Dead By Dusk (14 page)

Lena had looked really sick. And she had apologized over and over again. The doctor had hoped some good meals and vitamins might make a change, but he had also suggested she might wind up having to go to the hospital for a blood transfusion.

“Clay, call your friend. If she really doesn't mind a job that could end any second, we'd be grateful if she wants to fill in. That is . . . well, we have created a bit of an ensemble. She'd kind of have to audition.”

“She wouldn't mind, and she'll be fine. Honestly. Wait until you see her.”

“Is that all right with you, Grant?” Stephanie demanded, eyeing him sharply.

He lifted his shoulders again. “Hey, babe, it's your show.”

He turned and walked out.

When Grant was gone, Stephanie turned to Clay. “I'm sorry, Clay. He was rather rude.”

“He was the one who found the body,” Clay said. “He has a right to be off right now.”

“He found the body?”

“Yep. It was right next to the ancient remains he had been excavating,” Clay said.

“Wow, no wonder he seems in bad shape,” Suzette murmured. “Oh, God!” she exclaimed, and shivered suddenly.

“What?” Stephanie demanded.

“Well . . . they found Maria Britto,” Suzette murmured.

“Yes?” Stephanie said.

“Dead,” Suzette whispered.

“Yes, it's terrible, and of course, it does mean that . . . well, since she didn't bury herself, it does mean that there is a killer out there. We know it. We know to be careful. We're going to be all right, Suzette,” Stephanie said, determined to be reassuring.

“That's not it,” Suzette murmured, staring at her.

“Then
what
?” Stephanie demanded.

“I know what she's getting at,” Clay said, striding closer to them, hands on his hips. His eyes lit on Stephanie, their strange red-gold color bright.

“She's afraid that we just might find Gema as well, that she didn't run off to Rome, that . . . that she's dead and buried somewhere, just the same.”

Grant showered for a long time, letting the hot water work into his muscles. He couldn't seem to leave the deep, cleansing effect of the water, but once he was out, he dressed quickly, anxious to see Lena Miro himself, then get back to the rehearsal.

As he approached her cottage, he wondered if he should walk on by, and leave her to rest. Knocking on the door would get her out of bed, and not help her any. But just as he approached, he saw the young Italian houseboy, Giovanni, leaving with a tray.

“
Buongiorno
, Signor Peterson!” the man said cheerfully.

“
Buongiorno
, Giovanni,” Grant returned. “Is Miss Miro sleeping?”

“No, no. Arturo insisted that I bring her lots of food, and red wine.” He shrugged. “We believe here that red wine can cure anything.”

Grant smiled. “How is she doing?”

“Better, I think. A few days of rest, and . . . she'll be fine!” he said cheerfully. “The door is open now, just go on in. When you leave, just press the little button behind you, and she will be locked in again. She is upstairs, resting in bed. Just call out so you don't scare her, eh?”

“Thanks.
Grazie
.”

Grant entered. The stairs to Lena's loft area were right at the door. “Lena, are you awake?” he called.

“Yes! Grant? Come up, please!”

“On my way,” he said, and hurried up the stairs.

Lena was watching the BBC on the one English language station that they received.

She was very pale, her color seeming all the more ashen because she was typically so beautifully tan or olive-toned by nature. Her eyes, however, were very bright, and she seemed pleased and somewhat revitalized to see Grant.

“Hey, kid,” he said, drawing the chair from the dressing table over to her bed. “How are you doing?”

“Not so bad—as long as I stay down,” she said, smiling wanly. “I'm just so sorry!”

“When you're sick, you can't be sorry,” Grant said.

“Yeah, but . . . there's a show in two nights.”

“Clay says he has some friend in the area who can fill in for you.”

“Great. I'll be out of a job.”

Grant shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. The girl is a writer, but with some theater experience, and she'll just fill in while you're feeling so badly. But hey, you know, seriously, I know Stephanie pretty well. She'd never take your job for something like this, and if you're not feeling better in a day or two . . . I think you need to head to a spot with specialists and maybe a hospital.”

“Oh, no—I don't want to leave here,” Lena protested.

She sat up. She was wearing a nightgown that didn't seem to have too much substance to it. The gown wasn't actually see-through, but it was made of a light pink silk that clung to her form. She was a well-built woman, with large, round breasts; their size seemed apparent in the gown, her nipples clearly etched beneath it.

An odd choice for lying in a bed, being ill, he thought.

“Lena, if you're sick . . .”

“I'm going to get better. In fact,” she offered what he first thought was simply a friendly smile, “with you in the room, I feel better already. Stronger.”

She reached out and touched his cheek. There was a definite suggestion to the stroke of her fingers against his flesh.

He caught her hand, squeezing it warmly as a friend. “Lena, everyone wants you here—you're sweet, charming, and talented, but if a specialist can get to the bottom of this . . .”

“Oh, I just slept badly, that's all,” she told him, eyes very wide. “This is where I can get better. I've never known anything like being in a place like this before.” She laughed. There was a throaty sound to it. “And I'm Italian! The north is beautiful. Milan is a happening place. Florence is . . . well, it's art and leather. Venice is romantic. But there's nothing like this. I never want to leave. Ever.”

“Wow, you do like it here,” Grant murmured.

She edged closer to him, and as she did so, one shoulder of the gown slipped, exposing the roundness of her breast.

“Like it? I love it!” She gripped his hand, drawing it to her chest. She stared at him with a curious, seductive smile. “Feel my heart, Grant. It's beating for this place.”

He had little choice, without ripping his hand away.

“A place doesn't mean that much, Lena, not when your health is involved.”

“Oh, but it does. And you know . . . you smell divine.”

“Good soap,” he said lightly.

“You know, you really are something. So . . . masculine . . . you can tease about soap, but there's something else to you, you know, down deep. So sensual. You're kind of like a volcano, you know . . . I can just imagine you . . . erupting.”

“I'm glad you've got a good heartbeat going, Lena,” he murmured, trying to extract his hand from her breasts.

She clung tightly, with a startling strength.

She moved her head even closer to his, whispering against his ear. “Feel more than the heartbeat... you're giving me strength.”

She moved his fingers, splaying them over her breast, moving against him, the tip of her tongue suddenly playing against his ear.

And for a minute, he found himself caught in a strange form of mesmerization. Tempted to seize her, lose himself in her lips, bury himself in the expanse of her breasts. She had his hand, and he didn't stop her as she drew it along the length of her body, down between her legs.

He jerked back abruptly, shaking his head, taking her hand firmly and placing it back against her breasts. Her eyes met his again. She wasn't offended; she seemed pleased that she had taken him as far as she had. She wore a secret, catlike smile.

“I'd never tell,” she told him.

“Tell who?” he asked, exasperated with himself.

“Stephanie, of course—you're in love with her, right? Oh, yes, yes, you two are split up, but . . .
this
is different, and you know that it is. I want you . . . you want me. There's a rise in your pants, Mr. Peterson, I can tell. So . . . make love to me. Let me make love to you. You want it, I know that you do. I can make you feel . . . you can't imagine how I can make you feel. And I'll never tell. It will be our little secret.”

She came upon a sudden, swift strength, her smile deepening, back straightened, arms powerful as she reached out and grabbed him, aiming right at his crotch, and getting a good grip on his penis despite the denim of his jeans.

It didn't seem like Lena talking at all. Not that he'd gotten to know her all that well, but this just wasn't her.

And yet her fingers, gripping, caressing, stroking . . .

He caught her hands, aware himself of what she had managed to do, but placing them back on the bed once again. Oddly enough, though, it was her eyes that seemed to have a more potent grip on him.

He rose, putting some distance between them.

“Lena, get better,” he told her, managing to make his voice firm. “I've got to get over to the rehearsal.”

She eased herself back down against the sheets, doing so with an undulation in her hips, stretching her fingers out over the fabric, still smiling at him. She ran her fingers over her breasts then, and down, pressing them against her belly, then cupping them at the base of her Venus mound. “I'm so much better with you just in the room,” she purred.

“Feel better,” he said.

She laughed. “I can make myself feel better,” she said, “but I'd feel much, much better if you were to do it for me.” With that, she slowly arched her hips, and pulled the nightgown up, and pressed her fingers against her own bare hips. She was going to start masturbating there and then.

He didn't say anything else to her but turned and left, aware that he was feeling the almost urgent desire to drop down at her side, and . . .

Do whatever she wanted. He gritted his teeth, hurrying out, and down the stairs. He heard the sound of her taunting, pleased laughter in his wake. Too husky, too deep . . .

“You'll come back for me, Grant. You know you want it!” she called in his wake.

He reached the landing. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he felt a pounding that remained, a vicious drumbeat in his penis.

Outside her cottage, a cool breeze struck his face, and he was deflated as instantly as he had been aroused.

Lena had to go. Someone needed to insist that she see a specialist in a bigger city. There was something wrong here, really wrong.

Stephanie.

With hurried footsteps, he headed for the rehearsal.

 

 

Clay Barton's friend was a girl named Liz.

She was very attractive and friendly, happy to meet the rest of the group, and quick to assure Stephanie that she didn't really want a job, but that she was pleased to fill in for whatever time was needed. “The comedy is based on their characters and their relationships, right?”

“Yes. Actually, Lena's character is the one with an Italian background. She had a few Italian asides to the audience. We'll just rework it as we go along.”

“Um . . . actually, I speak Italian,” Liz told Stephanie.

Stephanie wondered why she wasn't surprised. “Great,” she said.

“Tomorrow night is the opening, right?” Liz asked.

“Yes. There's a lot for you to go through . . . but we'll just work with the first outline. That's what we'll use Friday night, and you can look over the second, which we'll use Saturday night, and since the tour group is only here for those two days, we'll probably go black on Sunday as well as Monday, in respect for what happened here, in the community,” Stephanie told her. She had been talking to Arturo, and since they were having the tour group come in, there seemed no way out of the two shows, but as the tour group was leaving Sunday afternoon, there seemed little reason to be open for a community that would be in mourning.

“That's fine,” Liz said, giving Stephanie a soft and beautiful smile.

Drew, smitten by the newcomer, was seated on the stage near them. “We are an ensemble group, so don't you worry about anything!” he told her. “Anything you miss, we can pick up for you. There's so much ad-libbing in the show to begin with . . . you really can't have a problem. We won't let you have a problem.”

“Thanks, that sounds great, then,” Liz said.

“You know, it's really super that you were here,” Suzette said. “What a coincidence.”

“Amazing, really,” Grant said, reappearing from the stage-end entry to the club.

“Grant, Liz, Liz, Grant,” Stephanie said. He had a look of thunder on his face, and she expected this to go as badly as possible.

As he'd said, though—this was her show. She did have the right just to tell Grant to get the hell out.

Luckily, as well as being extremely attractive and sweet, Liz seemed to have a real enthusiasm for improv theater, or a tremendous sense of diplomacy.

“Grant Peterson, this is a pleasure. I had told Clay I was eager to meet you. I was at your club a few times when I was in the Chicago area. It was tremendous. I do travel books—I mentioned your place in one. I'll have to get you a copy,” Liz told Grant. Stephanie studied the woman, curious. Either she was a far greater actress than they might have dared hope, or what she was telling Grant was true.

“Thank you,” Grant said, taking her hand. “I'd love to see a copy.

“We haven't much time, not if we're sliding Liz into the show,” he added.

“You're right.” Stephanie slid off the stage. “Liz, just keep that little book with notes and the outline on you. I'm assuming you'll need it. Grant?”

“Places, everyone,” Grant directed.

And so they began.

Liz wasn't Lena, but for a newcomer, a writer, filling in and working with the others for the first time, she was extraordinary. Of course, the outlines and concept of the show allowed for an awful lot of leeway.

Still . . .

It was amazing that Clay had known Liz, that Liz had been able to come, and that it was all working out so well.

The first run-through was, naturally, a little slow. Stephanie decided to stick to acting, and she let Grant call stops, and give Liz her bits of stage direction and suggestions as to what to do with her lines. Liz listened to him carefully and incorporated everything he said into her lines and actions. Strangely, for that first run-through, no one else made any comments, but then again, they weren't really needed. Grant was good on stage himself, but directing and management were his specialties.

When she stepped off stage, Stephanie was glad to see that Grant looked at her with a simple shrug. It was his way of admitting that Liz was going to work out just fine.

“Everyone has put in a lot of hard work, and that was excellent,” he said, complimenting the cast. “Since we're having a show tomorrow night, I'd like to do it once more. That way, tomorrow, we do a really quick run-through . . . in costume—right, Steph?”

“Yes, the pieces we needed altered will be here by tonight,” she told him.

He nodded. “Then we can spend the rest of the day working on the second outline for Saturday night, and if we can make it tight . . . everyone can take Saturday off until show time, and come into it fresh.” He stared at Stephanie. “Does that work for you?”

“Absolutely,” she agreed.

“Fine, then . . . places, everyone.”

They completed a second run-through. It was going to be fine.

Early that evening when they finished, no one suggested drinks. It seemed that everyone was anxious just to return to their private space.

“We could meet for dinner—anyone who wanted to show up, that is—around eight-thirty?” Drew suggested.

“Sure,” Stephanie murmured.

Then she gave them all a wave, and hurried out the back.