Dead By Dusk

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.



She caught her breath, immobilized in a sea of sensation. She felt as if her blood had been instantly set afire, that her limbs were electric, and yet… losing strength. It was as if great waves from the ocean were washing over her, flooding her with an urgent, desperate, dying need. She gripped his shoulders, her fingers tore into his hair…



Then he was standing, pushing her back. She fell against the bed, and saw him.



And he was there, as he had been in her dream, muscles heated and glistening in the pale light that seeped into them. Legs like sculpted columns, shoulders like metallic beams, his stance and added breath of excitement in a sea of sensual desire that gripped her in an all-encompassing hold. He crawled down atop her, and she reached for him. His scent was familiar, his arms were a bastion, and despite the fact that nothing mattered but the satiation of the hunger riddling her senses, she was aware as well that there was something far, far more…



He came to her… into her. She felt the force of his body like a shock, and yet she couldn't get enough.



He moved, and she felt herself arching against him like a madwoman herself. He gripped her shoulders, fell lower, caught her buttocks, pressed them ever closer. His rhythm became fast, almost frantic… the speed, staggering… the rise, almost unbelievable… and yet so real. The feel of his flesh, the masculine scent of him, the sound of him breathing, the steady, then rising, pounding of his heart, soft, louder, engulfing. She cried out, body constricting into a taut knot, as the climax she had so desperately writhed and arched to achieve came racing explosively through her, and for long moments that seemed like an eternity, she couldn't have moved if she tried… she just allowed it to bathe her, the sweet aftermath…



jolt after jolt… pulse and pulse… slower… slower… until her muscles eased. She felt the dampness then between them, the sheets, the night. And all that occurred to her at first was the sweetest gratitude. It hadn't been a dream. It had been real, all real. And he was here with her, and outside, she could hear the ocean breeze as it rustled by…



He didn't try to speak. Neither did she. She felt his arm around her, holding her.



Later in the night, she felt his touch again. And she was eager to turn to him. More eager, still, to press her lips against the vibrance of his flesh… to seduce in turn. And again, to feel that wonder of sensation, like the wind, like thunder, sweeping through her…



Real. Every anguished or ecstatic moment real. Grant, real, at her side…



Once again, neither tried for words.



When she awoke, he had showered. A bath towel wrapped around his waist, coffee cup in his hand, he was staring out the back glass doors.



It was morning.



With that light dispelling any illusions or fears of the night gone by, she wasn't sure what she wanted to say to him, where she wanted to go from here. She feigned sleep.



She heard him dress.



She heard him leave.



And she heard him check that he had duly locked her door after he had gone.



She lay still for a while, reflecting on the night. Then she rose and showered. It promised to be a long day.



So far, she realized, every day here had been long. Very long.



At ten o'clock, the body of Maria Britto arrived at the funeral home.



Danielo Vedero, the town's mortician, knew the girl, just as the police and doctors had known her. He intended to do his very best with her, despite the fact that he was deeply worried about the work.



He had heard how she had been chewed up. And then… after an autopsy. Well, she would have her wake in the following two days.



On Monday, she would be interred in the graveyard. It was very, very said. Merc and Franco, with whom Danielo had shared espresso early last evening, said that Maria's mother had done nothing but cry since the girl had disappeared. She had known, somehow, they said, that her daughter was dead.



Intuition.



But for Maria, and for her mother, Danielo would see to it that she looked as if she was sleeping, and completely at peace.



He told his receptionist to hold all calls; he would be busy for hours.



He closed himself into his embalming room. His assistant had lain the girl out for him.



Coming to the body, he frowned. There was no autopsy scar on her chest. In fact… had they been wrong? She didn't look as if she had been chewed by animals! She was amazing. Her skin had color. In fact, she might have been just sleeping as she lay there, before he even touched her, began the embalming process, much less her hair and makeup.



He came close to her. It was so wrong, this child, dead. Laid out on her back, she showed none of the signs of the ravaging that she had endured. In fact… she was gorgeous, as only such a young woman could be. Her waist was slender, her limbs long and shapely. Her breasts were high and proud, full, despite the way she lay upon her back. Peering more closely at her chest and abdomen, he thought he could see the faint lines of scars.



Scars. Not fresh wounds. Not gaping holes created by the teeth of beasts.



Troubled, he leaned closer, and ran his finger along one of the pale lines that stretched from her breast to her abdomen.



"Danielo! You lascivious old dog!"



He jumped back, a scream rising in his throat.



Maria's eyes were open, and on him. He blinked, wondering if he'd not had enough sleep, or if all the overwhelming sadness hadn't caused a malfunction in his brain.



She sat up. His corpse sat up. And smiled. But it wasn't Maria's usual smile. It was easy and twisted.



"What, are you horny, old man? Poor thing—that withered, screaming harpy of a wife you've got must not be putting out, eh, Danielo?"



She laughed as he stood there, stupefied.



He gave his head a shake, thinking he would wake up.



She crooked a finger at him. "Come here, Danielo. Come, come to me… I'll fulfill your deepest, darkest, filthiest desires, old man."



Then, he really wanted to scream. His knees were buckling. His heart was pounding as if it would burst out of his chest. He was terrified.



But no sound would come to his lips.



"Come, come…"



He didn't feel her reach for him, but she must have done so. He was in front of her, and she was laughing again. She took his hand and brought it to her breast. Once again, cruel laughter rang from her lips.



"Dear, dear, you mustn't die on me, Danielo, come on, I need you. Here, here… come closer, closer…



there."



She was going to whisper something in his ear. He felt her tongue flickering out, touching his flesh.



Then…



There was a sharp pain.



And the noise…



A slurping sound. It went on and on and on…



And as he stood there, he realized it was delicious. And in the first time in recent memory, he felt…



Good. Si, si, si… so good.



His body began to shake.



The sound continued…



Slowly, slowly… he sank to the ground.



Carlo greeted Grant at his rental car. "I tried to call you," he told him. "Arturo said that you had already gone when I reached the resort, and your cell phone went straight to your answering machine. I'm afraid the satellites are not very good here."



"Why were you trying to reach me?" Grant asked him.



"There's no work today. The police have cordoned off the area. There are crime scene specialists here."



Grant nodded. At last, something made sense to him.



"They're hoping to discover who buried the girl?" he asked Carlo.



Carlo nodded gravely. "It is strange, isn't it? Why bury the girl, when so many were looking for her so desperately."



"Have they questioned the fiancé?"



"Yes, but he seems to be innocent, from what they have told me. Maybe there was someone—a lover she shouldn't have been seeing—who saw the attack. And since he might have felt that it was his fault…



well, he buried Maria so that he wouldn't be blamed. If so, hopefully they will discover the truth soon enough."



"You really believe that animals did it?" Grant asked Carlo.



Carlo seemed surprised. "Well, you come from a very big city. Maybe you think that our men aren't as learned as those you know. But I can swear to you, both Barello and Antinella are superb physicians, and know what they're doing."



"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to imply that they weren't," Grant told him. He wondered if he was telling the truth. Because he simply didn't believe the autopsy report. "It's just…"



"It's just terrible, and that's that!" Carlo said, shaking his head. "Anyway, I'm so sorry you had to drive out."



"It's all right. I'll just head back. The first show is tonight. The tour group should be flocking in as we speak," Grant said.