by Radclyffe
She wasn’t the kind of person Adrian would have any reason to befriend, but Adrian hadn’t hesitated to treat her injury. Rooke held the pot under the faucet, remembering how Adrian had held her hand under the warm water, gently washing the caked blood from around the cut. Their hips and shoulders had touched while they leaned close together. Adrian’s body had felt firm and strong, just as her hands were soft and sure. Rooke’s stomach was jittery again at the thought of Adrian’s thumbs gliding over her skin.
“You’re gonna spill that water all over the floor, you’re not careful,” a gravelly voice warned from behind her.
Rooke jumped and splashed water on her T-shirt. Cursing, she shut off the faucet and poured the excess out of the pot, which had filled to overflowing while she was daydreaming.
“Hi, Pops.” She turned to greet her grandfather, who stood in the kitchen doorway. He wore his usual khaki work pants and faded blue plaid flannel shirt, but instead of his work boots, he had on the brown slippers she’d gotten him for Christmas. She got him new slippers every year for Christmas, and he got her new leather work gloves. In his early sixties, he looked a decade younger, still solid and sturdy. Even though his hairline was receding, his hair was still the same deep mahogany as hers. His eyes were blue, though, not dark like hers. She had her mother’s eyes, he always said.
“Win last night?” Rooke set the coffeepot on the burner.
“Beer money for a couple weeks.” He pulled out a chair at the square Formica-topped table in the corner and sat down. “Up kinda early, aren’t you?”
“I just came back from the Winchester place. Don’t feel like going back to bed.”
“Some reason you went in the middle of the night?”
Rooke fiddled with the flame on the gas stove until it was the right height under the coffeepot. “A call came in while you were out and I didn’t pick it up until later. There was a problem with the roof. Didn’t sound like it could wait.”
“You drive over there by yourself?”
His question had been casual, but she knew it wasn’t. “Yep.”
“You didn’t think about waking me up?”
“Come on, Pops.” Rooke couldn’t get angry at him for looking out for her, but she wasn’t a kid anymore. She needed to make her own decisions, and accept the consequences. “A back road with no traffic. It’s no big deal.”
He studied her silently for a moment. “The roof, you say.”
“And the chimney.” Rooke leaned against the counter next to the stove. “A big tree came down and sheared off the chimney and the corner of the roof.”
“What happened to your hand?”
Rooke glanced down at the bandage. A quarter-sized spot of blood seeped through, leaving a dark crimson blotch on the white gauze. “Snagged it on a piece of sheet metal. It’s nothing.”
“Looks like it’s bleeding.”
“Adrian cleaned it up.” Rooke felt her face flush. “Dumb thing to do.”
Ronald Tyler shrugged. “Things happen. How bad’s the damage up there?”
“The roof needs covering. The fireplace is out of commission until the chimney’s repaired. I didn’t get much of a look at that, but a good couple weeks’ work at least.”
“What did Mrs. Winchester want us to do?”
Rooke frowned. “I don’t think she’s there. Just her granddaughter, Adrian. I didn’t get a look at the outside. Not enough to give her any kind of estimate.”
“The storm’s supposed to let up some later this morning. You plan on getting a tarp up there?”
“Yes.” Rooke wasn’t about to tell her grandfather that Adrian didn’t want her to do it. She was already embarrassed enough about her accident. “I thought I’d call Dom to give me a hand.”
“Sounds okay.” Ronald nodded toward the stove, where the coffee percolated vigorously. “You gonna pour some of that or just boil it to death?”
Rooke hadn’t even noticed the coffee about to spew out the spout and lunged to turn down the flame. She didn’t seem to have her head on straight, and she couldn’t figure out why. Nothing had seemed quite right since she’d met Adrian Oakes.
*
Melinda woke a little after seven, showered, and dressed in camel-colored slacks, a dark brown cashmere sweater, and low-heeled brown leather boots. She decided to leave her hair loose and, after finishing her makeup, walked down the three flights of stairs to the small dining room on the first floor of the hotel. On her way past the front desk, she thought of Becky. She’d left her just after three, dozing in a chair behind the desk in the office. Becky’s sexual reserves had been surprising, and Melinda had brought her to orgasm four times before Becky had slumped into her arms in an exhausted torpor. Becky would be pleasantly tired for a few days, but none the worse for the encounter. Melinda had gone to bed energized and, for the time being, nearly satisfied.
The dining room was empty except for a middle-aged businessman who looked up from his newspaper when she entered and followed her with his eyes as she crossed the room to a two-person table in front of the windows. She smiled at him and he lowered his paper, his gaze roaming hungrily over her body. She caught his gaze and held it, and his expression slowly shifted from one of avid appreciation to nearly mindless lust. Watching the transformation, Melinda breathed deeply, savoring his desire. She let the game go on as tension spiraled through her, senses growing ever keener as her body pulsed with arousal. When she brushed her fingertips over her erect nipple, his body twitched and she licked her lips, savoring the unanticipated infusion of pleasure.
After another minute, she broke eye contact and casually picked up the menu from the table. She knew from experience his passion would not satisfy her, but only leave her hungry. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him sag as if he had been held upright by an invisible cord that had been abruptly severed. Then, his face flushed, he rose and hurried from the room, holding his newspaper in front of the bulge in his pants.
Laughing softly, Melinda gazed out the window. The snow had tapered to a thin shower of flakes that swirled and danced in the wind. The sky was cerulean and the sun incongruously bright after the tempestuous storm the night before. A foot of pristine snow glittered on parked automobiles, sidewalks, and street. A few merchants shoveled sidewalks in front of their stores, but otherwise the streets were empty.
“Coffee this morning?” a young man asked as he approached her table with a pot.
“Yes, please.” Melinda set the menu aside and gave him her breakfast order. Then she withdrew the estate sale announcement from the side pocket of her shoulder bag along with a pen and her cell phone and punched in the telephone number provided for information. The call was picked up after three rings.
“Good morning,” Melinda said, “I’m interested in some information about the estate sale scheduled for later this morning.”
“Oh, I’m glad you called,” a man replied. “Unfortunately, we’re going to have to postpone that for a few days. One of the snowplows knocked out half the bridge over the creek, and I am afraid the road to the house is impassable.”
“I see.” Melinda swallowed her irritation. “Do you expect to have the problem cleared up by Monday?”
“I wish I could say, ma’am. I should have more information tomorrow. I certainly do apologize for the inconvenience.”
“Yes, well,” Melinda said, rethinking her plans for the weekend, “you can hardly be held responsible for the weather.”
“To hear my wife talk sometimes, you’d think differently.” He laughed. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Actually, there is. I’m interested in some information on item 7132 in your catalog.”
“The stone sculpture?”
“Yes. You have an excellent memory.”
“Why, thank you,” he said.
Melinda could envision him preening, and smiled. After a moment of silence, she prodded, “The artist? Do you have any contact information for the artist?”
�
��You know, you’re not the first person to ask me that question. I’ve gotten calls from three art dealers asking me the same thing.”
“Really.” Melinda circled the picture in the catalog of a stone sculpture depicting a reclining woman, her head thrown back, a slender leg bent at the knee, one hand splayed between her breasts and the other palm up by her side. Depending on one’s interpretation, she might have been basking in the sun or awakening from a dream, but Melinda knew without a doubt she had been captured in the midst of orgasm. The work was powerful, primal, and the energy of the artist was tangible even on the static page. She wanted the artwork, but even more, she wanted the unknown artist. She wasn’t just an art dealer, she was a collector. She prided herself on recognizing the unique and making it hers. “I’d like to see what else he’s done.”
“Well, I would surely like to help you, Ms…?”
“Melinda Singer. And you are?”
“Earl. Earl Barnes.”
“Can you help me, Mr. Barnes?”
“Like I said, I wish I could, but the artist is anonymous.”
“Surely you must be able to trace the piece through the owner?”
“Can’t. There’s nothing to be found on it among the estate paperwork.”
“A bill of sale or something in the insurance listings? It must be insured.” Melinda couldn’t believe that no one appeared to recognize the value of this piece. On one hand, that was very good for her. The bad news was that other dealers had obviously come to the same conclusion regarding its potential. Her only advantage was that she had come personally to procure the piece, and the others would most likely send representatives who wouldn’t be as relentless about tracking down the artist as she intended to be.
“’Fraid not. Folks around here tend to be pretty casual about that kind of thing. I got so many calls about this item, though, I did a little searching through Mrs. Meriwether’s papers. Believe me, that was a challenge. No filing system to speak of. I wasn’t able to find anything.”
Melinda tapped her pen impatiently on the tabletop and waved off the waiter as he approached with the coffeepot. “Perhaps if I could examine the piece.”
“That’s a bit irregular,” Earl said, “but I’d make an exception for you if that were possible. But with the roads out, it isn’t. I did ask Mrs. Meriwether’s niece if she had any recollection—”
“How wise of you,” Melinda interrupted, allowing her voice to drop a register.
“Yes, well…” He cleared his throat. “The niece thought it might’ve been a gift, but she wasn’t sure who sent it.”
“Did she happen to speculate?” Melinda heard what sounded like papers rustling in the background.
“I did make a few notes on that. Ah, here it is. There are a number of families of Mrs. Meriwether’s station who go back quite a few generations hereabouts. Close personal friends, you know.”
Melinda translated that to mean the wealthy families of the area. “Yes, of course. I can assure you, I’ll be quite discreet.”
“Here you are, then.”
Mr. Barnes provided her with four names that Melinda wrote in the margin of the catalog. She doubted she would have any difficulty finding phone numbers, since the town was so small. “You’ve been wonderfully helpful. And you will remember to call me about the new date and time for the sale.”
“I most certainly will. Very happy to be of service, Ms. Singer.”
“Thank you,” Melinda murmured, disconnecting. She was disappointed that the sale had been postponed, but this information might prove more valuable in the long run. She wanted the sculpture, and she intended to have it. But that wasn’t all she had come for.
Chapter Seven
Adrian carried her cup of steaming tea to the front windows and looked out over the lawn toward River Road and the frozen expanse of the Hudson River beyond. The snow-covered branches of the skeletal trees stood silhouetted against the steel gray sky, a stark backdrop to an eerily empty world. She couldn’t glimpse a single puff of smoke from a neighboring chimney or even a bird in the sky. She might have been the only living creature on some distant world. Shivering, she zipped her gray sweatshirt over the T-shirt she’d donned along with jeans after taking her shower. She hadn’t bothered to tie back her hair, and the thick, shoulder-length waves curled wildly around her face. Absently, she tucked an errant strand behind her ear and sipped her tea while watching a blue truck slowly approach along the single-lane road that hugged the river. With a start, she realized she was no longer alone in the universe, and more than that, she was about to have company.
The truck turned into the drive and climbed toward the house, coming to a halt just beyond the fallen tree. Adrian’s heart picked up speed and just as quickly sank. Rooke’s truck had been red. She squinted, trying to make out the white lettering on the side through the thin curtain of falling snow. The driver’s door swung open toward her as a man stepped out. STILLWATER CEMETERY was stenciled on the red door in white block letters. Rooke said she carved gravestones. Rooke had sent someone to look at the roof, just as Adrian had asked. Someone else. Exactly as Adrian had requested.
Adrian brushed aside the surge of unreasonable disappointment and opened the door. A sinfully handsome man in his mid-twenties with curly black hair, thick-lashed dark eyes, and olive features climbed onto the porch. For just an instant, Adrian compared his movie-star good looks to Rooke’s. Despite the thin scar, Rooke’s haunting pale beauty would linger in her mind long after this man’s face faded.
“Hi there!” he said with a dazzling smile and held out his hand. “I’m Dominic Fanucci. I’m here about the roof.”
Realizing she’d been staring, Adrian quickly pasted on a smile and grasped his hand. “Adrian Oakes. Thank you for coming out in this miserable weather.”
“No problem.”
“Is there anything you need?”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the truck. “Nope. We’ve got it covered. I just wanted to let you know we’d be tromping around up there. Oh, and you might want to stay inside because we’re probably going to be knocking things loose.” He flashed another brilliant smile and his eyes swept over her with the kind of appreciation that probably made most women melt. “Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
Adrian looked past him to the familiar figure removing tools from the back of the truck. Rooke wore the same navy ball cap as the night before, but she’d replaced her leather jacket with a black hooded sweatshirt. “Would you ask Rooke to come up when she has a minute?”
“Sure thing.” He hesitated, looking out from under long lashes with a hopeful expression. “See you later, then.”
“Thanks, Dominic.”
Adrian stepped back inside and closed the door to keep out the cold. She watched Rooke approach through the wavy panes of the leaded glass window. Her face was blurred, but her body looked solid and somehow familiar as she strode up the path with strong, sure strides. Adrian opened the door just as Rooke stepped onto the porch.
“Good morning,” Adrian said quietly.
“Hi.”
“How’s your hand?”
Rooke kept her bandaged hand in the pocket of her sweatshirt. “Doing fine.”
“You’ll be all right up there?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Okay then.” Adrian started to close the door, then stopped. “I was about to put on a pot of coffee. When you’re done, why don’t you and Dominic come in and have some and you can tell me how things look.”
“All right. I should check the fireplace too.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Adrian said, unable to look away from Rooke’s face. As she felt herself slipping into the endless dark depths of Rooke’s eyes, she had the impression of being sheltered, held, kept safe. She didn’t resist the pull, even though she should.
“Are you sure?” Rooke murmured, sounding far away.
“Yes,” Adrian said hastily, blinking as the odd sensation dis
appeared as quickly as it had arisen. Ordinarily she’d never seek protection or even simple comfort from anyone. She didn’t trust the demand for control that would surely follow. Trust us, Adrian, we know what’s best for you. Don’t be foolish, Adrian, you don’t know what you really want. Do as we say, Adrian…
“You look tired,” Rooke said. “I can call you with an estimate tomor—”
“I’m fine. I didn’t sleep much, but then, I imagine you didn’t either.”
“I’m used to it.” Rooke shrugged. “Sometimes I forget.”
Adrian laughed. “You forget?”
Rooke looked uncertain, and then she laughed, her quick grin highlighting a deep dimple in her right cheek. “There are better things to do at night than sleep.”
Adrian sucked in a breath as a swift kick of arousal caught her unawares. They weren’t touching and she wasn’t riding an adrenaline high today, so she had no explanation for her physical reaction other than the fact that Rooke was gorgeous and sexy and, unlike her handsome friend Dominic, didn’t seem to have a clue. Or perhaps it was just that she hadn’t had sex in months and now that she wasn’t sleeping in a tent on the ground, alternately worried about poisonous bugs and stray bombs, her libido had returned with a vengeance.
“Better things like what?” Adrian wanted to know. Suddenly she wanted to know everything about Rooke with a fierceness that alarmed her.