Free Stone Kissed by Keri Stevens Page A

warehouse, and four-poster and brass beds scattered throughout the massive facility. She could live here for weeks.
    Delia turned a corner and caught her breath—nested before her in the straw of a huge crate stood a statue of a woman and man, coupling. Their moans were quiet, but the vibrations reverberated through her lower belly, and her face flushed red and hot.
    “Aren’t you a pretty one,” purred the woman. She was angled so her face looked over the man’s shoulder, one creamy marble leg wrapped around his narrow waist. Her thigh gleamed golden in the last rays of the sun. Her right hand twined through detailed curls of his hair while her left palm flattened between the sinews of his back muscles. His buttocks were forever clenched in thrust, his mouth locked on the side of her throat. She’d been carved with the heavy-lidded, self-satisfied gaze of a woman who had a man right where she wanted him.
    “Excuse me.” Delia backed away, but she bumped something. Someone. Delia flinched, fearing her father had caught her talking to statues again. As she turned, however, she saw it wasn’t her father at all. This man was too tall, too lean—but he had wide shoulders. The fading light crowned him but left his face in shadow. A dark angel. Delia saw his long, tapered fingers flare and flex at his side. His sword. He wants his sword.
    “You’re excused.” The angel grinned. “Or were you talking to someone else?”
    The sculpted woman giggled behind her. Delia sifted quickly through her stockpile of lies for one for this situation. But he hunkered down in front of her, releasing the rays of sun he’d blocked. She looked into the face of the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen.
    “ Mon Dieu! Is him,” the carved woman said.
    Delia said nothing at all. She stared into ice-blue eyes set into a honey-tan face that had been cut with perfect symmetry. His hair was chocolate-dark, and curls caressed his forehead and square jaw. His voice, however, was soft as he asked, “You lost?”
    Sure, he was a stranger, but he didn’t seem like a creep. She wanted to reach out and touch the cleft in his chin, see if the skin was cool like marble, or if her fingertip would burn.
    “Me, I think he’s a good one, chérie ,” said the statue from behind Delia. She was surprisingly earnest. “He is one of the best.”
    “Not sure you should be looking at this one.” He grimaced and Delia blushed. He had no idea. “But I think it’s the best piece I’ve ever found. Unfortunately, I don’t have a good provenance.”
    “We are Claudel,” the woman boasted.
    Delia should resist. She’d been well trained by both her parents in keeping her eyes down and her mouth shut. But she wanted to impress him—or at least keep him talking to her. “Could it be a Claudel, maybe?”
    He looked at Delia appraisingly and turned back to the statue. “Not a Claudel. It’s not a bronze, and the remaining Claudels are accounted for. But certainly a talented imitator.”
    The statue was indignant. “Bah. We are authentic. She did not destroy us.”
    “Besides,” he said. “Claudel usually draped her nudes.”
    “She’s authentic.” Delia stole glances at the handsome young man while the statue told Delia her story. And Delia told him. Her voice grew stronger as his full lips spread into an admiring smile. “Rodin lied to her. He told her he would leave his…woman.” Delia choked. The statue had said “whore,” but she couldn’t bring herself to use that word. “The other woman intercepted the shipment and hid the statue with friends, refusing to let Rodin see it. This is a lost Claudel.”
    “Who are you? How do you know this?”
    A harsh hand grasped Delia’s wrist and jerked backwards. “There you are.”
    “Forrest, stop.” The angel stepped in, placing himself between Delia and her father, who released his grip. Her rescuer reached back and took Delia’s hand. Her palm burned gold at the contact. He turned her