. She rubbed her thumb in a slow circle over the top of her companion’s hand, waiting patiently, already certain of the outcome.

  “Come with me,” Becky murmured.

  Melinda smiled. The invitation had been given and, although not everything she hungered for, was sweet nevertheless. “I’d love to.”

  *

  “Where are you going?” Adrian asked.

  Rooke set her empty teacup on the drain board and shrugged into her jacket. “Out to the truck to get my toolbox. I need a flashlight if I’m going up into the attic.”

  “I’m sure there’s a flashlight around here somewhere. You just got warmed up. I don’t want you going back outside again in the storm.”

  Rooke stared, confused by her concern. Her grandfather, a solitary, stoic man, never treated her any differently than the men who worked in his crews, even when she’d been small. If she got hurt, he ignored her tears and tended to the damage, expecting her to be strong. He might have worried about her, but he never let his worry hold her back. He was always there for her, and that was enough. “I’ll just be a second. It’s not that cold.”

  “Must you be so stubborn?” Adrian said. “Just let me look in the pantry. I’m sure there’s a flashlight in there.”

  Crazy. Rude. Stubborn. So far, this woman who didn’t know anything about her had decided she was all these things. Rooke wasn’t sure why it bothered her what a stranger should think of her. She’d stopped caring what people thought at about the same time she’d understood she was different. She leaned back against the counter and put her hands in the pockets of her jeans. Some things weren’t worth fighting over.

  “There’s a couple in here,” Adrian called from the walk-in pantry. “T
hey all need batteries. I think there are some in the plastic storage bins under the counter by the sink. They should be labeled—my grandmother is a great categorizer. Can you check?”

  Stomach tightening, Rooke squatted down and opened the cabinet drawer. In addition to cleaning supplies, she found a stack of containers with blue plastic lids. She couldn’t see inside them, so she lifted the first one out and opened the lid. Ten-inch fireplace matches, assorted candles, and a bottle of lamp oil. She put the top back on.

  “Did you find any?” Adrian rested her hand on Rooke’s shoulder as she leaned down to peer into the cabinet. “What about the one on the bottom? Doesn’t that say batteries?”

  Adrian’s warm breath wafted against her neck, and Rooke flinched. The sensation was so unfamiliar, as was the tremor that rippled down her spine. Forcing the disquieting reaction aside, she lifted the upper containers and slid out the bottom one. When she pried off the lid, she found several unopened packages of batteries. Quickly, she turned them over to look at the size. “What do you need?”

  “The Cs.”

  Rooke stayed very still until Adrian moved away, then straightened and carried the batteries to the table where Adrian had lined up three flashlights. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” Adrian said, unsettled and confused. When she’d rested her hand on Rooke’s back just now, she’d had the physical sensation of a door slamming closed. The abrupt absence of the intensity she’d experienced during their earlier touch left her feeling unexpectedly hollow, as if she’d lost something critical. She shook her head. She’d been hypersensitive the entire day, and she could only imagine it was because she’d been so barricaded against her family’s emotional and verbal barrage that now she was rebounding—letting every stimulus in. That she’d allowed two women in the same day past her defenses was like a warning clarion ringing in her mind. She felt vulnerable and exposed, and she automatically threw up a shield.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Adrian said sharply.

  “Where’s the attic access?” Rooke was anxious to finish up so she could get back to the safety and security of her shop. Being around Adrian reminded her of just how much she hated interacting with strangers. Usually she didn’t care what kind of impression she made. She was used to being dismissed, or worse. But from the instant she’d seen Adrian emerging from the snow, coming after her as if she mattered, she’d cared what Adrian thought of her. And that was just a setup for disappointment, because she knew what Adrian’s reaction would be when she knew the truth.

  “There’s a staircase at the end of the hall on the second floor,” Adrian said. “I’ll take you up.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “I’m not going to let you go wandering around up there by yourself.” As much as she wanted to stay downstairs in the brightly lit, warm kitchen rather than climb around in the frigid, dark, cobweb-ridden attic, Adrian couldn’t just let someone else take care of her problems.

  “What? You think I’m going to steal the silver?” Rooke cursed herself for momentarily forgetting the sharp divide between the extremely wealthy members of the community, many of whom only summered in Ford’s Crossing, and the locals like her grandfather and her, who lived in the village year-round. Many of the year-rounders worked as domestic or grounds staff for the rich New York City families, and the villagers were grateful for the work. But the social classes did not mingle, as Adrian had just reminded her. How she could have forgotten, considering her family history, was just another sign of how off balance she really was. Ever since she’d first heard the message from Adrian Oakes, she’d been acting and thinking completely unlike herself.

  “Right,” Adrian scoffed, certain Rooke was joking. “My grandmother never throws anything away. The attic is crammed with God knows what. I don’t want you tripping and breaking your neck up there.”

  Rooke wasn’t certain what bothered her most—that Adrian didn’t trust her or that she didn’t think she was competent. Either one was an affront to everything she prided herself on. Stung, she shot back, “You might think it’s a national tragedy if you break a nail, but a few bumps and bruises won’t even register for me.”

  “Break a nail?” Adrian exclaimed. “Why you arrogant, condescending…” She poked a finger at Rooke. “Let me tell you something, Ms. Macho Stonemason. I just spent two months dodging IEDs and suicide bombers in the middle of a…” Adrian clamped down on her anger. She couldn’t believe she’d let Rooke get under her skin so much that she lost her temper. She never lost her temper. Not since she’d discovered that the way to win an argument—to win anything—was with cold, hard logic and absolute control. She never let anyone know that they’d hurt or angered her. Why a total stranger could make her forget that was a mystery she was too tired to solve. Embarrassed by her loss of control, she said, “I apologize for my bad manners.”

  “Why don’t you just take me up,” Rooke said, mentally adding arrogant and condescending to Adrian’s list of her bad qualities. “The sooner I get up there, the sooner I’ll be out of here.”

  “This way.” Adrian pointed to the narrow hallway that ran from the corner of the kitchen into the adjoining wing. “There’s a back staircase.”

  Of course there was, Rooke thought. Every house that had once had servants had a staircase into the kitchen for the help to come and go without disturbing the family in the formal parts of the house. Adrian had already grabbed one flashlight and started down the hall, so Rooke scooped up another and followed.

  A blast of cold air struck them at the top of the stairs, and Adrian rubbed her arms. “God, I never remember this house being so drafty.”

  “You’re shivering. Don’t you have a sweatshirt or something you can put on?”

  “You’re in a T-shirt.”

  Rooke shrugged. She was so used to working in a lather of sweat no matter the time of year, she barely registered the surrounding temperature. “The cold doesn’t really bother me all that much.”

  “Of course it doesn’t.” Adrian resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Rooke Tyler reminded her of the soldiers she’d spent time with on her last assignment with her filmmaker friend Jude. Male or female, it didn’t matter—none of them would ever admit to any kind of weakness. Not fear, not pain, not even the heartache of losing a friend. They also tended to be overly protective and domineering. She admired them and was frustrated by them in equal measure.

  Rooke slowed by the open door to the only room that was showing any light. Adrian’s bedroom. “Go ahead,” she said, turning her head away. It felt too personal to see where Adrian slept. “Get something warm to put on if you insist on being up here. Once we open the attic, it’s going to get a lot colder.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want something? I’ve got extras.”

  “No thanks.” Rooke hesitated. “I guess I can’t talk you into waiting down here, huh?”

  “I don’t guess you can,” Adrian said lightly.

  “You’re the boss,” Rooke muttered.

  “I need to know what’s going on.” Adrian knew she probably seemed unreasonably obstinate to Rooke. Her independent streak and stubborn self-sufficiency often put a barrier between her and others, but if that was the price she had to pay to escape the narrow, soul-suffocating life that had been designed for her, the cost was well worth it. She’d rather be alone on her own terms than a player in someone else’s grand design.

  *

  “Oh God.” Becky clutched Melinda’s shoulders, her eyes wide and wild. “Oh God. I’ve never come like this.” Braced on the edge of the desk, she stared down between them, her legs spread wide on either side of Melinda’s hips. Melinda’s fingers played between her legs, sliding inside her and then up and over her clitoris. “Oh God. Please, please don’t stop.”

  Melinda groaned, covering Becky’s mouth with hers, drinking her cries, swallowing her passion. The eternally hungry recesses of her soul filled as Becky burst into orgasm, Becky’s release searing her with the force of a ligh
tning strike. Exultant, Melinda threw back her head with a shout of triumph, climaxing as she absorbed the rush of power.

  “Yes,” she cried, tangling her fingers in Becky’s hair and pulling her head back to take her mouth again. “More.”

  Becky whimpered, sagging in Melinda’s grip. Her lids were heavy, her eyes unfocused. Her hands trailed limply down Melinda’s arms. “I can’t. I came so hard already.”

  “Yes, you can,” Melinda murmured, slowly stroking her, unerringly finding the places that made her breath catch and her pulse pound in her throat. “Let me show you pleasure like you’ve never dreamed.” She kissed along the edge of Becky’s jaw, then grazed her teeth over the soft skin beneath her ear. “Becky. Becky.”

  “Yes.” Becky’s body opened, taking Melinda deeper. Her eyes fluttered closed and her breath shuddered out. “Yes. Yes.”

  Permission given, Melinda thrust harder, filling Becky even as Becky’s passion filled her. Taking all that she had been given. Victorious.

  Chapter Five

  “How does it look?” Adrian resisted the urge to reach up and steady Rooke’s hips as Rooke stood on one of her grandmother’s old walnut dressers and pulled insulation away from the underside of the roof. She didn’t touch her because Rooke clearly didn’t want her assistance, and she didn’t need any more sensory stimulation from anyone for a while. Her nerves jangled with constant bursts of energy that made her skin tingle and every part of her throb. She felt like a Roman candle with a very short, very hot fuse.

  “It’s tough to see all the way to the outer angle of the roof, but there’s water back there,” Rooke reported, peeling back another few inches of the thick pink padding. The only light, other than from their flashlights, came from a single bare bulb at the top of the staircase at the other end of the attic, so she was working pretty much blind. “Yep. Got a hole next to where the chimney joins. Ah hell, my flashlight’s dying. Batteries were probably old.”