Free Stranger in my Arms by Rochelle Alers Page B

tomorrow.”
    Wrapping her arms around his waist, she rose on tiptoe and kissed his chin. “Thank you for coming.”
    She followed him to the foyer where he opened the door and retrieved his boots. Sitting down on a chair beside the table, he put them on. Reaching for his jacket, she held it out for Merrick as he slipped his arms into the sleeves.
    He turned, they shared a smile, and then he was gone. Alex closed and locked the door behind him. She returned to the living room and extinguished the candles. She stood in front of the fireplace, staring at the dying embers and recalling the past four hours, when she’d shared the most pleasurable time with a man that she had in years.
    What had surprised her was that she’d felt comfortable with Merrick until he revealed his childhood, and she didn’t think she would ever forget his expression when he said he’d been abandoned at birth. He’d closed his eyes and his face had been totally void of emotion.
    What abuses, she mused, had he suffered in his various foster homes? Had he gone hungry? Was he beaten?
    She’d grown up with both parents loving her and she loving them; they’d protected and spoiled her, and nothing had been beyond her reach. Merrick couldn’t go back in time to right the wrongs, but she made a silent vow that she would become a friend on which he could rely.

Chapter 6
    M errick stood several inches behind Alex as she explained the significance of a piece of sculpture at the National Museum of African Art. It had taken Washingtonians two days to dig out from under twenty-two inches of snow while those in northern Virginia took longer with nearly twenty-eight inches of the frozen precipitation.
    The fund-raiser to which Alex had purchased tickets had been rescheduled to the middle of February. They wouldn’t attend because Alex would be out of the country and he’d planned to return to West Virginia the day before she was scheduled to leave for Mexico City. He stared at the raven curls secured in a ponytail rather than at the strange-looking pieces that were now part of a permanent collection.
    Alex gestured toward an elaborately carved wooden staff. “This piece comes from the Yoruba culture of southwestern Nigeria. The staff is named for the god of thunder, Shango, and was carried by Shango cult members as a symbol of their office.” She pointed to a sculpture of a mother and child. “Although the mother and child figures represent an archetypal Yoruba theme, the oshe Shango also displays several unique qualities, namely for its three-dimensional form, its contrast of hard geometric shapes and its smooth surface with detailed…”
    Her voice trailed off. She turned and stared up at Merrick, who wasn’t looking at the sculpture, but directly at her. “Merrick!” she hissed through her teeth.
    He blinked, as if coming out of a trance. “What is it?” he asked softly.
    â€œI’m talking a mile a minute and you’re not listening.”
    Reaching for her hand, Merrick led her away from the exhibit and over to a sitting area. “I’ve heard every word you’ve said. We’ve spent the past week together visiting every museum and gallery in this blasted city. I can tell you the portrait of Mary Cassatt painted by Edgar Degas hangs in the National Portrait Gallery. The Rhyton, a silver and gilt drinking cup dating from the fourth century A.D., probably of Iranian origin, is at the Arthur M. Sackler Gallery.
    â€œ The Abandoned Doll by Suzanne Valadon, who was also a model of Toulouse-Lautrec and Renoir and the mother of painter Maurice Utrillo, was renowned in her own right. This painting is evocative of the theme that brings drama and psychological truth to the universal rite of passage when the mother tells her pubescent daughter about the physical changes in her body. The doll on the floor symbolizes that the daughter must leave her childhood behind in