Dead By Dusk (16 page)

Stephanie hurried up the stairs. The hall and bathroom lights were on; the bedroom itself was dark. The windows were closed.

She walked over to the bed. Placing a hand on Lena's forehead, she was relieved to feel that it seemed a more normal temperature.

“Stephanie?” Lena asked. She sounded like a little girl.

“Yes, it's me. I'm just seeing how you're doing.”

“Better . . . just weak. Hey, the sliding glass doors are closed. There's no air in here,” Lena said fretfully.

“I'm not sure you need air tonight. The temperature in here is just right, Lena.”

Stephanie's eyes were growing more accustomed to the dim light. Lena looked restless. Her fingers were curled around a medallion or cross she was wearing around her neck.

“Maybe you're right,” Lena murmured. “But you know . . . the doctor left me some sleeping pills right on the dresser. Would you give me one? I had one earlier . . . sleep seems to help a lot.”

“Sure, hang on.”

Stephanie went for the vial, thinking it was strange—sleeping pills were helping Lena. They had definitely helped her. And maybe having the place shut up was good, too. The dreams didn't seem to be as bad with the sliding doors closed.

Could
dreams
have made Lena ill, she wondered.

She brought Lena a pill. She had a bottle of water at her bedside, and used it to take the pill. Settling back, she smiled at Stephanie. “Thanks.”

Stephanie looked at the cross Lena was wearing. She hadn't seen it on her before.

“That's a pretty piece,” she said.

Lena touched it, troubled. “This . . . yes, thanks. I think I bought it here. I must be losing it somewhat, because I don't remember putting it on. It's strange, though. It's irritating around my neck. Want to help me get it off?”

“Sure.”

Stephanie sat at her side, and Lena twisted around. For several minutes, Stephanie struggled with the clasp. “This is ridiculous, but . . . it's a strange hook. I can't quite get it.”

“Never mind, then. I'll live with it until the morning,” Lena said. “Hey . . . you know, just in the last few hours, I really have started to feel better.”

“That's great!” Stephanie told her.

“Hey, how is the new girl?”

“She's working out fine, so you shouldn't worry.”

“Now I
am
worried! She's not so fine that you'd rather have her permanently?” Lena said.

“No—you're still the better comedian. But she's fine.”

“Thank God!” Lena breathed. “Still, I'm so sorry to miss the opening.”

“Well, better to miss the opening than be really ill.”

“Right.”

“I'll see you in the morning, then,” Stephanie said.

“Thanks. Thanks a lot! You're the busiest one, and the only one to come by and see me!” Lena told her.

Stephanie had been halfway out of the room. She paused, looking back. “What?”

“You're the only one who has come!”

“Grant said he was up earlier.”

“If he was, I didn't see him,” Lena told her.

“But . . .”

Lena shrugged. “Maybe I was asleep.”

“Maybe,” Stephanie said. “Well, good night.”

“Good night!”

Stephanie hurried down the stairs. Grant was waiting. His expression was guarded. “How was she?”

“Doing much better.”

“Well, good. I'm glad to hear that.”

Stephanie studied him as they went out. He turned and checked that the door was relocked.

“She says she never saw you today,” Stephanie told him.

He whirled around and looked at her. She didn't think he was acting.

And yet . . . it was Grant.

“I told you the truth,” he said flatly.

“Okay, so . . . maybe she was a little delirious?” Stephanie suggested.

“She was a little something,” he muttered.

They crossed the distance to her cottage. Stephanie opened her door. Even as she did so, she was aware of him behind her. And she was startled by the sudden, almost desperate urge she had to ask him in. She felt . . .

Stimulated . . . as if she'd been engaged in heavy petting for the last hour. As if she had to grab hold of him, rip into his clothing . . .

“Good night!” she gasped out quickly.

She didn't let him hover, or even respond. She got into her cottage, closed and locked the door, and leaned against it, stunned at herself, and alarmed.

“Stephanie! Make sure—”

“Yes, yes, I'll lock up. I'll lock everything,” she assured him. She didn't wait then, but ran up the stairs to the bedroom, making certain that her footsteps were heavy, audible just outside where Grant stood.

She walked straight to the shower, shedding her clothing. She turned on the water, and let it slush over her in cold rivulets.

In just seconds, she thought she'd been crazy. She turned the water to warm. After a few minutes, she stepped out, dried, brushed her teeth, and crawled into one of her long, cotton T nightgowns.

She hesitated, left the bathroom and stairway lights on, turned off the bedroom overhead, and crawled in.

The room was too silent.

She turned on the television, and lay down again.

After a while, the lulling sound of the BBC reporter's smooth voice wrapped around her, making the world seem normal, and she began to drift to sleep.

She bolted up.

There, at the foot of her bed, was Grant.

Bronzed, naked, erect. It looked as if he had been greased, as if for some kind of bodybuilding competition. Every shadow and nuance of his muscles seemed to glimmer and excite. Though he was still, he seemed filled with electricity and vibrance. She felt her breath catch in her throat, and it started to happen again. She ached. Agonized. Sexually, sensually . . . and felt that if she didn't reach out and touch him . . .

Stephanie . . . I'm waiting. You can see . . . come . . . come on . . . come to me . . .

Yes. She was an idiot. He wanted her, and she had thrown him away. And nothing else in the world mattered now except getting to him, touching him, having him inside of her, having him . . .

No.

Another voice. Someone else in her room again. Someone calling her back. She turned . . . silly, there was nothing behind her except for the wall.

She turned back to where Grant had stood, hair falling in his eyes, body as sleek, muscle-bound, and aroused as a hungry Adonis . . .

Except that . . . he wasn't there. There just seemed to be a . . . shadow. A huge, eclipsing shadow where he had stood.

A shadow like wings.

A sharp sound exploded nearby. She jumped up with a scream, and realized that the sound had woken her and that she had been dreaming.

Just dreaming again.

But the sound had been real. It was coming from the glass doors.

A slam exploded against them again. Terrified, Stephanie let her hand fly to her throat. She barely swallowed back a hysterical scream.

She forced herself to rip open the draperies.

“So . . . everyone is tucked in?” Liz asked, closing the drapes as she turned and saw that Clay had come into the room.

“All tucked in.”

“And Lena? Did you see to her?”

“Oh, yes.”

Smiling, Liz strolled over to where he stood. She touched his face, and then reached for the top button of his shirt, and methodically, to undo it, and then the others. She slid her hands against his bare chest, then stood on her toes, whispering against his ear.

“Stephanie is very . . . I do mean
very
beautiful. Those blue eyes, and that dark, dark, nearly ebony hair. And the way she's built . . . I don't need to be jealous, do I?”

“You?” He smiled, struggling out of the shirt, letting it fall to the floor. “Never!” He slid his hands beneath the silky shoulders of her see-through nightgown, causing it to fall to the floor. He crushed her against him, feeling the pressure of her breasts against his flesh.

She reached for his belt buckle, undid it. Slowly, listening to the rasping sound of it, pulled down the zipper. Palms against his hips and lowering, she pressed down the jeans.

“Never!” he repeated, pressing his lips against her throat.

The thrill of desire swept through her. She cradled his buttocks, and felt the pressure of his sex hard against her.

She hesitated, just briefly. “The cross?” she whispered.

“Taken care of,” he murmured against her flesh.

“You're sure?”

“It will all break soon enough.”

“But tonight . . . ?” she asked.

“Tonight . . . tonight, now, we . . . rest.”

“Rest wasn't what I had in mind.”

“Let me rephrase . . . tonight, there's just you. And I. It's been too long,” he told her.

They parted, just briefly. Long enough for him to shed shoes, socks, and the jeans.

“My love!” she whispered, flying against him.

His touch was as desperate, as savage as her own. And in the darkness of the night, they fell upon one another.

 

 

“Grant!”

Stephanie was stunned. He stood outside her window—no, he was almost attached to it, like a silly little stuffed creature, suction-cupped to a car window.

Except that he wasn't little. He was towering. And his eyes were a blue that blazed with a terrible intensity.

“Let me in!” he demanded.

She wasn't sure why, but she obeyed, snapping the lock, sliding the windows open. He entered, fingers tearing through his hair as he brushed past her, looked wildly through the room, entered the bath, and ran down the stairs.

“Grant, what the hell is the matter with you?” she cried after him.

“Lock those windows again!” he called back up.

A few minutes later, he returned. He looked baffled, but not at all apologetic.

“Grant, what are you doing?” Stephanie demanded.

“I saw it come here.”

“You saw
what
come here?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“A . . . shadow.”

He was still frowning and looking around the room. Despite herself, his words created a chill in her.

A shadow. She could only dimly remember now, but there had been a shadow . . .

In the room. There, at the foot of the bed. Where he had been. Except that he hadn't really been there.

“Let me get this straight. You saw a shadow. At night, in the moonlight. Imagine. And so you raced up my back steps, pounded on the glass as if you needed to wake the dead, and burst in here—to catch the shadow?” she said.

“There was . . . someone,” he said.

“Grant, what are you doing?” she whispered, a little desperately. “There's no one in here—as you've seen.”

“No,” he agreed, looking at her. He still seemed so troubled that she couldn't just scream and order him out. “There's no
one
in here.”

“Okay . . . is the shadow in here?”

“Stephanie, I haven't lost my mind.”

“Right. But the next thing I know, you'll be telling me to wear a cross and buy a gun and fill it with silver bullets, or the like,” she said dryly.

He didn't laugh, or crack so much as a rueful grin.

“Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad idea,” he told her.

“Oh, Grant, please. I'd be understanding if it were just—finding that girl must have been horrible for you. But you started this very strange behavior in Chicago. That's why we split up, remember?”

“Stephanie, please. I keep telling you that there is something very wrong here.”

She walked across the room, coming to him. “You saw a shadow. Maybe someone was walking to get to their own place, and walked by mine to get to it. Grant, I'm alone here, and there's nothing wrong.”

She set a hand on his chest, looking up into his eyes, trying to get him to pay deep and serious attention to her.

He met her gaze, then shook his head, distracted. He seemed to be listening to something in the night. There was nothing to hear.

He looked back at her again. She saw the vein thundering at his throat. He was as electric and keyed as he had been in her dream. Vital. Heat seemed to emanate from him. She stepped back slightly.

“Grant, you've got to go.”

He shook his head.

“Stephanie, I have to stay.”

“Grant! We split up because we really needed to. It's not because I hate you—you know I don't. It's not that we weren't good together—we were. But
we
'
re
what's wrong. Please, Grant, you don't know how hard it was for me . . . I came here to make it on my own, to get myself together. Then you were here! You can't stay.”

He shook his head impatiently. “Stephanie.” He gripped both her hands, holding them between his. “I don't mean here, right here. I don't mean to crawl in with you to sleep. I don't mean to coerce or trick you back into bed. I just need to stay here. At your doorway. Make sure all the doors are locked, and then just throw me a pillow.”

She backed away from him.

“You're crazy.”

“But I'm not leaving. Scream or call the cops if you feel you really have to. I am not leaving.” He released her, walked by her, and grabbed a pillow off the bed. She watched as he assured himself that the sliding doors had been relocked.

“This is getting ridiculous. Beyond what I owe you in respect to the past, or out of friendship,” she said, walking to her bedside phone. “I am calling the cops,” she told him.

She damned the fact that he knew she wouldn't. With the pillow he had taken from the bed, he walked to the doorway, and just outside. Plumping the pillow behind him, he leaned against the wall.

She set the phone down and walked to where he stood. “Grant, I am really, really worried about you.”

“Go to sleep, Steph,” he said wearily. He sounded drained. There was no emotion in his voice.

“Grant! You're going to stay all night, leaned against a wall?”

“Yes.”

“Aren't you supposed to be at the dig tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“And then there's the last rehearsal, and a show tomorrow night.”

“Yes.”

“But you're going to stay up against a wall all night?”

“I'll doze off, I'm certain. But at least, I'll be here.”

She threw up her hands, exasperated. “Fine. Stay there, then. I'm going back to bed.” So, determined, she walked back to the bed, and crawled into it, drawing the covers to her chin. She listened, and waited.

Grant didn't move.

And she realized that he really intended to spend the night sitting up against the wall.

She lay in bed, listening again. The voice of the BBC journalists went on and on.

Shadows . . .

Dreams that were so vivid they seemed real.

Yes, maybe she should buy a cross.

Time passed. Grant didn't come near her, but neither did she rest. How could she? He was with her. It wasn't a dream, a sexual fantasy caused by their sudden parting, and her self-enforced deprivation.

She was certain that he was worried. But . . . he was
crazy
worried. In Chicago, he had been distracted.

He had called out another woman's name.

That still hurt. Maybe it was the real crux of the matter. Then, tonight, he had said that Lena had come on to him. Lena said she hadn't even seen him.

She'd be an idiot to get up and go to him. He was with her, he was quiet, he was on guard against whatever danger threatened in his own mind. Leave it lie, leave it lie . . .

But thirty minutes later, she was still wide awake.

She rose, and walked to the hall.

His eyes were closed, his head against the pillow pressed to the wall. His handsome features were so stressed and riddled with tension that she felt her heart flip.

“Grant.” She whispered his name.

His eyes flew open and he jerked bolt upright.

“I'm sorry!” she murmured, coming down to sit cross-legged before him.

He exhaled with relief.

“Do you want some tea . . . a drink, or something?” she asked softly.

“Just go to sleep, Stephanie,” he said.

She rose. “I think I'll have a Tia Maria with milk. That could help.”

He groaned. “All right. I'll have a Tia Maria with you.”

She went on down the steps. He followed. In the kitchen, she found glasses, milk, and the Tia Maria stuffed into one of the cabinets.

“I'll take it neat,” he told her.

She nodded, and added milk only to her glass of liqueur.

She handed him his glass.

“Grant, I admit that what has happened has been really terrible. You spend your days working on bones. Then, today, you found the dead girl. But you have to understand. Something very sad happened—it doesn't mean that we're all in danger. The girl was attacked by animals.”

The look he gave her was filled with disbelief. “You cannot tell me that you believe that!” he exclaimed.

“Grant! Doctors did an autopsy,” she argued.

“They're lying,” he said simply.

“Why would they lie?”

“A cover-up—I don't know.”

“You said yourself that the body was . . . ravaged.”

“She wasn't killed by an animal,” he said flatly. “Not by a wolf, not as we know wolves,” he muttered.

“All right—maybe the boyfriend did it. The fiancé. And the community is covering up. That still wouldn't put any of us into a high-risk zone.”

“Stephanie, if you tell me you haven't felt anything strange since you've been here, I will call you an out-and-out liar.”

She hesitated. “We're in a foreign country. We all had some jet lag. The night sky is different, the language on the streets is different . . . everything is different.”

Again, he gave her that look. “You know what I'm talking about.”

“Oh, Grant,” she murmured.

“Stephanie, I'm not asking anything of you,” he reminded her.

She sighed. “Fine. Be crazy. I'm going back to bed.”

She rinsed her glass and set it in the sink and started back upstairs. She heard him follow, heard him take up his position again.

And then she couldn't stand it again. She kept seeing flashes of the image she had seen in her dream. It had once seemed so wrong to be together when it seemed that it wasn't what she really wanted, or the way she craved to be needed and loved as well. Tonight . . .

He was here.

He was Grant.

And if it was only for the night . . .

She walked out to the hallway. He was awake this time, and he looked up at her, a brow rising sardonically.

“Stephanie, you're supposed to feel safe and secure with me out here, and therefore, you should be able to sleep.”

She didn't answer. She offered him her hand. He took it, eyes narrowing somewhat warily. He rose, towering over her.

“I can't sleep with you out here,” she said.

“I'm not leaving.”

“I know.”

Their eyes met.

A slow, rueful smile touched his lips. “Stephanie, if you think I can lie on one side of the bed and keep my distance, I'm not sure I can make that kind of a promise.”

She angled her head to study him, and slowly smiled as well. “I think I might actually be rather insulted if you could make such a promise.”

She felt his thumb fall against her cheekbone, the pad of it callused, but almost excruciatingly gentle. Then she caught his hand.

“I'm not saying that anything has changed,” she told him roughly.

His hand fell. “Well, then, I'll try not to be too tender.”

She let that be as it would, not replying, turning back to the bedroom. Yet, at the foot of the bed she stopped, dead still for a minute.

He had stood here, in all his naked glory, flesh flawed here and there with scars obtained from various exploits. He had stood in a purely carnal state . . .

Like an animal.

Only in a dream.

And yet . . .

Remaining where she was, back to him, she caught the hem of her cotton T gown and pulled it over her head, tossing it aside. She would have caught at the elastic of her panties to discard them in the same manner, but he was already behind her.

It was stunning, the speed with which he had managed to disrobe.

But she felt his naked flesh. Felt his chest, flush against her back, felt the hot, moist whisper of his breath against her shoulders and neck and he lifted her hair, and placed his lips there, the texture of his lips running slowly from her earlobe to her collarbone. His fingers feathered down her spine. He was on his knees then. His fingers found the elastic hers had not, and the last flimsy garment was lowered down the length of her legs. She stepped free of them, and felt the searing seduction of his lips against the base of her spine, the small of her back. He turned her to face him, and buried himself against her, fingers stroking the inside of the length of her thighs, kisses delving deeply between them.