Dead By Dusk (18 page)

“Sorry,” Doug grimaced at Suzette.

“Hey, you're like a knight in shining armor, okay? Good night, all.” She caught Doug's tie, and started walking him.

“Good night, everyone,” Stephanie said. She walked ahead of Grant. At her door, she paused.

“You know I won't go away,” he said softly.

She opened the door, and let him follow behind her. She walked into the kitchen, trying to be casual. “You know, I'm not sure that I thanked you for all you've put in.”

“It was nothing, ma'am.”

“But seriously, you came here because of your fascination with archeology—the old, the ancient, and the Crusaders and knights.”

He didn't answer her right away. “I think I'm here because I had to be here.”

She felt a slight chill. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I can't explain. And it doesn't really matter.” There was something more that he could have said, but she knew Grant; he had decided he'd said enough.

“Grant, I'm still very worried about you,” she murmured.

“And there you go, backing away again. In a thousand years, Stephanie, I would never hurt you,” he told her.

She sighed. “You've talked about something strange going on here. But Maria was killed by animals—that's what doctors, men of medical science, had to say. And Gema . . . well, the wolves would have had to have packed up for her. So there has been a very tragic occurrence, but nothing so terribly strange, Grant.”

“Um. Right. Well, I'm not leaving, so where do you want me sleeping?”

She realized that she might be acting as strangely as he was, pulling him close one minute, pushing him away the next.

There was still something about the way he was acting . . . his thought processes, even, that was very, very scary.

But that minute, in the seclusion of her little kitchen, it didn't matter. He was there. She was there. And when she was with him . . .

Same as always. She felt that she breathed him in, that she drowned within him.

She poured a glass of water and drank it quickly.

“Steph, where am I sleeping?”

“Wherever you want,” she told him, setting the glass down. She started up the steps to the bedroom, and a slight smile of anticipation teased at her lips.

As she walked, she began shedding clothing, leaving her shoes on the first step, casting her shirt off to lie on the fourth step, then her skirt on the seventh, her bra on the ninth.

At the loft landing, she skimmed out of her jeans and thong. She turned back, and saw that he was mounting the steps in the same fashion, loafers on the second step, shirt on the fifth, jeans on the eighth.

She met his eyes, and the night became electric. She let out a little cry as he reached her, swept her up, and caught her lips with fierce passion as his stride brought them both crashing down in the bed.

Night . . .

There were no dreams.

Only the reality of him.

 

 

When she heard the knock, Suzette assumed that Doug had come back to say something; she had barely gotten in her cottage when she heard the sound.

She opened the door.

“Suzette.”

She heard her name. It was like the sweetest caress, a sound that touched and evoked and hypnotized. She heard the sound, a pleasant breeze that wrapped around her, soft as the brush of a flower petal. And then she saw the man.

She was dimly aware that he had no right to be there, certainly not at that time.

Then she heard the whisper of her name again.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“But . . . of course,” she whispered.

And it seemed that the night wrapped around her.

 

 

Carlo Ponti met Grant in the restaurant at the breakfast buffet. He was frustrated, and yet excited.

“We've been asked to hold back again,” he explained to Grant, “but there was a piece of metal armor that Heinrich had found before all this happened, and we sent it off to the museum to be studied. I just got a call back this morning, and the markings definitely indicate the house of de Burgh. And if that is the case, I believe we will shortly discover the remains of Conan de Burgh himself.”

“That's wonderful,” Grant said.

“Yes, we will be able to piece together a bit of history, prove what occurred here. And, of course, every time we are able to do something like this, we make the area more historical, and more exciting. I've been talking with the Discovery Channel, and they are interested. It's all more than we might have hoped. Except, of course, there is the sadness of Maria.”

“Yes,” Grant mused.

“If the stories passed down through the ages are accurate, we should find other bodies as well. The great clash of the Norman lords that occurred, right here!”

“We've already found a number of bodies,” Grant reminded.

“Yes, yes . . . we know that the earthquake that broke up the cliff definitely happened. Exact dates are a bit sketchy. Those we have found already belonged to the local people. This little piece of metal is a tremendous find. Somewhere in the rubble, Conan de Burgh was buried, along with Valeria, and François. Others, yes, those who wanted her executed.”

“Wait, wait, who?” Grant said.

“Valeria—the women with whom de Burgh fell in love. She must have been truly something. Wicked to no end, since she apparently forced her own people to war—we're assuming that the ‘demons' or ‘devil dogs' of legend were her own forces. She rode with François, and they were the ones who ravaged the countryside. Conan de Burgh won the last battle, but was then killed himself by the earthquake. He might have survived, had he not been trying to save Valeria's life.”

Valeria.

That was the name.

Stephanie had claimed that he'd cried it in his sleep, cried it when he was awake.

When he was with her.

Coincidence?

He sipped his coffee, trying to keep a grip on the frightening sense of destiny, of the feeling that he'd had to come here—and that something was very wrong here. It was so hard to accept that he, who had so often scoffed at anything out of the ordinary, could have this strange sense of destiny. Stephanie had put it all into simple perspective last night. Gema had packed up and left. Maria had been attacked by wild animals. There was nothing so bizarre in any of it. So they all had dreams. They were in a foreign country. They slept to the sound of the waves and the sea breeze rustling through local palms.

“Grant?”

“Yes, yes, sorry.”

“Are you still with me?”

“Of course.”

“Come out tomorrow. The crime scene people have said that they will be out of the way by then. It's so very, very exciting!”

“Yes, of course. Sunday. We're going to be black, out of respect for the community,” he murmured.

“I must go. I want to be there. I don't intend to get in the way of the detectives, but I must also guard my own interests.
A domani!
”

“Tomorrow,” Grant said.

When he rose, he felt unsteady. He gave himself a mental shake. The last two nights . . . back with Steph. Incredible nights. He loved her so deeply. He believed she loved him. But now she was uneasy about him as well.

And why not? He wondered sometimes if he wasn't going crazy himself!

 

 

“I'm really beginning to feel so, so much better!” Lena said. She was lying on the sand, dark sunglasses shielding her eyes. “Well, maybe not great. And man, that sun is bothering my eyes today! But I think by Monday . . . well, we may not need Liz anymore. She has been great, though, huh?”

“Don't get rid of Liz so quickly,” Suzette murmured.

On a towel next to Suzette, Stephanie frowned. “Are you feeling ill now?”

Suzette shook her head. “No, not really. Just tired today. I had the strangest dreams last night.”

“Nightmares?” Lena asked sympathetically.

Suzette shook her head. She was wearing dark glasses as well, but it was apparent that she was flushing.

“No . . . not nightmares,” she murmured.

She glanced at Stephanie, then at Lena. “I dreamt that I was with someone. And it was . . . I was . . . wild. Absolutely indecent. And yet . . . I was thrilled. It's rather embarrassing. Made me wonder what . . . well, maybe it's just sad.”

Lena was silent. “You know, they say that we dream about being naked in a crowd, or find that we're giving a speech in the nude, because we're insecure.”

“You've had dreams like that here?” Suzette asked her.

Lena shook her head. “I think . . . then I got sick, and then I started getting better, and you know . . . now this is really weird.” She looked at them both and giggled. “I think I might have grown up too Catholic. We have all that guilt thing going, you know. But . . . I honestly think I feel better since I started wearing my cross.”

“Oh, Lena! Faith is great and all that, but do you really think that wearing a cross could make you feel better?” Suzette said. Then she shrugged, answering herself. “Hey, they say that half of what you feel is in your mind, and people do travel the world to go to shrines, so who am I to comment? Besides, it's a beautiful cross.”

“It is, isn't it?” Lena mused. She grinned at Suzette. “I even had a dream about someone trying to get me to take it off—can you imagine?”

“How have your dreams been, Steph?” Suzette asked.

Lena answered for her. “I don't think Steph has been dreaming lately. I think she's been dealing with the real thing.”

“You and Grant are back?” Suzette said, and she sounded pleased.

“We're not actually back. We have a lot of . . . issues.”

“I'd find a way around those issues!” Lena advised her. “He's so capable, and authoritative, and he's in the theater, and even if he weren't built like brick and sexy as all hell, in our line of work, sometimes you just have to go for heterosexual.”

“Well, that's true,” Suzette mused. “Seems to me, though, that too often, the kind of guy you'd like to be with, even marry, comes and goes too quickly. I actually love the theater because of my gay friends. They stay your friends.”

“That's true,” Lena mused. “But they don't do much for your sex life. Then again, since we seem to be so self-sufficient with dreams . . .”

Suzette started to laugh. “Look at Stephanie! I think the real thing has to be much better than a dream. And yet . . .” Her voice trailed as she flushed again.

“Yet what?” Stephanie asked her.

“It was so real!”

“There were some awfully good-looking servicemen around last night,” Lena said.

“I know!” Suzette moaned. “And we were just on such a high . . . tonight, we have to stick around in the bar and flirt with a few!”

 

 

They ate early again. That night, the restaurant was filled, and now people knew and recognized them, so they came to the table in a constant flow, telling them how much they had enjoyed the show, and how they were looking forward to the evening.

Grant left the table before the others to check the set, and Stephanie followed soon after, feeling somewhat guilty. Since she'd wound up as part of the cast, and he'd been there, she'd left him to attend to the details that were really her responsibility.

But he didn't seem to mind. He didn't even want to hear her thank him that night. He seemed oddly distracted. She decided for the time to leave him alone.

The show went up. The second night was even more fun, with their audience aware that they'd be participating.

Yet, in the middle of it, Stephanie was startled when she was in the eaves with Suzette and she whispered to her, “You're not going to believe who I saw out there tonight!”

“Who?” Stephanie whispered back.

“Gema!”

“Gema—back here?”

“Look, she's in the rear, near the door to the resort lobby.”

“I never met her,” Stephanie reminded Suzette.

“I'll bet she's sorry she walked off!” Suzette said. “And please, Stephanie, if she comes begging, do not give her her job back. She left us high and dry.”

“Try to show her to me when we're back out there,” Stephanie said.

Suzette nodded. But when they had a chance to speak again, Suzette said, “I didn't see her again. Well, I'll just bet that she'll come around. This show is going to wind up in newspapers across the globe, if we keep doing this well. She doesn't deserve to be any part of our success!”

That night, when the show ended, the cast determined to mill with the men and women who had come, and who had headed back into the bar to enjoy the remnants of their last evening. Stephanie mulled that it might not be a bad thing for her to do as well.

But when she told Grant what she was thinking, he had other plans.

“You go ahead. I . . . I have to do something else.”

“What?” she asked him.

“There's a wake for Maria tonight. The viewing goes on to eleven. Since I'm the one who found the body . . . well, I feel I should pay my respects,” he told her.

Stephanie felt slightly ashamed. The shows had been so magnificently received that she had pushed the local tragedy out of her mind.

“I'm coming with you,” she told him.

“You don't have to,” he said.

“I want to. Just let me get out of this makeup.”

“All right,” he said. “But we have to hurry. The funeral home is just up the street, but it's also getting really late.”

She scrubbed her face and didn't bother with reapplying street makeup. Grant ran back with her to her cottage to find something appropriate to wear. She chose a simple black dress. In the States she might not have been so concerned about color or tradition, but here, where old values were so important, she wanted to be in proper attire.