Free Stone Kissed by Keri Stevens

the officer was writing the fire off as an accident.
    “This is hardly some huge inbred conspiracy, Grant.” Delia fumed. Her breasts rose and fell with her rapid breaths. They were fine breasts—not huge by any standard. But their dark nipples would peak with the flick of his tongue.
    Of course they would. It was biology. He needed to get a grip on himself. His palm spread flat on his thigh, his thumb riding up the inner seam of his jeans. He winced, reining in his thoughts and focusing on her words again.
    “…as much of a stranger around here as you are, believe it or not. Even stranger, in fact.” Delia’s face melted all at once, her thick lashes blinking rapidly. Something in her expression was familiar, something…
    “The Claudel,” he whispered, and her eyes went wide.
    “I’ve got work to do.” Delia ran for the shop. She tugged on the knob, then dropped her forehead against the door frame.
    Grant scanned her profile, looking for signs of the kid who had told him an amazing story of the treasure he’d found—a story which had turned out to be true. Delia returned to his car, her eyes downcast, and extended her hand. He held the key just out of her reach.
    She knew more than she was telling. She always had.
    “Which was it? An accident or arson?”
    “My father didn’t set the fire.”
    Grant sighed and handed her the key. The facts were obvious, even if pieces of the puzzle were still missing. Delia’s father had been alone in the house. He’d miscalculated when he set the fire and gotten burned for his troubles. No one in this town had any interest in finding out the truth because, simply put, there was no money it. If he wanted the truth, he’d have to hunt it down himself.
    And Delia? She’d been a pretty little girl—and smart too. She’d known more back then than a kid had a right to know. Vernon Forrest’s daughter was a pretty woman now, and she’d retained the air of innocence he remembered from his warehouse years ago. He needed distance. He needed to give her a long line and see what she did with it.
    After he saw her safely inside, Grant slammed the car into gear and spun out of the drive.
    ***
    The music of hundreds of voices—human and stone—flowed over young Delia in waves. Her father hadn’t wanted to take her to the auction preview, but he had no choice. She was on spring break from her first year at the Hancock School, and Vernon Forrest didn’t know what else to do with her.
    She’d been thrilled. The sculptures in the vast cavernous warehouse treated her like their guest of honor. She grinned when a stone Buddha invited her to rub his belly. She blushed when the charioteers on a sandstone frieze whistled at her. When a small Lord Shiva sang his greeting, she lifted her hand to wave at him—and felt the hard slap on her forearm.
    Her father clamped her wrist in an iron grip. Staring straight ahead, he towed her, shuffling and stumbling, through the warehouse. She ignored the joyful greetings of fauns and dryads, of children and of heroes. She also ignored her father’s colleagues and foes as they stopped to greet him, showing all their teeth when they smiled at her.
    Which was also a mistake. When the last combed-over scavenger moved on to feign fascination with a wicker chair next to a purring marble cat, her father rounded on her.
    “Too good to talk to people, huh? Go back to that corner.” He jerked his grizzled head at the north side of the building, where the sunset sliced through the high row of warehouse windows. “Wait until I come for you. And for God’s sake, sit still and be quiet.”
    Delia wove between the tables and ducked behind crates. Another dealer had gone bankrupt, and Wolverton International had bought the guy out, lock, stock and barrel. Bits and pieces from a dozen major estates would be auctioned the next morning.
    If she were very quiet, if she hid, maybe Father would forget her altogether. She’d seen a snack bar on the way into the