Dead By Dusk
Page 3

He would return. She was grateful, of course, but after her frustrating efforts to get through, she was weary and then had another two hours to sit around waiting.
She tried walking. After all, walking around would be good. She felt like a pretzel. The airlines might have added more room to economy, but it hadn't been enough. She was five-nine, and had to wonder how those over six feet actually survived the trans-Atlantic flights without their limbs becoming permanently entwined.
Had she waited a day, she might have been able to upgrade to first class on her airlines bonus miles.
But she hadn't waited a day, because she had been scheduled to meet with the entire cast of her show here, at the club, this night, at seven p.m.
Now she was discovering that her entire cast had somehow managed to vanish for the evening. Doug Wharton and Drew Cunningham had been delayed by a car breakdown over in Sorrento, Lena Miro and Suzette Croix had gone on a tour to the local ruins, where a rock slide on the return road had caused the guide to call in with the information that they'd be camping out for the evening, and Clay Barton had yet to check in. Gema Harris was around somewhere, according to Arturo, but since the others were AWOL, she'd decided to take the night off, too.
Fair enough, Stephanie thought. But she was still frustrated, sore, worn, and ready to kick herself for being such a stickler for punctuality that she hadn't taken the later flight, and arrived in a far more optimistic mood.
At the moment, she wanted to strangle Reggie—the woman responsible for her being here. The entire project was so off the wall, Stephanie doubted she should have accepted the task, even if she did adore Reggie. After all, was Reggie here? No, of course not; she was off pushing this latest project to military personnel in Germany somewhere, assuming that when she returned, all would be in perfect order. But that was Reggie, or Ms. Victoria Reggia, who had been like a windstorm many times in Stephanie's life, blowing in and out, and turning the world upside down like a modern-day Auntie Mame. She was actually Stephanie's mom's cousin, and since she was always traveling the world somewhere, Stephanie had rarely seen her until her parents' funeral. Then, Reggie had been a godsend.
But then again, she had to admit, despite this shaky start, Reggie's offer regarding this job had been something of a godsend, as well. At twenty-seven, Stephanie could be proud of both her talent and her business acumen. An automobile accident had left her orphaned at seventeen, and she had still managed to live on her own and acquire her master's degree in fine arts, with a minor in business. She had gone from acting with the Park Street Players in Chicago to managing the small but esteemed comedy club.
Yet for all her education and life-enforced maturity, she hadn't foreseen her relationship with Grant Peterson, the club's owner. Grant had been an even greater power in her life—electric, vital; from the moment she had first seen him, she had felt compelled to come closer to him. Admittedly, she mocked herself—she had been compelled just to touch him. She had never wanted anyone as she had wanted Grant, and she had known that the minute she had walked into his playhouse and watched him speaking from center stage. She had met him, and in his eyes, she had seen an equal fascination. Sometimes, she wondered why. He had traveled the world with touring groups; he was far more knowledgeable and sophisticated. And yet, it had seemed that he was in love with her.
For a year it had been a passionate if volatile relationship, but her life had seemed set. He was assertive, fair, determined, but never cruel. He didn't patronize his cast or crews, but there was no question that he was in complete control. Theater and improv were his passions, but he loved jazz and the opera, and more than anything else, museums and art and ancient civilizations. His major, oddly enough, hadn't been fine arts, but history. He played a mean guitar, and enjoyed street fairs, budding artists, as well as collecting armor and movie paraphernalia.
Stephanie's life had been nearly perfect.
Her work was her life's dream and Grant was her heart's desire.
Then it had ended. Maybe it had been as much her fault as his. But it had been difficult to ignore his sudden state of distraction, though he had claimed he hadn't understood quite what was plaguing him himself. He'd been up at all hours of the night; he'd gone out at all hours of the night. They were both accustomed to working with ensembles, so she had first scoffed at the idea that she was suspicious or jealous. But then she had thought about Grant. He had everything he needed to succeed—in business, and in his personal life. He was six feet, two inches of lithe muscle and mobility, since his intrigue with the theater had taken him into any number of pastimes including fencing, kick-boxing, riding, and some stunt work. He also possessed more than a fair amount of charm and sensuality, which had been wonderful for the success of his business, and horrible on a personal level, once Stephanie had decided that there was something seriously wrong.
Then the dreams had started, or the nightmares, and they had been very strange. Sometimes he had tossed and turned. And sometimes, he had come to her with a volatile urgency that had been both exhilarating and terrifying, the latter because she wasn't sure when she came down whether he was actually awake during it all.
Then…
From the depths of sleep one night, he had cried out another woman's name.
Despite the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous and incredible in bed, the last had been a slap that went into her soul. She felt that she wasn't what she wanted to be in his life, and never would be. They had argued bitterly because she couldn't tell him why she was leaving—he would have claimed that she had been mistaken, or worse, that the name didn't mean anything to him. Their last argument had been volatile.
But she had still worked for him.
To say it was a strained relationship was sadly understating the current of hostility that seemed to evolve around them. Worse. Anger could be volatile, and far too quickly turn into something else.
Still, not being independently wealthy, she had needed work. So, in a burst of spontaneity, Stephanie had jumped at Reggie's offer without really thinking it through. Ironically, immediately after her resignation, she heard from a mutual friend that Grant would be gone for some months as well, doing some kind of work somewhere else. If she'd stayed on, she could have managed the company in his absence.
Too late. She'd agreed to come here, and here she was.
Arturo, the club's general manager and ever the optimist, didn't even sigh as he began to explain the whereabouts of Stephanie's missing troop members once again. "You must understand where you are, and what is going on here, of course. The ladies, they meant to cause no trouble—they simply wanted to see the ruins. Everyone wants to see the ruins! The archeologists bring new things to light on an almost hourly basis! Ah, but then there was the rock slide, so the ladies were stuck. The gentlemen—the two of them, anyway—have had car trouble. Mr. Barton is lost in transit somewhere, which you must surely understand yourself. And so, the lovely Miss Gema thought that she would spend the evening at leisure, so she could come to you fresh and ready to work hard tomorrow!" His smile faded and he frowned suddenly. "My English is well spoken, isn't it?"
Stephanie waved a hand in the air, smiling, and ruing her own impatience. "I'm so sorry, Arturo. Your English is excellent. Better than mine, maybe! I just tried so hard to get here on time myself. I'm tired.
Please forgive me."
He nodded brightly again. He was a small, balding man, compact, with a reserve of energy that seemed apparent in his every movement. Reggie had assured her that his English was far more than fluent, and that he would like her right off the bat. She might be taller than he, but he would fall all over himself to please her. He had a thing for women with dark hair and blue eyes, so Reggie said. He wasn't a lecher in the least, just a lover of women in general, especially those who were young, light-eyed, and dark-haired.
He was wonderful. Polite, concerned, and sweet. And he did speak English excellently. Stephanie was so glad, because she was so tired that trying to remember even the simple courtesies in Italian seemed absolutely daunting at the moment.
"You'll be happy to know that you'll have a full audience next Friday night. Reggie has arranged for a tour group of over fifty American military men and women and their spouses, if they choose, to come for a three-day vacation," Arturo informed her.
"Next Friday night!" The news snapped her back into full wakefulness. It was Sunday afternoon. "And will this place hold that many people? What about the fire laws?"
" Si." Arturo was beaming with pleasure to give such information. "This is—"
"Yes, yes, this is Italy."
"We'll easily get enough tables in here."
"Let's hope we're easily ready," she murmured. Stephanie felt ill. A week. One week to get together a cast of performers she had yet to meet.
"We'll have to start first thing in the morning," she said.
Arturo shook his head. "First thing in the afternoon!" he told her.
"But—"
"The campers will not be back until at least eleven—they have no choice but to wait for the road to be cleared. And the car over in Sorrento?" He shrugged. "It will take a bit. But you mustn't worry. This is Italy. All will be well."
Stephanie had already learned that the last two sentences Arturo had offered were his catchall comments, and part of his eternal optimism. This is Italy. All will be well.
She sure as hell hoped so. At the moment, she couldn't begin to see how, or why.
Her luggage was still strewn by the chair where she sat with Arturo in the club room where her troop would be performing. Nice room. The stage was ample, but intimate. Tables were arranged throughout, with a bar at the far rear of the room and chairs along either side, so that a good number of people could be accommodated. The basic skit for the troupe revolved around the fact that they were a group of world scientists who gathered together at The International Club to converse, share information—and brag. The comedy was built around the fact that none of them ever really had anything to brag about, and therefore, they most frequently had to make up their stories. Audience participation was an integral part of the fun. It was the kind of show that Stephanie loved, and despite the strange circumstances—doing a show in English in a small town in southern Italy that was just beginning to draw tourists—she had at once been enthused about the project.