Dead By Dusk (4 page)

“Is there anything else I may do for you?”

“Thank you very much, but no. I think I'm just going to get some sleep.”

He nodded, but didn't move. “You like the cottage?”

“It's beautiful. The sea is wonderful. The mountains . . . are even better.”

“Haunted,” he said, and nodded sagely.

“Oh?”

He shrugged. “There were many battles in the cliffs and hills.”

“World War Two?” she asked.

He grimaced. “A few. But years ago, the local people, kings of the region and Sicily, fought. Many Crusaders moved through here. Many did not want to leave. They are finding the remains of all kinds of old things up there. But the people have always said the hills cry by night. Pretty, yes? Oh—I haven't frightened you, have I?”

Stephanie laughed. “Not at all. I do have a few fears, but none that include warriors from the Crusades coming to burn down my house.”

“Still, if you like, there are many lovely small towns to see, and I can show you. Of course, sometimes, it's not easy. Your actresses are stuck on the road, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But the rock slides do not happen often.”

“Just on the day I arrive,” Stephanie murmured.

“It will be fine.”

“Yes, I know. It's Italy.”

“Pardon?”

Stephanie shook her head. “I know that it will all be fine.”

He nodded and started to leave, then paused, turning back. “I could be a very good actor.”

“Really? Well, we'll see—how's that?”

“Very, very good.” Giovanni had what could be considered almost stereotypical good looks. Tall, dark, and well-muscled, he also possessed a finely sculpted face and two of the deepest, darkest eyes Stephanie had ever seen. He was pleased with her interest.

“I could be part of the troupe?” he asked.

“Giovanni, right now, I don't even remember what the troupe is supposed to be doing. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“
Certo
!” His eyes lingered over her. She'd been warned that men here liked to pinch women. So far, she hadn't been pinched. She couldn't begin to imagine Giovanni walking over to pinch her. And still, there was a certain smouldering in his gaze that suggested he was a man finding a woman to be attractive. She wondered wryly if it had to do with the fact that she was an unmarried, hopefully attractive young woman, or if he felt that it would be a good thing to seduce the person who might give him his first break in show business—even if it would be a very strange break!

“Good night, Giovanni, thank you,” she said.

“Truly a pleasure. Anytime you need anything, please, you need just to call on Giovanni.”

“Thank you, again. I'll remember that.”

“Tomorrow,
bella signorina
,” he told her, and was gone.

Stephanie shut and locked the door. She couldn't help the smile that stayed in place as she shook her head and headed up the stairs, ready to unpack and call it a day.

Bless Reggie. Maybe this was going to be fun after all.

She took the time to unpack a few things and arrange her toiletries in the delightfully modern bathroom, then stepped into the shower. It, too, was almost thrilling. The water was hot, and the pressure was strong.

She lingered there, then stepped out, toweling dry, and slipping into her nightgown and light velvet robe. She pulled the coverlet from the bed, then hesitated, looking to the sliding glass doors that she had left open.

The air was so very good . . .

But there was a small flight of stairs that led from that second floor balcony area down to the beach.

She had no idea what the crime rate might be here—or if there was one. Exhausted, she decided that she didn't care. So what if it might be absurd that she had so carefully locked the front door after Giovanni's departure, only to leave the back wide open.

She was simply so weary.

And the breeze was so, so good.

She shimmied out of the robe, and into the bed, turning off the bedside lamp and snuggling low into the covers.

The sky outside remained a fascinating shade of deep blue. The air continued to waft around her on the softest movement of a breeze . . .

Strange that she had been so frustrated and worried when she had arrived. Travel was difficult. Building a new life was hard.

Trying not to remember what she had left behind was harder still. But it would be all right.

It was all so beautiful here. Truly, there was nothing like it. Her sense of well-being, derived just from the air and her view of the mountains, remained with her. She marveled at the feeling of . . . almost a dreamlike euphoria that seemed to have settled over her. Tomorrow, she was certain, all would be well. After all . . .

It was Italy.

She closed her eyes. And the sense of being enfolded and almost sensuously cradled by the air remained as she drifted . . .

Gema could hear the sound of knocks on the door when she turned off the water. For a moment, she stood dead still, never having expected him back so quickly. Then, she flew into action, afraid that he would think she had fallen asleep and go away.

She quickly slipped into a silk wrap and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she rushed out. Um. Not so bad. The silk clung to every curve on her wet body, enhancing the fullness of her breasts and clearly delineating her nipples. Sexy, she determined. Her hair was damp, falling free around her shoulders. Not at all bad.

She raced down the stairs and threw the door open.

And stood there, her mouth forming into a round O shape.

She started to close the door.

But didn't.

Her limbs felt like lead. A state of excitement and anticipation like nothing she had ever known began to rush through her body. And yet . . .

She backed away as her visitor entered.

She wanted to speak, even scream. Her throat was frozen. Even the piece of gauze she was wearing suddenly seemed to be too much.

Soft, husky laughter sounded. The voice that spoke was deep and still, like air, with a raspy quality.

“Gema . . . how lovely. All this. For me.”

She was vaguely aware that the door slammed, and they were shut in, together.

None of that mattered.

Darkness encompassed her. The silk drifted from her shoulders.

The touch . . .

Fingertips danced down upon her flesh, delicately breezed over her breasts.

They were long . . . the knuckles felt like fire as they brushed her nipples.

He was closer, and there was a whisper in her ear, and a burst of liquid heat. His mouth moved against her throat while his hands created a flow of lava, sliding down the length of her body, finding the center of her sex and the apex of the lava-like stream of arousal that didn't just fill her, but seared into every pore of her flesh.

The tongue.

Moving against her ear, her throat . . . her lips. Then moving . . . too . . . so great a blaze she was certain that she would collapse, but she would not, could not; she was frozen, cast into a stillness of total acquiescence, as if he had to be, and power her to his will.

Liquid fire.

The teeth . . . nibbled, played, promising . . . against her flesh.

Incredibly evocative . . .

Going down.

All the sensation she might have dreamed . . . fantasized.

The things that were done . . .

And done . . .

And her own body moved at last, as he willed it, until she was laid upon the floor, and the delirious rush of need and hunger was suddenly fulfilled and she was soaring . . . feeling so very much that it was a little like dying . . .

And then.

She could feel no more.

It was a lot like dying.

Maria Britto shivered slightly as she stepped outside the little house where she lived with her mother.

It was morning, but early morning, and the sun had yet to so much as touch the horizon. And yet, if she was to make work by nine, she had to go now.

She smiled, and shivered again, but with anticipation. She felt a touch of guilt; she shared so much with her mama. But this . . . well, her mama would not understand.

Maria was usually a serious girl. She had made very good marks throughout her school years, but there wouldn't be any money for her to go to university, and she knew it. Since her father had been sick and died, money had been a struggle. Her brothers had gotten jobs in the States, and her mother was grateful. Maybe when they made money, they would send for her and her mother. Or maybe the area would pick up, as so many hoped, and the Americans would begin to come en masse, and they would be like Venice, surviving on well-off foreign visitors. That time had not come yet. Her mama struggled daily to take in laundry, to clean houses, to make them the money they needed to survive. She was lucky, so lucky, to have the job at the shop.

And she had Roberto.

They were the same age, they had grown up together on the same cliff. He was a good boy. He worked hard for his father, doing construction and repair. He was saving money. He wanted to get married, and everyone understood that they would do so. He was pleasant and young, and she felt a faint stirring when they shared their few kisses.

She would marry him. With more luck, she would continue working at the shop. She would cook and clean and have babies, go to church on Sundays, and maybe have a night out once a week because Mama, no matter how tired she was, would take a night to stay with the babies. That would be her life, and she was resigned, and happy, she thought, as one could be, because she did love her mama and if she didn't feel a wild elation and passion for Roberto, he was still good, and most importantly, as her mama said, Roberto loved her.

And so . . .

This was not an affair that would ever mean anything. It was just an affair, because she did want something wild and exciting before she settled down to have babies with Roberto and grow old and worn as her mother had.

She walked quickly along the path, praying he would come for her, because the walk to their place of assignation was long and hard. And yet . . .

Since they had met . . . since his eyes had touched hers . . . she had known. It was like a fever in her blood. She had dreamed about him, coming to her at night. Such a beautiful dream . . . white curtains blowing in the breeze, her flesh, naked, the feel of fiery lips upon her . . . her arms, trembling as they settled around the man. His lips upon hers, whispering words in her ears, settling upon her throat, her breasts . . .

The dream was strong. So strong. She had to be up, and she had to be walking along the path, because she must have it, if just once, in her life. Then in the years to come, she would have the memory.

She did wish, however, quite fervently, that the light would come. Just a few rays! But at this time of year . . . ah, well. She had lived here forever. She knew the path, despite the fact that not even the moon seemed to break through the clouds, and she could barely distinguish shapes in the darkness. Ah, at last! A cloud shifted. There was not really any illumination, but now, she could see the road, and the shadows that made up the trees, and where the trees broke, and the world became sky.

Hurry, hurry . . . there would be so little precious time.

Despite her sense of urgency to move quickly, she suddenly became aware of a cold that seemed to trickle along her spine, as if someone walked behind her.

Someone, or something.

She stopped, looking back the way she had come. The darkness had already swallowed her home. But she could see nothing.

She turned, thinking it ever more important that she reach her would-be lover in all haste.

She heard the labored sound of her breath. Then . . .

Something like laughter. No. It was her imagination. It was only the trees. But there wasn't really a wind that night.

She quickened her footsteps again. Her limbs felt heavily laden.

Maria . . . Maria . . . Maria . . .

Her name seemed to echo on the night air, not even aloud, just within her mind, and she thought that she heard the laughter again.

Was this her conscience talking to her? Was she going to go to hell for what she intended to do? No, if there was a God in heaven, He understood. He knew that she would do all that would be expected of her. She would marry, and when she did, she would be a good wife. She was a good daughter, and she would be a good mother.

But the cold . . . that trickle of cold going down her neck . . .

She turned abruptly, thinking if there was something there behind her, she would see it now.

There was nothing, except . . .

It seemed as if the darkness itself was a great cape. As if it flowed in the air like a malignant shadow, coming after her.

She swallowed hard. It was just the darkness. She knew the darkness that could come. She had lived here all her life. She had heard the legends about demons, and laughed at them—when she had not sat with others her age in a car somewhere, and acted delightfully giddy and frightened. These woods . . . the fields, valleys, cliffs, and tors . . .

She had walked them all of her life.

Maria, Maria . . . you cannot run, Maria.

And again, the sense of laughter in her head, evil laughter, as if . . .

She stared behind her, at the darkness, the giant, sweeping shadows. Suddenly, more than anything in the world, she wanted to go home. But instinct warned her that she could not run that way, she couldn't run into the arms of the shadow.

And so she turned, and ran ahead hard.

She blinked as dust flew into her eyes. Then she slammed against something hard and warm. And she looked up.

Her mouth opened . . .

The laughter sounded in her mind again. The whisper of her name. She wanted to scream. But she saw the smile, then felt . . .

A wave of sheer, sweet eroticism. Dear God . . .

“There should have been more time,” her lover said regretfully.

“I hurried. I ran to you,” she whispered.

“Sweet one, my dear, sweet, naive one.”

“There was something behind me. I thought . . . for a minute . . . it was you. And when I first saw you . . .”

“There, there, my love!”

His eyes caressed her first. She
felt
them, as if they were feathers streaking over her naked flesh, awaking, arousing . . .

“The day is coming too quickly,” he murmured.

“The day?” she said foolishly.

“Never mind,” he said, and his mouth found hers, and he drew her from the road, to a copse. Leaves had fallen, and they made the most delightful bed. She had never been with a man, and yet, she couldn't free herself of any form of modesty quickly enough. He drew her into his arms, seemed to taste her lips, and then her flesh, and she nearly shrieked with the sweet ecstasy of his touch. Everything bold; his hands, so powerful; his kiss, a fury . . .

And then . . .

It should have been painful. It was not. It was the most incredible glory.

She heard him . . . heard him, against her.

And listening . . . to the sound made . . . it should have been horrible.

It was not.

She clung to him.

Her body seemed to . . . erupt. It was the ecstasy within, about which she had only dared dream. It was hot, vivid, shocking, staggering . . . brilliant . . . climactic . . .

And then . . . icy. Icy, and dark. And yet . . . he had said that the day was coming too quickly. She was numbed . . .

It was that strange . . . chill.

A paralyzing cold that filled her, just as the fire had done. She opened her eyes, and it was a terrible effort. And she saw.

And she would have screamed—oh, God, she would have screamed . . .

Except that life expired at that moment, and still staring, she collapsed.

The faint echo of laughter filled the hills, and the darkness.

It was still a few minutes before the dawn would actually break.

 

 

Stephanie was glad that Arturo had told her that she couldn't possibly expect to meet with her cast until the afternoon.

She had no idea why, but she'd slept later than she'd imagined possible. Of course, there was the natural adjustment caused by jet lag, but still . . .

She'd slept the night through, haunted by the strangest dreams.

At one point, she had awakened, certain that someone was in the room with her. She hadn't had nightmares—on the contrary, the dreams had left her again with a surreal sense of the world being well. More than well. She had the most absurd notion of being stroked throughout the night, touched, almost sensually bathed by the air beyond.

The thought made her flush uneasily, and remind herself that she hadn't been a lone female all that long, and that erotic imaginings were ridiculous.

She felt an odd sense of discomfort as well. Somewhere in the deep fog of sleep, she had felt as if she were home again, and Grant was there, staring at her. After the image, she had felt the strangest surge of fear, as if she should rise and lock the windows, but she didn't have the energy to do so.

Jet lag could do very strange things.

Ironically, after having arrived to find no one present for the first meeting of the group, she came in that afternoon to discover that she was the last to make it into the club.

“Hi! You must be Stephanie, our director!”

The first of her cast to greet her was a small, pretty woman with dark eyes, dark hair, who looked as if she could be a native—except that her English had no foreign accent. If anything, she had the slight twang of a Midwesterner.

The woman extended her hand, smiling, showing a mouthful of pearly whites. “I'm Lena Miro. Delighted to meet you.”

“Lena, hi.”

“This is Suzette Croix,” Lena said, turning to the woman at her side. Suzette was Lena's antithesis—her eyes were a light green, almost a lime, and her hair was a soft blond.

“Hello,” Suzette said. She smiled as well, but she seemed warier, giving Stephanie a grave surveillance.

“Suzette, hi.”

Again she shook hands.

“Have you met the boys?” Suzette asked. “How silly of me, you just walked in. Slept late, huh? That first day after crossing the Atlantic is always a killer. Anyway, this is Drew”—she pointed out a very tall, slim fellow with red hair who was waiting to meet Stephanie—“and this is Doug Wharton.” Doug was a little shorter than Drew, with brown hair, coffee-colored eyes, and a quick grin.

“We're really sorry about last night,” Drew said, shaking her hand. “Who would have ever imagined that a broken hose would take 'til morning?”

“But the girls were stuck, too,” Doug reminded them all.

“Yes,” Suzette said, and shivered.

“Oh, it was really rather exciting!” Lena argued.

“Exciting! Ugh!” Suzette said, shaking her head as she looked at Stephanie. “I hated it! They're still unearthing bones, and rather than just crate them up, they dust them off where they lie, they sift through the dirt . . . and the campsite was just a few feet away. After all those years . . . there's still hair and flesh and pieces of clothing and—trust me! It's just—ugh!”

“I found it very exciting,” Lena argued.

“I think she found the
archeologists
exciting,” Suzette said dryly.

“Hey, okay, so there was the one guy—”

“Oh, yeah!” Suzette said. “What a digger he was.”

“You're into an archeologist?” Drew demanded. “Oh, come, please! The fellows who were in here from the dig the other night were downright . . . pathetic. So studious! Beady-eyed, scruffy.”

“No, no, no, no!” Lena said, smiling at Stephanie. “Think Indiana Jones with this guy, except, not really. He's here through some kind of volunteer amateur program sponsored by
National Geographic
. Hey, in real life, he's an actor, or a director,” Lena told them. “That's what the guide told me. He works someplace in the Midwest.”

Stephanie felt a trickle of unease, then decided she was jumping to conclusions. Just because Grant Peterson had an obsession with ancient Egypt and spent most of his time watching the Discovery Channel, there was no reason to assume that he had taken time away from the Park Street Players to dig up ruins in Southern Italy. That would be too ironic.

“Gorgeous guy, that's for certain,” Suzette murmured. She wrinkled her face. “Absolutely into the dig, though. Lena tried to flirt away, and he wasn't anything more than courteous.”

“Remember his name?” Stephanie asked, trying to sound casual.

“No, because we didn't actually meet; he was on one side of the marked-off area, and we were on the other,” Lena explained. “Then, at night . . . well, I guess he didn't come back to the campsite until it was really late.”

“Until Lena gave up waiting for him,” Suzette said dryly. “I have to admit . . . well, he was intriguing, no matter what his background or nationality. Abs like steel.”

“Hey, you know what? We don't want to hear about this guy,” Doug said. “We've seen plenty of beautiful Italian babes since we've been in the country, but they sure weren't around where we were stuck last night! Where we were, the whole town closed up, and the little pensione where we had to stay didn't even have television—or good magazines.”

“Yeah, imagine that, Doug wanting to read,” Drew said.

“I don't think he wanted to read,” Lena said, smiling. “He's really fond of picture books.”

“Eh! You spent the day staring at some guy's abs!” Doug ribbed her.

“Well, last night is over—the good and the bad of it—and we're together now,” Stephanie said firmly.
Could this guy be Grant? That would be far too . . . bizarre. The American population was somewhere around three billion. Surely, lots of that number were into archeology and travel!