Dead By Dusk

"Stephanie, my question is this," Drew said. "If you and Clay are stage right, and I'm coming in that way, won't I disrupt you while you're still in your intellectual argument about the guy in the audience you're going to be teasing?"



"Maybe, thanks, good point," she said. "Let me take a look."



"It is disruptive," came a voice from the back of the room. "Stephanie, maybe you want him to circle either around the audience, or enter stage left."



Looking to the rear of the café area, she saw Grant.



He was in jeans and a polo shirt, hair clean, damp, and somewhat slicked back. He hadn't been digging in the last hour or so, she was certain.



How long had he been there, watching them all in silence?



She was immediately tempted to ask him to please get the hell away.



But it would be a mistake.



"Are you here for a while?" she called out instead, hoping her voice wasn't as brittle as it sounded to her own ears.



"However long you need me," he said.



"Fine. Thanks. Then we'll run it again. And you can watch the blocking for me."



He came forward. Stephanie heard Lena whisper, "Damn, he arrived at a good time!" There was pleasure in her voice.



Damn, he arrived at a good time!



No! Damn, it was purely bizarre that he had arrived at all!



Stephanie took her place next to Clay Barton. Their characters were the two who considered themselves to be the hot ones—he, the international gigolo, at least in his own mind, and she, the flirt, the tease, tsked at by the other two women, who still tolerated her and tried to clean her up all the time. They ran the piece.



She didn't miss a beat, or an innuendo, and she was rewarded by the laughter of her fellow cast mates.



And still…



She had done it all by rote.



Because again, snatches of her dreams were far too vivid in her mind.



And having Grant there, watching her…



She suddenly thought of him as a giant black panther, a shadow, then a man, stalking her in the night…



Chapter 5



"He knows what he's doing, huh?" Clay Barton asked softly. He and Stephanie had just walked off stage, and Grant was courteously moving toward the rear of the café section, a casual motion that simply said he was turning direction back over to Stephanie.



"Yes. He's very good," Stephanie agreed. And he had been. She was going to call it quits. They hadn't taken a lunch break, and it was nearly six. No one had complained. They'd covered three of the outlines, and she already knew they were going to be fine. They established the course of action for the nights, and the cast had already come up with great ad-libs. They'd run over a few of the songs, and every member of the cast had, at least, a pleasant voice. Drew had an exceptional tenor.



Each night, Lena was giving a few sentences and lessons in Italian, as it was part of her character to be a bit of a braggart and know-it-all and flout her ability with the native tongue in front of her co-world travelers. Stephanie had been a little worried about how that would work out, but it had been perfect.



Suzette spoke fluent French and tried to turn the tables on Lena, only to be informed that hey, this was Italy.



Every night, of course, would be different. Some nights would be better than others—it was always so when the audience was an integral part of the performance. Fortunately, it appeared that they were going to have a hit, and, according to Arturo, they were definitely going to have an audience.



"The situation is totally bizarre, but I guess I should just be grateful," Stephanie murmured to Clay. "Hey, guys!" she called, raising her voice and wending her way back close to the stage. "That was phenomenal, really. We've been together just a few days, and we seem to be doing great as an ensemble. Thank you all."



"Hey, cool!" Drew called out, still center stage. "Does that mean it's Miller time?"



"Peroni!" Lena teased back. "This is—"



"I know, I know!" Drew groaned, breaking in on her. "This is Italy."



"Are we breaking?" Suzette asked. "Since this is Italy, I'd give a lot for a glass of the truly delicious local red wine!"



"Yes, we're breaking," Stephanie said. "Once again, I want to thank you all."



"Suzette, does that mean you're willing to join me in the bar?" Drew asked.



"Only because we're an ensemble," Suzette said.



"I'm with you—nothing like keeping the cast close," Doug said. "And Lena… you're having a Peroni?"



"You bet," Lena assured him. "Clay, Grant… Stephanie?"



"Sure," Clay said.



"I'll be right along," Stephanie said. "I've scattered a few notes around. You can order me a Peroni, too, okay?"



"Peroni for me, too," Grant said. "I'll help Stephanie—I might have scattered a few of her pages."



The others hopped down from the stage. Suzette was the last out, giving them a little wave. "Two Peronis—they'll be waiting."



"Thanks!" Stephanie called. When they were gone, she turned to stare at Grant. "I really do owe you a thank-you," she told him.



He shrugged. "I figure I can be around in the afternoons."



"I appreciate what you did," she said. "But you're really here for the dig. Carlo Ponti said mat you're good, a help out there, too. You don't owe me, or this enterprise, anything."



"I can work at the dig in the mornings." He lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug once again. "As long as there are no rock slides, it's about thirty, forty minutes out and the same back in. I'd rather work there in the mornings—ten o'clock seems to be your choice of time around here, so I might as well get the early hours in out there."



"You took a cottage here?" she said.



"Yes."



"Because… because you decided I needed help?"



"Because the tent in the wilderness thing was getting old," he said impatiently. "I'm happier being around here, okay?"



She sighed. "Grant, there have been a few strange things happening here, but I'm not in any danger. I don't want you to feel responsible for looking after me."



"Like I said, I'm happier here. And don't worry—I'm not expecting anything from you, I'm not looking for payback of any kind."



She felt a flush cover her cheeks. "I didn't suggest that you were. You wouldn't. And that was hardly the crux of our problem."



"What exactly was it, would you say?" he asked her flatly.



"You," she whispered softly.



He lifted his hands. For a moment, it was as if he was going to deny that there had been anything different about him at all. But then he turned, starting toward the rear of the café. "Humor me, huh? I won't get in your way."



"You won't get in my way?" she called after him. "Hmm. What if I decided that I wanted to get into an affair with another man?" she queried.



He turned, hands on hips, staring at her.



"Clay Barton?"



"I didn't say that."



"Who else?" he queried. Then he said, "You should take your time. Take it slow, and take your time.



Whatever."



"And what if someone else wanted to rush?" she asked.



"Let me suggest that they don't."



"And why is that?"



"I'd flatten him," Grant said simply. "Anything else? My Peroni is waiting."



"Please, go on. I wouldn't want your Peroni getting warm," she said.



He started out, but then paused. "Are you coming?"



"Yes."



She gathered her notes and stuffed them into her tote bag. She walked by him at a distance; he followed her, never close enough to touch.



They joined the others at the bar. The seats that had been left for them were not together. Stephanie was grateful.



She slid between Lena and Doug, who both greeted her. Clay, at Doug's left, had been speaking to him, and the men returned to the conversation. Lena moved in close to Stephanie. "Is everything all right?"



"It's great—why?"



Lena sighed, leaning back. "I'm envious, that's all."



Stephanie shook her head. "Really, there's nothing between us now. We're professional associates."



"He doesn't look at you like a professional associate," Lena said. "And that one!" She indicated Clay.



"He's always watching you."



"I'm the director. You're all supposed to be watching me."



Lena laughed softly. "I do—and you're doing a great job. And I admired you even more today when you were willing to hand over the reins and listen to other opinions. You don't have any of those insecure hang-ups where you're afraid to listen to others. I guess I'm just at that stage in my life where… I turned thirty-six this year. I've loved my profession—I haven't gotten rich, but I have managed to keep working.



So I'm happy. But every once in a while… wow. I would just love to fall in love! Find the right guy, and fall in love. I think I'd trade anything for it, right now."



"Well, you never know. Mr. Right could be in the audience any night," Stephanie murmured. "But…



well, you're beautiful, smart, and talented. A guy shouldn't be the focus of your life. Romance kind of happens when… when it happens."



"Easy for you to say. The two hunks in our company are always watching you!"



Stephanie groaned. "Lena, I don't think that Clay Barton is looking at me in any special way. And as to Grant… well, there was a past history."



"Yeah, yeah!" Lena said, waving a hand in the air. "Strange place, though, huh? I am Italian-Italian-American, all four grandparents from here—I've spent months of my life with family in the north, and I know the country well. But… this place is special. The beach, the colors of the water, the mountains behind… special, but strange. Jeez, the dreams I'm having!" She grinned suddenly. "Well, I guess they'll have to do for now. Until that guy shows up in the audience, huh?"