Dead By Dusk (9 page)

They started back. Again, Grant seemed drawn to the edge of the water. Clay kept to the sand, watching.

When they returned to the restaurant, the others were there, just as frustrated. They told Arturo about the dead dolphin, and he assured them that he'd have it taken care of by morning.

“Well, we should head back,” Carlo Ponti told Grant.

Grant took a long, wary look at Clay. “Carlo, I'll be out first thing in the morning. I'm going to take a room here for the night . . . maybe for the week.” He stared at Clay as he spoke, as if warning him.

Or threatening him?

Clay wasn't certain.

Grant kept looking at him. “I intend to be around here,” he continued. “In case. Just in case Stephanie decides that she needs some help. You know, putting up the show.”

Putting up the show. He didn't mean that at all. Nor did he mean “needs some help.” What he meant was, “needs me.”

That was fine, Clay determined, smiling deeply.

He was glad that Grant Peterson would be exactly where he could keep a close eye on him.

Just as, he was certain, Grant Peterson would be watching him.

 

 

She didn't owe Grant anything, Stephanie reminded herself. And still, that night, she locked the front door, and the back door, and when she went upstairs, she closed and locked the entry from the balcony as well.

Too bad. She had loved the breeze.

It was all silly, really—it had to be. Gema Harris had taken off for the bright lights of Rome, and the missing girl would be found soon as well. Maybe she had run away with a lover who would not be approved by her family. Such things were surely known to have happened before. By tomorrow, the mystery would be solved.

Still . . .

She wondered if it was more than Grant urging her to be careful that made her walk around the place with nervous determination. She felt edgy herself. She wasn't certain if she was really feeling anything unusual, or if the fact that there were missing persons in the area, and Grant's assertion that something was off, causing her to experience the unease.

She was really tired. Jet lag was a part of it. Her sleep having been beset by dreams was part of it as well.

Feeling certain that she had closed and locked every possible entrance, she showered and went to bed.

When she closed her eyes at first, they opened again immediately. She had locked the doors to the balcony, but hadn't closed the drapes.

The darkness outside seemed to hold shapes.

Stephanie rose, and closed the curtains, and went back to bed. The events of the day kept going through her mind. They would always end with one thought.

Grant was here.

And she would think about her cast again, and how pleased she had been with the few intense hours she had spent working with Doug, Drew, Suzette, and Lena.

Then Clay Barton had arrived. In the night, her eyes closed, attempting to sleep, she saw again the man's very unusual eyes. Cat eyes, lion eyes, dragon eyes. Like pinpoints of red-gold light in the ebony of the shadows.

Tossing and turning, at last she slept.

But only a few minutes were restful.

Grant was here.

She dreamed that he was in the room. The drapes were fluttering, and she thought that they couldn't be, because the doors were closed. The breeze was drifting over her. She was lying naked on the bed, and she could feel the air, as if it were part of an erotic seduction. She tried to tell herself that it was ridiculous, she had on a long T-shirt, she was swathed in cotton, but still . . .

The air against her flesh was cool, and she was mesmerized by the lightly billowing drapes; every inch of her skin seemed to be touched by the breeze, damp and cool, teasing, touching. And there was the man in the darkness, and by the shape, she was certain that she knew him, knew him so well.

Grant was there.

Broad-shouldered, a lean muscle mass, hot and vital, and moving with slow, sinewed ease, coming toward her. Sleek and bronze, fluid and sensual, the pad of his step silent across the room, his confidence complete, as if he knew the air rushing over her held her spellbound, and she wouldn't begin to protest . . . not at all, she would be waiting, anxious for the liquid energy and spiraling heat that would come with his touch.

Grant . . . or someone like Grant.

Hard-toned, agile, and the darkness hid the face, but there was a smile of amusement and assurance, and a knowledge . . .

He reached the foot of the bed. Crawled there, crouched, with that same animal beauty of movement and ease and sleek agility. Fingers slid along her calf, and the pure, searing ember of a kiss slid with liquid seduction along the flesh of her leg, teased beneath her kneecap. Her limbs were parted to allow for the force of the body coming against hers with slow, sure solicitation and she was powerless to move. There was darkness now where the drapes had appeared to billow. As if something had come behind him. Something winged and huge . . .

But she couldn't concentrate on it, couldn't remember to think, or even allow the rush of fear to touch her, because the sensation now streaming upward along her thigh was like a flow of lava, and she knew where it was coming, and she wanted it, and the hunger evoked was almost more than she could bear. She wanted to reach out and touch the man's hair, dig her fingers into it, feel the warmth and power of the body, and the life within the man, but she couldn't move, because the pulse between her legs had grown to a desperate fever pitch, and if the surge did not come completely to her soon . . .

The darkness rose like a great, sweeping cape. It would engulf them both. She didn't care. She wanted the man with a growing urgency that eclipsed all else. She writhed where she lay, still unable to make her limbs move. She tried to whisper his name, and remembered that they were not together, that there was something wrong, something so very wrong, no matter how cataclysmic their passion could be . . .

Closer, oh, God, yes . . . closer.

Then...

Someone else was there. At her side. Sitting, as if it were perfectly natural for someone else to be present at the crux of such an erotically intimate moment.

No . . . you must be careful, you don't know who he is, the shadow is rising behind him, come to me, come with me, listen to me . . . it's here, in the past . . .

The man at her side was Clay Barton.

But then, the seduction between her legs became complete.

The shadow fell down, and she was screaming . . .

 

 

Stephanie awoke abruptly, catching the scream before it tore from her lips.

The glass doors were closed. The draperies were still. The room was empty. She was clad as she had been when she had gone to bed, in the soft, old, worn cotton T-gown. She was shaking, and bathed in sweat.

“Damn!” she breathed aloud, and she knew, of course, that she had been dreaming, and once again, the dream itself was simply embarrassing.

She flushed, jumped up, ran to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and doused her face with cold water. And then, in the light, the whole thing seemed to fade, and be ridiculous.

“Damn Grant for showing up here!” she said aloud. She walked back into the bedroom. The shadows there then seemed entirely natural.

Still, she turned on the bedroom light. And despite the fact that the dream was already fading, and it was ridiculous to think that she'd really felt anything at all or that anyone could have been in her cottage in any way, shape, or form, she went down the stairs and turned the lights on throughout the place.

By then, she was feeling really silly, but she wasn't quite ready to go back to bed. She made a cup of tea, and turned on the television. There was an all-night music channel in Italian, she discovered. Something like MTV or VH1. Curling into a chair, she watched the musicians on the screen.

When she fell asleep again, it was in the chair, with every light in the cottage on, and a rock rhythm permeating her mind.

 

 

He stood outside, taken by the darkness and the sea breeze, stock-still, as time ticked by, aware . . .

There.

With her.

He had to be with her.

The vigil had to continue, he knew. What might stand between them, he didn't know, only that he had to be there, to watch, to force himself into her consciousness, or subconsciousness. There was danger . . . deeper than any that might be imagined. There was a reason for everything. A reason for the torment . . .

And to watch.

Then, out of the shadows . . .

Light. A field of light. He fell back.

He gave himself a shake.

The vigil was over.

 

 

Breakfast was a buffet.

When Stephanie made it over to the restaurant in the morning, she headed immediately for the coffeepot, then noted just how beautifully and completely it was all arrayed. Every taste was catered to; there was even an assortment of foods that catered to any Japanese or Oriental clientele.

She selected a croissant, yogurt, and a fruit cup and headed for the large, round table where she had noted that Drew and Suzette were already sitting.

“Good morning,” she said.

“
Buongiorno!
” Drew told her.

“Hey,” Suzette said.

Stephanie slid into her chair. “Did they find the girl, Maria, do you know?”

Suzette shook her head. “I haven't seen Arturo yet this morning, but Giovanni was through here a few minutes ago.” She smiled. “That is one good-looking young man. I think he wants in on the comedy club, but he says that he is too busy right now. Anyway, he said that they hadn't found the girl. Merc and Franco called into the next town—much bigger than this place—and they're sending a few men down to help.”

“Maybe she eloped with an archeologist,” Drew said.

Suzette shrugged. “Not the ones I've seen!” she said. “Except, of course, for Grant Peterson, and he's not really an archeologist. Stephanie! I still can't imagine that the guy you worked for at a comedy house is actually here—as an amateur digger.”

Stephanie forced a smile. “I still can't quite believe it myself.”

“He just left,” Drew said.

“What do you mean?” Stephanie asked sharply.

“He was just in here, having breakfast. He's taken one of the cottages,” Suzette said.

“You're kidding me!” Stephanie said, without thinking. A surge of anger filled her. It was bad enough that coincidence—as he swore—had brought them to the same place. He should have at least had the decency to keep sleeping out in his tent!

“No,” Suzette said, and cast her head at an angle as she studied Stephanie. “Is that bad? He's devastating. The best-looking, most macho thing around here.”

“Ouch!” Drew protested.

Suzette quickly put a hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry! Drew, you, of course, are adorable!”

“I don't want to be adorable. I want to be macho!” he protested.

“Of course, then there's Clay Barton. He's a hottie, too,” Suzette said.

“And I'm adorable!” Drew moaned.

“Adorable is good,” Suzette assured him.

Drew rolled his eyes.

“Really, you know, it seems that Grant is really willing to help in any way. I mean, Lord knows, props . . . lighting. You can surely use him, Stephanie,” Suzette said.

“Suzie, Suzie, Suzie!” Drew said, sitting back. “Women are supposed to be intuitive, and I think I've got it all over you on this one—of course, that may be since I'm the ‘adorable' man that I am. There was something more than a working relationship that went on between our esteemed director and her ex-boss.”

Suzette gasped. “Really?”

Stephanie shook her head, glaring at Drew. “Believe me, both Grant and I are totally professional.”

“I would never doubt that,” Drew said, but he was still smiling.

“I don't know how I didn't realize!” Suzette said. “I'm sorry . . . I wasn't honing in. I mean, he is just as sexy as all hell, but I'm not the type of woman . . . my hands are off now, I assure you.”

“There's nothing between us now, really,” Stephanie said.

“Maybe there's nothing between you, but there's something there,” Drew said.

“There's not. We split up. We both thought that we were going places miles away from one another,” Stephanie said.

“Bad breakup, huh?” Drew said.

“It's nothing like that. I care about him very much. As a human being, of course,” Stephanie told him.

“As a human being!” Suzette nudged Drew, grinning.

Stephanie sighed. “Yes, I mean that he's a fine person, we're still . . . friends, yes. I hope his life goes well, that he lives long and happily, and all that.”

“Right,” Suzette murmured.

“Hey, good morning all.” With a coffee cup in one hand and a plate in the other, Lena stood behind one of the chairs. Drew jumped up and drew it out for her and she sat. “So—they never found that girl last night, huh?” she asked. “That's what the waitress told me, anyway.”

“No, apparently not,” Stephanie said.

Lena yawned. “Wow—weird, huh?” She shook her head. “Damn, I am tired. I must have been worried for her last night, because I hardly slept. Or when I slept . . . I can't remember them now, but man, I had some bizarre dreams.”

“Probably because of that scream Maria's mom let out,” Drew said. “And, of course, in a small place like this, you can't help but feel that traumas are more personal, huh?”

“Who's in trauma?”

They all spun around. Clay Barton had arrived. He was wearing sunglasses that enhanced the sophistication and classic perfection of his features.

“They never found the missing girl,” Drew told him.