Dead By Dusk (20 page)

The tapping continued.

“Go away,” he muttered aloud. He hadn't gotten quite as carried away with alcohol as the others, but . . . was the tapping real, or was it in his mind?

It was real.

He struggled out of bed, anxious to stop the noise. Padding softly in his Calvin Kleins, he reached the doors and drew back the draperies.

He was astounded to see Gema Harris standing there.

But then, maybe he shouldn't have been quite so surprised. Suzette had sworn that she had seem Gema; she had kept trying to find her among the people thronging the bar after the show.

She had her nerve, coming back. He intended to tell her so. Knowing Gema, though, she'd have some ridiculous story about being spirited away for just a few days by Steven Spielberg, or something of the like. Yeah, right, Gema.

He found the lock and opened the door, sliding the glass back wide. The ocean air hit him, and for a minute, it was sobering. He stared at Gema, ready to yell, to tell her that he was sleeping, that she wasn't wanted.

The words froze in his mouth. His boxers were spacious, and the material was suddenly standing like a tent.

Gema looked incredible. She was blessed with a real hourglass figure—paid for or not, he had no idea—but in the last week, certain of her assets seemed to have grown. And she didn't have a hard look to her at all. Her eyes were bright, her smile was amazingly sweet.

“You're not getting your job back, you know,” he heard himself say.

“I know. I just really wanted to apologize.” Her eyes swept him up and down. Surely, she was aware of the physical reaction she had caused.

“You're knocking at my door in the middle of the night to apologize to me? Stephanie is the one you walked out on, you know. You were here earlier—Suzette saw you. While people were actually still awake would have been a nice time to apologize or explain, or whatever.”

“Doug, you were always the most decent to me, you understood me best,” she said, and for the life of him, she actually seemed distraught. “Let me in, please. Let me just talk for a minute?”

He sighed. Gema would be pleased, of course, knowing that she had the charm and ability to manipulate him. But, hey, what the hell?

“Sure. You want a drink?”

“A drink? You're offering?” she said, and giggled slightly. “Oh, Doug, that would be lovely.”

“We can go down to the kitchen. Let me just grab a robe.”

He started to head for his closet. He felt her fingers on his bare back. If his Calvin Kleins had been in trouble before, they were instantly strained to the breaking point by that one touch.

“Doug . . . you don't need a robe.”

Astounded, he turned to her. She had never shown the least sexual interest in him before—he wasn't rich enough, or muscle-bound enough.

She was wearing a knit, halter-type dress. With no underwear, he quickly discovered.

She was sliding out of it, the very act a tease of the highest variety, her every little nuance of movement sensual enough to wake a dead man.

“Gema?” His voice sounded funny. High and cracking.

He backed away at first. She didn't care a hoot about him. She was going to use him to get back in Stephanie's good graces, somehow.

She was naked, breasts huge as pendulums, hair falling around her shoulders, lips moist, pouting slightly.

She wants something,
he reminded himself.

But then . . .

Who the hell cared?

He did manage to ask her, “Gema, what do you want?”

“You,” she whispered. The simple word was delightfully lascivious.

Then she moved against him. She came to her toes, tongue teasing his lips as she pressed against him. His insides seemed to explode.

Screw it. She could have whatever she wanted.

He felt her tongue moving against his earlobe, felt her body press firmly to his. He seemed to be fitting to her just like a glove.

He grabbed at the waistband of his boxers, nearly stumbling in his haste to be rid of them. She started to press him toward the bed. His arms wrapped around her. He wanted her down.

Lord, but she was a strong one!

He was twisted around, forced down. She straddled him and started kissing him again in a frenzy.

“Gema . . . if you want it, you'd better go for it now!” he said hoarsely.

Then . . . in the midst of her erotic play, he felt the sharpness of pain.

Like the tapping, at first, he didn't know where it had come from. He realized that she'd been nibbling against his neck...

Fire flashed through him . . .

Then ice.

And distantly, he heard a sound. A smacking, suckling sound.

“Gema, what . . . ?”

“You did offer me a drink,” she whispered.

His mind began to fade. He heard her . . . drinking, suckling, all in a frenzy, and it didn't matter. He was distant, cold, numb, and still aware of a feeling of the deepest, most amazing sexual gratification . . .

Slurp.

Lord, Lord, yes . . .

“That's it!”

The sound of a new voice in his bedroom should have been alarming, but Doug didn't really hear it.

He didn't even know when Gema was wrenched from her place atop him.

“No!” Gema cried to the newcomer. “No . . . I need . . . I need . . .”

“You'll never survive!” she was told harshly.

The man who had slipped in through the glass windows behind her angrily threw her clothing toward her. “You didn't listen to a thing I've said. I don't want any more dead yet—what the hell is the matter with you?”

“I don't need you!” Gema cried, starting forward.

He struck her, backhanding her across the face with a force that was staggering. Gema went flying back against the closet door. The noise was like thunder.

Doug, however, didn't notice or move. His eyes were open, and he was just staring into the night.

The man walked over to where Gema had landed, on the floor, having slipped down the wall to fall to her knees. He caught her by her hair, forcing her to look up at him. “You do have to listen to me. The lord giveth, and the lord taketh. And I am your lord. Get up, and get out. You've had enough. I don't want this one dead—yet.”

“You kill!” she cried.

“I am the lord. I do what I want,” he said.

He tugged harder on her hair, forcing her to her feet.

She became petulant. “Please, I need—”

“You get what I say. Now, out!”

She looked at Doug one last time. His member was flaccid then. His boxers were still wrapped around his feet.

His head was slightly twisted to the side. She could see the irritation at his neck, but there wasn't a drop of blood wasted. Something inside her burned. He wasn't used up. There was more, more, and . . .

“Out!”

She was shoved outside. She actually began to laugh, wondering just what he would remember when he woke up and found himself in that ridiculous position.

Grant and Stephanie decided to drive out to the dig for the afternoon.

They both had slept late.

Stephanie awoke to find that Grant was lying quietly at her side, watching her. He looked worn, and she wanted to reach out, caress his face, and somehow soothe the torment that seemed to be racking him.

She wondered if he looked so because he couldn't forget what they had witnessed the night before.

Or if it went deeper.

Despite the fact that they'd been as intimate as ever—if not more so—she still felt the urge to hold back something of herself. She didn't understand him, and as she had been when they had argued so fiercely and she had left him, she was afraid for herself. She loved him far too much. Needed him. And she couldn't allow that, not when the love she felt was filled with so much confusion and fear.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Grant murmured.

“I'm not sure I've formed any yet this morning,” she told him. She realized that they were both still fully clad, other than the fact that they were shoeless. “How about
your
thoughts?” Stephanie asked. He was going to talk about last night, she was certain.

But he didn't. He touched her cheek with his thumb. “I was thinking that you were the most beautiful creature in the world,” he told her gently. And his gaze was very serious and somber. “Actually, I was thinking that you are the world, everything good in it, light and laughter and sanity and caring . . . you know that I love you, Stephanie.”

She shook her head, withdrawing slightly. “Grant—”

“Don't go panicking on me. I won't say it again,” he told her, rising. “I'll settle for you letting me hang around. I'm going to hit the shower.”

He left her.

Did he really love her so deeply?

It couldn't be with a greater force than what she felt for him.

But then . . .

What was so wrong?

She rose, suddenly eager to make some kind of amends. As she stepped from the foot of the bed to the carpet, she frowned.

He had left a little trail of sand on his walk to the bathroom. Where the hell had that come from, she wondered.

The beach, she told herself.

He must have picked it up when they walked back to her cottage after attending the wake. But he'd had his shoes on then, and they had stuck to the paths.

She shrugged. Didn't matter. The maids around here were incredible, vacuuming every day, keeping the cottages just beautiful.

She walked to the bathroom, then hesitated. He had the door closed. She could hear the shower running.

Let it be, she told herself.

But she couldn't.

She tapped lightly, then entered. She could see his form through the lightly fogged glass enclosure of the shower. Tall, sleek, tightly muscled. A terrible urge to come close to him ripped through her.

She shed her clothing quickly and opened the door just as he was sudsing his chest.

He arched a brow, looked her up and down.

“Let me do that for you.”

“Only if I get to wash your chest, too,” he said.

“I intend to wash lots of places on you,” she informed him.

“Well, then it's only fair that you be as clean,” he returned.

“I wouldn't want to be anything less,” she assured him. She stepped in, closing the door behind herself. The space was tight. It didn't matter. The water was hot, and the pressure was even better. The soap was slick, and she took it out of his hands.

It was good, running it down his flesh.

It was better when he took it, all playful sparks gone from his eyes, his intent vividly clear as he used it on her . . . soap, hands, fingers . . . all manipulating.

She felt the ferocity of the water. The sound in her ears seemed to drown out all else, except for the beat of her pulse, and the rhythm of desire rising in her. She closed her eyes, and let sensation take over. In a matter of minutes, it was madness.

The shower worked for a few minutes . . .

Then they burst out of it.

Bed, carpet . . . everything was soaked. And it didn't matter in the least. There was nothing like being alive in his arms . . . nothing like dying a little there . . . nothing like the raw heat, the feel of flesh, the urgency, striving, flying, falling . . .

Or the tenderness that followed. But that was what seemed to scare her then. She was afraid that she was in love with someone who was becoming a bit of a madman.

Leaving him quickly when he would have held her longer, she ran back to the shower. She was quick, and she dressed immediately, running out then without looking at him, saying that she'd fix coffee.

As she did so, she was shaking, and she didn't know why. How could she love him so much, and be so afraid, deep in the pit of her soul?

 

 

They made it into the restaurant in good time—the tour group had just departed. The Sunday brunch was a really magnificent display.

There were a number of townspeople back in the restaurant; they seemed to prefer the resort when the tourists were present.

To Stephanie, it seemed that everyone was whispering. She felt, as well, that people looked at her and Grant, and whispered some more. They were speaking in Italian, and doing so rapidly, so it didn't really matter that they whispered. Still, she knew that they were talking about the wake the night before.

Arturo stopped by their table and joined them, telling them he was sorry they had witnessed the horror the night before.

“It's Lucretia we feel so badly for,” Stephanie told him. “The poor woman is simply demented with grief.”

“Yes, of course,” Arturo murmured.

“What will happen now?” Grant asked.

“She will be properly embalmed, and the funeral will take place tomorrow,” he said.

“Will there be repercussions against the doctor and the coroner?” Grant asked.

Arturo shook his head. “Not here,” he said softly.