Dead By Dusk (23 page)

Carlo's eyes glowed.

“Well, you've just begun. I'm sure you'll find what you're seeking.”

“Um, yes, well, you're right. We've only just begun. The excavations here could go on for years, and, of course, I know you haven't that kind of time, but your work is deeply appreciated. I know as well, of course, where your true vocation lies.”

Something about the way Carlo spoke was disturbing, but Grant wasn't sure why. He should have understood the man's passion. He knew what it was to have a feeling for a line of work that was a dedication and desire, far more than just a job.

“I do intend to spend my time working here as well,” Grant said.

Carlo nodded then, apparently pleased. “Well, I have kept you from your friends far too long. You'll forgive me for not including them—you have been a part of this, they have not. And we are scholars here, of course, determined to give our finds to the world. Every now and then, however, we have moments of selfishness and pride!”

“Of course. And thank you. I am honored to be working here,” Grant assured him. “If you'll excuse me, though . . . I've been away some time now.”

“Certainly!”

With a smile and a wave, Grant started back down the trail to where he had left Stephanie. When he reached the site, he wasn't alarmed at first when he didn't see her.

“Steph?” he called her name, but there was no answer.

He looked around, and the first unease filled him. It was growing dark.

He could see the trail up the little cliff that led to the precipice and decided she must have gone that way—though it occurred to him there were many places she might be. But he had to start somewhere.

He started up the trail. It was steep in a few places, but not dangerously so.

“Stephanie!” He called her name, waited, and heard nothing.

He quickened his pace, and was panting when he reached the top.

Stepping out, he saw that there was a spectacular view of the region. Great castles and walled cities could be seen from here, and at this distance, the ruin wasn't visible as it would be up close. From here, he might have entered a different world.

Then, as he stood there, he experienced the oddest sensation.

He'd been here before.

He'd climbed the trail . . .

He'd felt a terrible sense of urgency, and he'd come here, and . . .

The wind picked up. It whispered first, then whistled. It wasn't that strong, he tried to tell himself, and yet . . .

It even seemed to be screaming.

“Stephanie!” He shouted her name in growing panic.

The light was beginning to fade in earnest.

He needed to hurry, to find her. And yet . . .

For a minute, he couldn't force himself to move. The sense of
déjà-vu
was more than he could stand.
Ass, you've been working in the area!
he reminded himself.

And yet . . .

It took the most ridiculous effort to fight the urge to stay, to turn away and start down again. Fear suddenly fueled anger.

Where the hell had she gone?

 

 

Stephanie realized that she should have been growing a bit uneasy.

She thought she had taken the trail upward—but at some point, her trek had taken her down again. She had left the area where trees and foliage surrounded the path. The terrain was growing rockier. The cliff had become rugged stone, rising almost straight to the sky.

“Liz? Clay?” she called.

Against the rock, it seemed that the wind was stronger.

She swore softly, turned around, walked what she thought was the way she had come, and encountered only more rock and cliff.

“Grant!” she shouted, and waited.

The last sun slipped out of the sky, and she was surrounded by darkness. Too bad she wasn't home, she told herself. Her key chain had an alarm, and a flashlight.

But she wasn't home. She was in the hills in Italy, and like an idiot, she had wandered off alone.

There was a moon out, providing a touch of light, but . . .

What if she just kept wandering, endlessly? What if she couldn't find her way back? She didn't know the area to begin with, and now, in the dark . . .

She wasn't going to panic, she assured herself. She wouldn't starve, and she wouldn't even die of dehydration. Even if she had to just stop and sit here, eventually, someone would come for her. Grant would never just leave her.

And even if he did, Clay and Liz were here.

That thought shamed her; Grant would never leave her.

Grant was very strange these days.

Carlo Ponti even knew that she was here! And if Grant was so strange, dangerously strange, her intuition would have warned her by now. She was still sleeping with him!

But that might be because . . .

There was something about him. She couldn't resist him . . . there was a raw sensuality there, sometimes, it was as if she couldn't refuse, as if he awakened something in her almost like a blood lust. She was desperate . . .

She was desperate all right! Where the hell was she?

“Don't panic!” she said aloud. Then she decided one way not to panic was to avoid talking to herself.

She would be fine, she assured herself.

All she had to do was sit and wait.

Wait . . .

Right.

Had Maria Britto come here? Had she been waiting for a lover when the . . . animals, the wild dogs, whatever . . . had come upon her?

“Oh, God!”

She was talking to herself aloud again.

“That's because I am going to panic!” she said.

Maria Britto . . . Lord! First, attacked by savage animals.
Chewed
, Grant had said.

And then . . .

Her own mother had attacked her coffin to sever her head.

“Sweet Jesu, don't think about that!” she commanded herself.
If you do, in just a few minutes, you'll be tearing your hair out and jumping off a cliff like a madwoman!

Then, she saw a light. It was ahead, somewhere in the rock.

A light in the rocks?

Maybe they were there, searching for her.

Searching for her in the rocks?

Why not? Trails, darkness, light, voices . . . all were deceptive out here! It had to be help, people coming for her, looking for her.

The thought was steadying.

And then, once again, she thought she heard her name. A whisper, a call on the wind. They would be looking for her, of course. Maybe they had gotten ahead of her—or maybe they were behind her, she was so turned around.

Head for the light. What else was there to do?

It was the logical thing to do.

And yet . . .

Even as she walked, using logic, she thought it strange again. It was almost as if she was compelled to come this way.

 

 

He waited. Yes! This was it, the moment . . .

Stretching out, he could feel her, coming to him.

The aches, the hungers, the bitterness, the loathing, the waiting, the hatred . . . oh, yes, the hatred, simmering, waiting . . .

The time had come.

They would all be made to pay.

Even that knowledge made his sense of power increase and soar; his day had brought greater strength, but now . . . he felt invincible.

Immortal.

Closer . . .

Closer still.

She was coming.

And he would have what he wanted, the fulfillment that no other subject of hunger and lust had provided; he would have vengeance, and the taste of it was already so sweet upon his lips.

This way . . .

Yes. She was coming.

Great. If it hadn't already been dark and windy, there was a fog rising. Stephanie swore again at her own stupidity.

The way the wind rose, she was certain that there wasn't going to be just fog; pretty soon, she wouldn't have to worry so much about that because it was going to rain.

She stood still. It was growing very chilly. It might be beautiful and balmy down by the beach, but here, once the wind picked up, it was more than cold. It was nippy. She felt as if little trickles of ice water were suddenly slipping down the length of her spine.

She couldn't see in front of her.

And still, ahead . . . seeming to come from the very rocks, was that light. They were close, she was certain.

They had to be looking for her! Surely, certainly. They would know by now that she was lost. It had been a long time, though just how long, she didn't know.

The wind blew with a mighty howl.

A bolt of lightning suddenly slashed across the sky. For a moment, she could see.

Clearly.

And she stopped dead, thinking that she had lost her mind.

Grant was ahead of her, far ahead on the trail, and it seemed that he was framed by the rock.

He was naked.

Impossibly tall, shoulders gleaming and bronzed, nuance and shadow of sleek muscle sculpture so apparent, everything about him . . .

Animalistic.

Raw.

Carnal . . .

In the dark, in the mist, he was coming toward her. His eyes smouldered with a sensuality like nothing she had ever seen before. What they did to her . . . her limbs were molten, as if he had somehow transmitted that sense of heat to her.

Nothing in the world seemed so important as reaching him.

A voice warned her there was something wrong with the vision.

But there was something so powerful about it as well. Light and fire seemed to radiate from him, sweeping across the space between them. Limb and muscles, flesh and bone, face and stance, were all so overwhelmingly compelling that she could do nothing but walk forward, yearning to reach him . . .

To touch him.

To be touched.

It was as if her very blood boiled, and the beat of his hunger pounded within her own mind.

“Yes, I'm coming!” she cried.

She wasn't crazy at all. This was what she was supposed to be doing—it was the most natural thing in the world.

And heedless of the rock, the terrain, the darkness, and the fog, she began to move forward, bidden by the light.

She didn't think at all.

She was called.

And so she came.

It had gotten dark.

Doug had come in from the beach an hour earlier; it had been good, being out there with Drew and Suzette. Lena had appeared for a while as well, but she had been scratching her neck, and she hadn't seemed really comfortable.

“I am feeling better,” she'd assured them. But the sun had bothered her, so she had gone in.

The sun had bothered him that day, too. But he had felt safe with the others.

Odd, he hadn't realized that he hadn't felt safe alone.

Finally, though, he'd felt that he needed a shower, so he had rinsed off a long, long time, towel-dried, and flopped down on his bed, feeling a total lack of energy.

He had appreciated the BBC, but felt then as if there was really nothing to watch on television.

The news just never seemed to get any better.

They were due to meet for dinner, but not for another hour or so. He was clean, he was presentable. He was ready.

Doug flicked the channels. There was an Italian game show on with lovely, scantily clad girls. He watched it for a few minutes, then switched the channel.

He wished that he had more energy. He just didn't. Maybe a nap wouldn't be a bad thing.

His lashes fell, then rose, then fell, then rose.

He jerked, flicked the channel changer again.

He came back to the Italian game show. Now, the girls were topless. They were playing some kind of strip poker. Men in tuxedos were egging them on.

He realized that his eyes were glued to the television.

Somebody apparently made some kind of a bet. A giant card was played, and one girl lost. She let out a little cry and everyone laughed, and so she walked out on the stage in high heels and a teeny-weeny thong. Turning her backside to the camera, she made an art form of removing the thong.

He saw that another woman was walking toward her. At first, he saw only the back of the other woman. She, too, was in heels and a thong. She walked right up against the backside of the blonde and began stroking her. The blonde turned and the two began to caress one another.

“One hell of a game show!” he muttered out loud.

Then the woman with the blonde turned, and Doug jerked up, staring at the television.

It was Gema.

And suddenly, she was talking to him from the television screen.

“Hi, Doug. Come on in . . . you know you like it. You know you want it.”

His jaw dropped. So Gema had . . .

Well, achieved some kind of stardom. Even if it was on an Italian porn game show.

Should they really be showing this stuff? Kids could be watching.

“Doug! Pay attention,” Gema called with a pout.

He did. And she and her partner began doing things . . .

Gema, her hands still all over the other woman, turned to him. “You let me in once, Dougie. Come on . . . give me a nice, sweet, wet welcome!”

He was dreaming again, he realized. He needed to wake up.

Why wake up?

It was the most action he'd had in ages.

“Hey, baby, let the dreams begin!” he told Gema.

Suddenly, she was there with him. Just as she had been on the television. Breasts . . . purely global. And that outfit . . . stiletto heels, tiny lace thong . . .

“Doug . . . I am just so hungry for you!”

“Come and eat me up then,” he responded.

“Oh, I intend to,” she whispered.

Once again, she was stalking him.
Bring it on.
He lay with his hands laced behind his head, a grin of pure, unadulterated pleasure splitting his features from ear to ear.

She came to him, paused near his feet, then lifted one long leg onto the bed, giving him a magnificent view.

A second long leg came up. She stood over him.

Then she dropped down, agile as a contortionist, spread-eagle over his hips.

Pure glory raced through him. She shook her hair teasingly over him as she lowered her face to his chest, kissing and nipping at the flesh. She inched against him, undulating like a pole dancer. Her lips found his while her hands zoned in, low on his body, gloving him, leading him deep into the heat of her body.

Her lips . . . slid. Her hips moved.

He felt like an eighteen-year-old on a roller-coaster ride. She moved like a riveter, and it worked—Lord, yes, it worked—it was flying faster than an SST, and he was exploding like a teenybopper and he felt the magic work through his muscles, he felt it . . .

A prick . . .

Not even pain.

Then he heard it.

A slurping sound. Slow and sensual as all else, and . . .

“You're delicious, Doug,” she whispered, “and tonight, we've got all night. There's no one here to stop me.”

She giggled.

“I can eat and eat and eat and eat and eat until . . . you die!”

 

 

“Stephanie!”

“Steph!”

“Stop!”

Stephanie jerked, as if she had just awakened. Something . . .

A noise.

Voices.

She wasn't sure who was shouting, or why.

She didn't even know what she had been doing, but it suddenly seemed as if there was a cacophony of voices coming at her, calling her name.

She blinked furiously, and she was terrified, because she didn't know what she was doing, or where she was going.

And she suddenly found herself on an outcropping surrounding a cliff. There was barely room for her feet. A frigging goat might have had a problem getting where she was.

“Stephanie, careful! Stay where you are.”

Grant's voice. She blinked, oddly thinking that it was Grant who had gotten her here. She felt a surge of anger against him.

“Stephanie . . . stay still. He's coming!” Another voice, female . . . it was Liz.

There was no rain, and no lightning, but the ground fog had risen. Through it, to her right, she could see Grant hugging the cliff side, making his way to her.

She swallowed and turned. Clay Barton was coming from the other direction. She tried to look behind her.

There was a sheer drop.

Fingers touched her. They were cold as ice. She had a vision again, bones rising from the ground, touching her with an icy blast. She nearly screamed.

“Steph, it's me—don't jerk away!”

Grant had reached her. He sounded angry, but as if he were trying to control the emotion in his voice. “Take my hand—walk with me.”

She balked.

“Steph!”

She swallowed hard, recent memory cascading down upon her. This couldn't be Grant's fault. She hadn't been with him. All right, so she had been looking for him, but . . .

How the hell had she gotten here?

“I'm on your other side, Stephanie.” It was Clay.

“Careful! All of you!” Liz called from down below.

“Slowly . . . the ground isn't solid,” Grant warned. They were inching his way. Bit by bit. And he was right. She could feel the earth crumbling and giving way as they moved.

Her right foot slipped. She started to slide down. A scream escaped her.

Both men caught her by the arms, drawing her back up. Grant staggered backward against the cliff, crushing her to him, pressing her forward, ahead of him, then. He turned to give Clay a hand—there was no footing remaining where she had stood. With Grant's hand, Clay made a leap over the gap.

His body crushed against hers as he passed her, putting her between the two of them again. She closed her eyes, still trembling from the close call.

“It's widening . . . we're almost back on a trail again,” Grant said.

She nodded. He was right. In another minute, they were on a trail. Two minutes after that, they were on a broad plateau that slopped gently downward, back toward the area of the dig.

That was when Grant let loose.

Swinging her around before him with barely controlled rage tightening his every muscle, he very nearly barked out his words. “What the hell were you doing?”

She didn't know herself. She was shaking and afraid, and therefore, defensive. And once again, it was slipping into the corner of her mind that it was somehow all his fault.

“You
ass
! I was looking for you!”

“Against a sheer drop? What the hell did you think—that I'd become part of the rock?”

“Hey, you two,” Clay said, coming behind Stephanie.

“You, dammit, get the fuck out of it!” Grant all but roared.

“Grant!” Stephanie exploded, stunned.

Liz had run up to meet them by then. She was obviously upset. “Please, all of you, stop! Let's not say things we don't mean . . . and, Lord! Let's not get violent, huh? Please?”

“Violent?” Stephanie should have kept silent, but she was still stunned by Grant's display of wrath, and his absolute rudeness and hostility toward Clay, who had risked his life for her as well!

“Actually, Liz, I wouldn't blame Clay if he slammed my very old acquaintance Mr. Peterson from here to China!” she said, staring at Grant.

“No one is decking anyone,” Liz said, a prayer that it would be so in her tone. “Grant, please! You're scared because Stephanie could have been killed. You don't understand . . . it was like pea soup out here for a few minutes . . . we were all kind of wandering around like idiots. Please, all of you! Stop, think, cool down. I am begging you!”

She was right, and Stephanie knew it, and she didn't want Grant slugging Clay, or Clay slugging Grant.

She lifted a hand. “I'm sorry. Truly sorry. I feel like an idiot. I don't know how I got where I was, except . . . Liz is right. There was just . . . a fog. A mist. Something, I don't know. But I'm sorry. Really, really sorry, Grant. And both of you—you did save my life. Or, at the very least, you saved me from a broken neck and crushed bones. So I thank you both. Liz, can we get back to the car now, please?”

“Yes, yes, let's get back to the car.” She slipped an arm around Stephanie's shoulders and shot a glance over her head at Clay. She sounded aggravated herself as she added, “We should never,
never
have stayed here after dark.”

Neither Grant nor Clay said anything as they followed Liz and Stephanie back, so she assumed that, for the moment, neither one of them was going to cream the other.

They all reached Grant's rental car in stony silence and reclaimed the seats they'd taken for the ride in. No one spoke. Grant revved the car, and they began the drive back.

Stephanie looked out the window and shivered.

What the hell had she been doing?

 

 

Lena and Suzette were seated at the table when Drew arrived. He was a little bit late, but they had waited for him and Doug. Both women had ordered a glass of wine, but didn't seem to mind that they'd waited to order dinner.

“Hey, for a redhead, you're getting a nice tan,” Lena approved.

He grimaced, taking a chair and waving to their waiter, motioning for a beer. The fellow grinned and nodded.

“Thanks. You are a kind woman, Lena, to call this rosy hue a tan. But I thank you. Maybe if I nurse it along, I can look good and buff by the time we finish our run.” He frowned. “Did Doug say he was coming?”

“Oh, yes, he intends to join us,” Suzette assured him.

The waiter brought Drew's beer. He drank it slowly, idly chatting with the girls about little improvements they could make in the shows, now that they'd gotten their feet wet and had a better idea of how it would all go. “We'll have to check these ideas out with Stephanie, though,” he said.

Lena waved a hand in the air. “Of course! But she loves it when people come up with ideas. I think that's why she's so good—she isn't afraid to let others have artistic opinions.”

Drew shrugged. “Yeah, she's cool. She can even give up control to be able to get in a smoother flow with the rest of us as an ensemble. So . . . hey, what do you all think the story is between Liz and Clay?”

“They're sleeping together. Definitely,” Suzette said sagely.

Lena arched a brow. “Hmm. I don't know. He has an interest in Stephanie.”

“Well, we all have an interest in her,” Suzette argued.

“She's the boss.”

“No, no, no, the way he watches her . . . he has an
interest
in her,” Lena said.

“Ah, but there's Grant!” Suzette said.

“Um,” Lena agreed.

“Did you have to make that sound as if the man were a rare filet?” Drew said, wincing.

“Sorry. There's something about him,” Lena said, grinning.

“Yeah, yeah, and Clay, too, and I'm adorable. I don't know why I get into these conversations,” Drew said. Then he frowned. “Doug really should have been here by now. And he didn't look so good today. I'm going to run over to his cottage, okay?”

“You're right—that sounds like a really good idea.”

Drew went to Doug's and pounded on the front door. There was no answer, so he hesitated, then went around back and climbed the stairs to his friend's balcony.

The doors were open. The draperies were blowing in the breeze.

“Doug?” Drew called carefully.

There was no answer. He fought a mild struggle with the billowing drapes, and entered.

The television was on. Loud.

And there was Doug. He was collapsed beside the bed.

“Sweet Lord!” Drew cried out, reaching down quickly to feel for a pulse. His friend was cold, as cold as ice. For a moment Drew recoiled, terrified that Doug was dead. He forced himself to reach out again. At his throat, he found a pulse.

Staggering to his feet, he hurried to the phone.

It might be a small town, but the emergency response was swift. Within minutes, he heard the sound of sirens.

Arturo came to translate for him as the men asked him questions. He couldn't tell them much, just that Doug had complained of feeling weak, that he hadn't looked great that afternoon, and that he'd found him on the floor.