Secrets in the Stone

by Radclyffe

  Rooke nodded.

  “Why can’t you read?”

  Rooke’s head jerked as if she were startled. Then some of the tension went out of her body. “I was in an accident when I was a baby. Something happened to my brain. I can see the letters but my brain can’t make them into words.”

  “No words at all?”

  “No. Not numbers, either.”

  “My God,” Adrian said quietly. “That must be so hard.”

  Rooke smiled. “I don’t think about it all that much. It’s just the way it is for me.”

  Adrian wanted to ask a thousand questions, starting with, Was that your mother who was killed in the accident in the Hudson? but she wanted to focus on Rooke, and what Rooke needed to tell her.

  “Your grandfather prints the names for you?”

  “Yes. When he takes the order. Then I work up the samples and let the family choose. Sometimes they have specific things they want, and I work those in.”

  “It all sounds highly personal.”

  “Shouldn’t it be?”

  Adrian smiled. “Yes. It should.” She put her cup aside and stood. “Can you show me one you’re working on?”

  “You want to see a gravestone?”

  Rooke looked so surprised, and so immune to her own charm that Adrian had a hard time not touching her. But she was afraid if she did, with her feelings for Rooke so very close to the surface right now, she’d fall into her again, and she didn’t want this moment to be about her. “Yes, please. I’d like you to show me.”

  “All right.” Rooke held out her hand.

  Adrian hesitated, then willed herself to close everything down. Tentatively, she slid her hand into Rooke’s and Rooke squeezed gently. Warmth flowed into her, the connection reestablished, and she breathed a sigh. They were holding hands, nothing more complicated than that. “You have beautiful hands.”

  Rooke stared down at their joined hands, then into Adrian’s eyes. “They’re pretty rough and banged up. Your skin is so soft I’m not sure I should be touching you.”

  “It’s fine,” Adrian said, her throat threatening to close. “Perfect.”

  Then Rooke smiled as if she’d been given a gift, and Adrian felt herself falling and had no desire to stop. She wasn’t dizzy, she wasn’t disoriented. She knew exactly where she was and with whom. What terrified her was that she knew exactly how she was falling, and that wasn’t at all what she had planned.

  “Over here,” Rooke said, leading Adrian into the far end of the room where several mounds were covered with tarps. A big exhaust fan occupied the space there the windows had been. “This one is actually part of a much bigger marker. This figure will be inset near the top.”

  When Rooke pulled the tarp away, Adrian stared at the head of a lion emerging from the stone. It was so lifelike, the eyes so hypnotic, she would have sworn it was alive. “It’s incredible.”

  “Thanks.”

  Adrian thought of the picture in the newspaper of the mausoleum and the gargoyles. She remembered Melinda saying how lifelike they were. With a sinking sensation, she said, “I met someone coming up here who’s trying to find a sculptor. She saw a picture of a mausoleum in the newspaper with gargoyles at the four corners. You did that, didn’t you?”

  Rooke stiffened and dropped Adrian’s hand. “Yes.”

  “She was hoping you might know the sculptor she’s looking for.”

  “Why is she looking for the sculptor?”

  “She has a picture of a sculpture that’s being sold at an estate sale here. She was impressed.” Adrian began to worry as Rooke’s face lost all expression. “Is something wrong?”

  “I want to see the picture.”

  “I’m sure she’d be happy to show it to you. I was going to bring her out here later to talk to you. She’s staying at the Heritage House.”

  Rooke shook her head. “Call her and tell her I’ll come there.”

  “All right.” Adrian told herself there was absolutely no reason why Rooke shouldn’t meet with Melinda, but her stomach was instantly queasy. “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Melinda said she’d meet us at the hotel in an hour,” Adrian said, watching Rooke pace in the small space between the stove and the chair. “She wants me to come along.”

  “I knew the moment I saw you that we’d make good partners, darling,” Melinda said. “You’re bringing her to me here?”

  “You don’t really need me along,” Adrian said reluctantly, even though an irrational part of her did not want Rooke to meet with Melinda alone. “I don’t have anything to lend to the discussions—”

  “You two already know each other. She’ll probably be more comfortable with you making the introductions. Besides,” Melinda said, her tone susurrus, “I want to see you.”

  “Well, I suppose since I’m already with her—”

  “Wonderful. I look forward to seeing you both.”

  Rooke stopped pacing. “You’d do that? Come with me? You don’t mind?”

  “No, of course I don’t mind.” Adrian couldn’t tell if Rooke was angry or anxious, or a little bit of both, but as soon as they’d started talking about Melinda and the sculpture, she’d become progressively more agitated. “What’s upsetting you?”

  “She’s from New York, you said?”

  “Yes. She’s an art dealer with a gallery in Manhattan.”

  Rooke shook her head, frowning. “I don’t understand why she would come all the way up here just because she saw a picture of something.”

  “That’s what art dealers do,” Adrian said, although she did think it was odd that Melinda would come personally rather than sending a representative. “The successful ones are able to identify talent before an artist becomes popular. That’s often how they make their greatest profits. And of course, young artists are always hoping that someone will see something unique in their work and promote them.”

  “What does it matter what anyone else sees? The story is already in the stone.”

  Adrian perched on the arm of the chair and studied Rooke. “You know who did the work, don’t you.”

  “Not for sure.” Rooke walked to the door and looked out onto the cemetery and the rear of the main house. With her back to Adrian, she said quietly, “But what does it matter who did it? Isn’t something like that supposed to exist independently? Free of the artist?”

  “Well, that’s an age-old question.” Adrian chuckled. “I think you’d find some pretty opinionated people on both sides of that argument. Is that what you think? That the artist doesn’t inject some part of themselves in the work—that it’s a case of art for art’s sake and nothing else?”

  Rooke glanced at Adrian over her shoulder. “I think the artist is just a tool. The stone is everything.”

  Adrian pictured the grainy photograph of the mausoleum and the gargoyles that so enchanted Melinda. She glanced to the far corner of the room where the lion’s head emerged half formed from the stone, eyes gleaming with life. Then her mind skipped to the figure Melinda had shown her in the catalog, a woman who seemed so alive, even in the small, faint photo, that Adrian had expected her to breathe and move. Dominic, saying there was no one anywhere around who could do what Rooke could do with stone. Already certain of the answer, Adrian asked, “You sculpt, don’t you? More than just what you do with the gravestones.”

  As the silence stretched, Adrian tried to tell herself there was no reason for her growing sense of foreboding. Melinda was a businesswoman, and her interest in the sculpture and the artist who created it was perfectly reasonable.

  “Rooke?”

  “Yes. I sculpt other things.”

  “Anyone else around here do that?” Adrian asked lightly.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, then I guess you really do need to talk to Melinda.”

  Rooke turned and leaned her back against the door. “I don’t see how she has a picture of anything I did. I don’t sell t
hem.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “I just make them.” Rooke shrugged and glanced toward a door in the far wall that Adrian assumed led to another room. “My grandfather has a couple.”

  “How many are there?”

  “A dozen.”

  Adrian tried to sort out her conflicting emotions. If Rooke was the artist Melinda sought, and her work was as extraordinary as Melinda seemed to believe, Melinda could make a huge difference in Rooke’s life—financially, of course, but also in every other way. Melinda could introduce Rooke to an entirely new world—an exciting and seductive new world of celebrity and adventure. A world with Melinda at its center. Adrian tried to mentally shrug off the surge of jealousy. Rooke was an intelligent woman. She could handle herself. She could handle Melinda.

  “Adrian?” Rooke asked.

  “I’m sorry.” Adrian hadn’t realized she’d drifted off until Rooke touched her arm. Rooke looked worried, probably because she was telegraphing her own misgivings, and that wasn’t fair. She wanted to be happy for Rooke. She was happy for Rooke. “Do you have photographs of your other work?”

  Rooke shook her head.

  Adrian plucked her cell phone from the waistband of her jeans and thumbed through to the camera setting. Then she held it out to Rooke. “Why don’t you take a few shots of some of them. Just point and press here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you sculpted the figure Melinda is interested in, she’s going to want to know what else you’ve done.”

  “Even if I did, I don’t think I want her to see the rest.”

  “Why not?” Adrian asked gently.

  “I don’t know her.”

  Adrian heard the protectiveness in Rooke’s voice and thought of the warrior in her visions. Perhaps this was what she’d sensed all along—Rooke’s fierce desire to guard her sculptures from those who might not understand or respect the stories they revealed. She wanted to see them very much herself, but she wouldn’t ask. She would see them when Rooke offered, when Rooke trusted her enough.

  “There’s no rush.” Adrian was secretly glad that Rooke appeared to have reservations about Melinda and making her work public. She told herself she was being selfish, wanting to keep Rooke all to herself. Rooke wasn’t hers, and she deserved the chance to decide what direction her life would take. Even if her choice led her to Melinda Singer.

  *

  A clock somewhere in the lobby chimed noon as Melinda settled onto a love seat in the corner of the parlor with a glass of Pinot noir. She crossed her legs beneath her burgundy cashmere pencil skirt, enjoying the slide of the soft wool upward over her bare thighs, almost as exciting as a woman’s caress. She’d left the top three buttons of the matching jacket open, exposing a hint of the black lace cupping her breasts. Her nipples had been tense and tingling since Adrian had called. She regretted she had not relented and allowed Becky to stay when the girl had pleaded to do so earlier. The excitement of Adrian’s unexpected announcement that she might have found Melinda’s elusive artist aroused her so much her sex ached and hunger clawed at her depths again. She sipped the wine and pressed her thighs together until pleasure speared through her clitoris. The shaft distended rapidly and pulsed harder as Adrian, looking as beautiful as ever in a plain black sweater and slacks, stepped into the parlor. Melinda smiled, her attention immediately captured by the woman in a plain navy button-down shirt and jeans by Adrian’s side.

  She was delicious. Slightly taller than Adrian, whip-slender, with short, thick dark hair and midnight eyes. Her dark gaze searched Melinda’s face with curiosity and cool appraisal. Melinda lusted for the power coiled in the woman’s muscular shoulders and taut torso, and envisioned sweeping her hands, her lips, over that tight, bold body—sucking her, drinking her ecstasy. Melinda’s sex blossomed and twitched in anticipation.

  “Melinda, this is Rooke Tyler,” Adrian said. “Rooke, Melinda Singer.”

  “Hello.” Melinda rose, her hand outstretched. In her high-heeled boots she was several inches taller than Rooke, but their eyes met on the same plane. She held the strong hand for several heartbeats longer than necessary, gauging Rooke’s energy. She sensed a force darker than Adrian’s, heavy and foreboding, of the earth, whereas Adrian radiated the light and heat of the sun. Adrian’s passion promised to set her ablaze; this woman’s would brand her very essence. For a fleeting second, she imagined the three of them together, of their bodies fused and their passion melded—earth and air, dark and light, consumed to ashes in her fire. Their release would satisfy her in her deepest reaches.

  “Hello,” Rooke said, pulling her hand away.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Melinda said.

  “How do you know it’s me?”

  Melinda smiled and glanced at Adrian, whose eyes held worry and a possessiveness Melinda doubted she was aware of. Oh yes, there was passion here to surpass any she had known.

  “I just have a feeling that we were destined to meet.” Melinda slipped her fingers around Rooke’s wrist and drew her down onto the love seat next to her, close enough that their thighs touched. Adrian took an adjacent wing-backed chair, her expression wary. “My intuition is never wrong.”

  Rooke glanced at Adrian, whose eyes softened. Energy hummed between them, but Melinda doubted either was really aware of the intensity of their connection. Her skin vibrated with it, and she wasn’t even touching them. Her excitement escalated. She was very much going to enjoy these two. So much more together than apart.

  “Adrian said you wanted me to look at a picture of a sculpture.”

  Melinda opened her purse and removed the page she had printed from the sale catalogue. She handed it to Rooke and pointed to the sculpture. “This is yours, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Rooke said without looking at Melinda or Adrian. She held the paper in both hands so the other women would not see her shaking. Until now, she hadn’t really believed that a woman she’d never met had traveled from New York City to find her because of one of her sculptures. “I don’t understand how this happened.”

  “Did you sell this to someone?” Melinda asked, stroking Rooke’s forearm.

  “No. I’ve never sold any of my sculptures.”

  Melinda caught her breath. “How many more?”

  Rooke looked at Adrian again.

  “She has quite a few more,” Adrian said quietly. She almost hated to admit it, feeling as if she were somehow delivering Rooke to Melinda. That was crazy, she knew, but Melinda was beautiful and alluring and from the way she looked at Rooke, she was interested in more than just Rooke’s sculptures.

  “Where are they?” Melinda asked.

  “At my shop. My grandfather has a few in the house,” Rooke said. “No one else has ever had one.”

  “Did he have this one?” Adrian asked. “Maybe he sold it?”

  Rooke shook her head vehemently. “No, he wouldn’t sell my work.” She paused. “But maybe…”

  “Maybe what?” Adrian wished she could make this easier for Rooke. Learning one of her sculptures was about to be auctioned off had to feel like a violation.

  “Pops might have given one to my grandmother.” Rooke focused on Adrian. “Where is the sale you were talking about?”

  “It’s at Fox Run Mansion,” Adrian had. “Is Bea Meriwether your grandmother?”

  Rooke shook her head. “No. Ida Hancock is.”

  Adrian gasped. She’d just assumed that Rooke didn’t have any other living relatives. Ida Hancock was her grandmother’s best friend. They were in Florida together right at that moment. Adrian had known Ida all her life. How was it possible she’d never heard Ida talk about Rooke? Why had she never met Rooke at any of the summer parties her grandmother hosted? Ida was always there. And how, if her grandmother knew Ida, could she ever have repeated such ridiculous rumors about Rooke? When she realized Rooke was staring at her, she said lamely, “I didn’t know Ida Hancock had any grandchildren.”

  “She wouldn’t have m
entioned me,” Rooke said with a shrug. “As far as she’s concerned, we aren’t related.”

  Melinda laughed softly, running her fingers over the top of Rooke’s hand. “Ah, the luscious intrigue of small towns. How foolish of anyone not to claim you.”

  Rooke handed the paper back to Melinda and eased her hand out from under Melinda’s fingers. She didn’t want to talk about her grandmother. She didn’t want to talk about her sculptures, either.

  “What are you going to do with it? When you buy it?”

  “I’m going to display it in my gallery. And I’d like to represent your other works as well.” Melinda finished her wine and set the glass aside. When she breathed in the scent of desire emanating from the other two women, she almost laughed, wondering how they couldn’t know. “When can I see the rest of your work?”

  “Why?” Rooke asked.

  Melinda did laugh then. “Most artists would be begging me to review their portfolio at this point.”

  Rooke frowned. “I don’t have a portfolio. I guess I’m not really cut out for this kind of thing.”

  “Oh, my dear,” Melinda murmured, lightly caressing the edge of Rooke’s jaw. “You have no idea how perfect you are. Exactly what I was looking for.”

  Adrian edged forward, forcing Melinda’s attention away from Rooke. “You’ll be offering a contract, spelling out the terms of representation?”

  “Of course, darling. You needn’t worry. I have no intention of mistreating her.” She smiled at Rooke. “In fact, I promise to treat you very, very well.”

  “I have to think about it. I don’t know if I want to sell my sculptures.”

  “I understand.” Melinda took a card from her purse and handed it to Rooke. “You can look up the gallery on the Internet. Study some of the pieces we have on display. I think you’ll like what you see. If you don’t want to put your pieces up for public sale, I have private collectors who I know would be interested. I can assure you, it would be quite lucrative for you.”

  Rooke glanced at the card, then tucked it into her shirt pocket. “I don’t know if I want anyone to have them.”