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?”

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“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

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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.

• 61 •

• 62 •

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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

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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.”

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“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 disappeared 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.

“Work,” Rooke said uncomfortably. Adrian had the strangest expression on her face, as if Rooke were speaking a foreign language.

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Adrian probably really thought she was crazy now. “I should probably get—”

“You do the gravestone carvings at night?” When Rooke nodded, Adrian said, “What do you do during the day?”

“The same thing.”

“You work all the time.”

“Pretty much.”

Adrian smiled. “You must love it.”

Heat rushed through Rooke’s chest, and her stomach was suddenly all over the place again. She’d never tried to talk about her work with anyone because she was afraid they wouldn’t understand. But Adrian seemed to. “Yes.”

“Can I come see, sometime? I’ve always been fascinated by cemeteries.”

“That’s strange.”

“Maybe.” Adrian grinned. “So what do you say?”

“Okay.” Rooke was too stunned to say anything else. And she didn’t want to. She wanted very much for Adrian to see what she did.

Some of it, at least. She backed up a step, then another, until she was standing on the snow-packed path looking up into Adrian’s face. “I should go.”