Dead By Dusk (3 page)

She turned to Arturo. “Wow!”

He nodded, very satisfied. “Brilliant, yes? Not so much money into development as you might think, either! Of course, unlike the great structures in Rome, these little places will probably not stand for several thousand years. But! They are new, clean, clever, and very nice, yes?”

“Very, very nice.” Stephanie made a mental note to quit damning Reggie in her mind. Her living quarters were beautiful.

“You must go up to the loft. You will like it even better,” he told her.

“I'm pretty happy right now,” she told him.

With a broad gesture, he indicated the stairs. “I'll leave you to that exploration alone,” he told her. “Giovanni will bring your things, and I will certainly be here first thing in the morning. The kitchen has a few basic needs, but if you wake and wish to have a truly fine espresso, the morning room with its little coffee bar is open from six a.m.” He gave her a modest shrug. “Your actors may not be together by then, but you need only ask, and I will be happy to join you.”

“Thank you, Arturo. You are very kind.”

“
Buonasera, e buonanotte
!” he told her, and with a deep smile and low bow, he left her.

Stephanie looked up at the painted wrought-iron steps that led to the loft, then hurried up them. The area was even better than the downstairs. The same light tones and decor had been used throughout the entire cottage, but here, there were more of the sea blues used in the carpet and bedspread. There were ample pine dresser drawers, the bed itself was queen-sized, a half-wall looked down to the living area below, and huge sliding glass doors opened to a wide, railed balcony that looked directly over the sea.

For several moments, she stood by the little whitewashed rail that surrounded the porch, just staring at the sea at night, hearing the lulling crash of the waves. Then she turned. To the west, she could also see the rise of the cliffs and hills and jagged, mountainous tors inland. The summer sky was not truly dark, but a deep, beautiful blue. The moon and stars cast the night into a magnificent frame around the darker rise of those cliffs, and the towns that sat upon the jagged, surreal landscape. Breathtaking. Here, the sea, and there, the mountains.

Haunting.

She was a beach person, herself. She loved water, and everything to do with it. Sun and sand, sailing, diving, fishing. All of it.

And yet . . .

As she stood there, just staring at the darkness and mystery of the inland area, she was surprised to feel a yearning to go toward the mountains. So lovely and fascinating. She knew that the towns upon the cliffs were old, very old, and charming. The history of the area went back . . . well, probably forever.

It was Italy.

Stephanie closed her eyes. The trials of the long day seemed to slip from her shoulders like a discarded cloak. The air seemed to stir around her, warm enough, yet pleasant and cooling. She looked to the mountains once again and smiled. How odd.

In the night, they seemed to beckon.

She gave herself a shake. Giovanni would be bringing her things. And she needed to get some sleep.

But still . . .

She found it difficult to tear herself away from the night, from the view, from the comfortable, encompassing touch of the sea breeze.

She wouldn't have to leave it, she reminded herself. After Giovanni brought her baggage, she'd take a quick shower, slide beneath the cool sheets, and sleep with the vast glass doors open to the night breeze.

She couldn't wait to rest, to fall deeply asleep in the soft bed, caressed by the gentle and lulling breeze.

Strange. She had been feeling so tired, frustrated, and aggravated. Then . . .

Well, now . . .

She felt almost seduced.

 

 

The night sky was magnificent. Since they were far from a town, much less a city, there were no lights, other than the dimly burning lanterns the workers had meted out at the campsite.

And that was a distance from him now.

The world, he reflected dryly, had changed. His world, at any rate.

The darkness was amazing. The night sky was broken only here and there by a star, and looking about the lush trees and foliage that seemed swamped in secrecy, it was possible to just faintly see the line where mountains, hills, and tors gave way to the heavens. The air was sweetly cool, and the breeze moved through the trees gently, seeming to whisper.

She would be here now.

Riveting. Just the knowledge was riveting . . .

And now, it was connecting; how or why, he wasn't certain.

But here, in the night, he, a man not at all prone to fantasy, felt that he was lifted. A dream world? Maybe. The call of the darkness? Perhaps. Simple weariness from backbreaking labor and time and distance? Most probably.

And still . . . he felt that he had moved. Covered time and distance and space from some bizarre mist that rode over the earth.

Dreaming?

Ah, yes, dreaming.

Simply that, and nothing more.

 

 

“God in heaven! But you are some man!” Gema Harris said lightly. She spoke beneath her breath, but she wasn't certain that it mattered.

She was pleased, definitely, to see the fellow at her side, having felt as if she had come to the ends of the earth where her great talents would be sadly wasted. Jewels cast before swine, or some such thing. She had been sitting at the small bar on the little seaside strip on the Adriatic, enjoying good, cheap wine here rather than spending her time at the more modern complex where she would soon be working. She had, albeit, almost been crying in her beer—except that it was wine, and she hadn't exactly been crying, just rueful of her lot in the world at the moment, and wondering if she couldn't improve it. She was a good actress, a good comedic actress, with a quick wit, which made her a natural for ensemble work that included a lot of improvisational theater. At last check, she was far more than average-looking, being a tall blonde with a
natural
hourglass figure and beautiful, long legs—if she did say so herself.

Lately, she hadn't needed to. Italian men were wonders in the flattery department—unfortunately, those she had met so far were either short and bald or tall and somewhat sexy with wives and dozens of little
bambini
!

She had just been considering breaking her contract and making a move to Rome—she had informed anyone who might listen that it was something she could very easily do—when she had turned to see the man at the bar.

Mamma mia!

Maybe he didn't speak English.

Didn't matter much. In her experience, men tended to be a lot better when they kept their mouths shut. Um. Not exactly, she thought whimsically. They were better when they didn't use their mouths for
speech.
Talk tended to be so much rubbish, and little more. She'd never wanted promises. She had a life to lead herself, a career to pursue. One day, wherever the hell she was—though she doubted if it was going to be at
this
little comedy club—the right person was going to see her. And she would be a star. Men—the right men—would be at her beck and call. But until then . . .

Damn, this one looked good.

“
Scusi. Parla Inglese
?” she asked.

He smiled, sitting at her side, and spoke in Italian to the bartender, ordering a Campari for himself and, she saw, though she didn't quite understand his words, another drink for her.

Whatever he spoke, they were going to get on fine.

“Thank you.
Grazie
!” she said.

He nodded.

“
Io parlo un poco Italiano, ma non parlo molto bene
,” she said, explaining, she hoped, that she spoke some Italian, but not very well.

His smile deepened.

“God, you're hot!” she whispered, finding it somewhat amusing that she could probably say whatever came to mind, and he wouldn't have the least idea.

“You're something of an inferno there, yourself, miss,” he said, and once again, the grin deepened.

Gema was certain that she did resemble something of a blaze, for she blushed to the roots of her hair. Unusual for her. His English was perfect. She couldn't even tell if there was a trace of an accent in it, and she could usually peg people immediately regarding their background through their speech.

“Thanks,” she said wryly.

“So, what are you doing in these parts?” he asked softly.

She slowly arched a delicate, flyaway brow. “Considering leaving them,” she told him. “I'm an actress. I'm here to do a friend a favor.” That wasn't really the truth. Close enough. The job had seemed a decent offer at the time. But now . . .

“Ah, but this is an up-and-coming area, you know,” he told her.

“I want the action in my lifetime,” she said.

He leaned closer. The man was pure magnetism. “Somehow, I get the impression that you create action wherever you go.”

“We only live once,” she said lightly.

“How true.” He straightened and indicated a table in the corner. “There's some nice shadow over there. A cozy little place. It may look a bit dingy, but a hard-working family owns this place. It's always very clean. Why don't you come over and tell me more about yourself.”

Gema quickly slid from her bar stool.

“With pleasure,” she told him, the sound of her words something like a purr. The corner. Delightfully dark. Intimate. Like the man. Sensually charged.

A little shiver ripped through her.

Yes. Oh, Lord. He had an aura of pure sexuality . . .

And danger.

A half-hour later, she barely knew what she had said to him. And she definitely had no idea of what he had said to her. She knew that they had talked, that they had gone through several drinks, and that she was floating on air.

She was leaning closer and closer and was startled when he suddenly looked at his watch and frowned.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I—I have some business. Come, I'll walk you home. Or to wherever it is that you're staying.”

“By the club.” Gema wrinkled her nose slightly. “I have a lovely little place. That, at least, is a boon to being here. My cottage is small, but really charming.”

“I'll walk you,” he said.

She smiled, pleased. Nothing like a protective man.

“Is there a large crime element around here?” she queried. “Actually, I hadn't thought there could be anything so exciting.”

“It's a wonderful place,” he assured her. “As to crime, you never know. So I will walk you.”

They strolled through the streets. Gema didn't think that they passed anyone, but she wouldn't have known. She couldn't take her eyes from him. The arm he placed around her shoulder seemed more supportive and protective than affectionate, but that was all right. He could be a gentleman. She knew, through his eyes, through his voice, by the very way he had sat so near in the bar, that he could and would be a passionate and experienced lover.

But when they reached the downstairs door to the pleasant little cottage, he stepped back.

“You're not coming in at all?” she asked huskily. “I have a truly fine liquor cabinet. The views are gorgeous. And naturally, I've lots of my own music.”

“Maybe I'll make it back,” he said.

Gema was sure she could do a better job of enticing the man to stay. But she wasn't given the chance. He inclined his head with a secretive smile, then he was headed down the path that would take him around the club and back to the main road.

He stopped suddenly, though, looking back. “Keep that door locked. It may be a foreign country and a quaint town, but you should keep your door locked.”

“But you're coming back.”

“I'll knock loudly.”

Gema watched him go. Watched the set of his broad shoulders, the long, easy stride with which he seemed to cover distance quickly. The scent of him seemed to linger.

She leaned against her door, smiling. She'd had a bit too much to drink, but . . .

Energy returned to her. He'd be back. And she'd be ready. She flew up the stairs where a hallway divided into three full rooms, all with access to the outer porch. The accommodations were nice enough. Even very nice. But she wasn't sure what the builders had been thinking, putting three bedrooms in such a charming little bungalow. Nor what she had been thinking when she hadn't insisted that she have really private quarters.

Ah, well—tonight, she was alone.

And waiting.

She hurried to her bathroom, started the water, and fantasized about the night to come as she stroked her flesh with scented soap.

 

 

Giovanni was between twenty-five and thirty, exceptionally tall. He had an easy appearance that made him seem almost lanky, but a look at his tightly worn knit shirt clearly showed that he was really incredibly well honed. He also had a smile Stephanie was sure had broken many a young female heart. He had a lazy, sensual look about him, and yet she had discovered that he had almost as much energy as Arturo, and was a worker who could move like the wind. He was cute, all right. Sexy.

But she felt far more mature, and not at all in the mood.

He arrived with her two heavy suitcases, coat, and garment bag, all carried at once. Stephanie wasn't quite sure how he had managed it all, but he stood at the front door, grinning, and not appearing at all burdened by the weight.

“Good evening, Miss Cahill. I will run these up to the loft for you?”

Stephanie arched a brow, wondering if even the young, muscle-bound Giovanni was capable of
running
it all up the stairs.

“Sure, thanks, come in,” she told him.

He nodded, and started up the stairs. He wasn't running, but he did move darned quickly. A second later, he was back.