Like the tapping, at first, he didn't know where it had come from. He realized that she'd been nibbling against his neck…
Fire flashed through him…
Then ice.
And distantly, he heard a sound. A smacking, suckling sound.
"Gema, what… ?"
"You did offer me a drink," she whispered.
His mind began to fade. He heard her… drinking, suckling, all in a frenzy, and it didn't matter. He was distant, cold, numb, and still aware of a feeling of the deepest, most amazing sexual gratification…
Slurp.
Lord, Lord, yes…
"That's it!"
The sound of a new voice in his bedroom should have been alarming, but Doug didn't really hear it.
He didn't even know when Gema was wrenched from her place atop him.
"No!" Gema cried to the newcomer. "No… I need… I need…"
"You'll never survive!" she was told harshly.
The man who had slipped in through the glass windows behind her angrily threw her clothing toward her.
"You didn't listen to a thing I've said. I don't want any more dead yet—what the hell is the matter with you?"
"I don't need you!" Gema cried, starting forward.
He struck her, backhanding her across the face with a force that was staggering. Gema went flying back against the closet door. The noise was like thunder.
Doug, however, didn't notice or move. His eyes were open, and he was just staring into the night.
The man walked over to where Gema had landed, on the floor, having slipped down the wall to fall to her knees. He caught her by her hair, forcing her to look up at him. "You do have to listen to me. The lord giveth, and the lord taketh. And I am your lord. Get up, and get out. You've had enough. I don't want this one dead—yet."
"You kill!" she cried.
"I am the lord. I do what I want," he said.
He tugged harder on her hair, forcing her to her feet.
She became petulant. "Please, I need—"
"You get what I say. Now, out!"
She looked at Doug one last time. His member was flaccid then. His boxers were still wrapped around his feet.
His head was slightly twisted to the side. She could see the irritation at his neck, but there wasn't a drop of blood wasted. Something inside her burned. He wasn't used up. There was more, more, and…
"Out!"
She was shoved outside. She actually began to laugh, wondering just what he would remember when he woke up and found himself in that ridiculous position.
Grant and Stephanie decided to drive out to the dig for the afternoon.
They both had slept late.
Stephanie awoke to find that Grant was lying quietly at her side, watching her. He looked worn, and she wanted to reach out, caress his face, and somehow soothe the torment that seemed to be racking him.
She wondered if he looked so because he couldn't forget what they had witnessed the night before.
Or if it went deeper.
Despite the fact that they'd been as intimate as ever—if not more so—she still felt the urge to hold back something of herself. She didn't understand him, and as she had been when they had argued so fiercely and she had left him, she was afraid for herself. She loved him far too much. Needed him. And she couldn't allow that, not when the love she felt was filled with so much confusion and fear.
"A penny for your thoughts," Grant murmured.
"I'm not sure I've formed any yet this morning," she told him. She realized that they were both still fully clad, other than the fact that they were shoeless. "How about your thoughts?" Stephanie asked. He was going to talk about last night, she was certain.
But he didn't. He touched her cheek with his thumb. "I was thinking that you were the most beautiful creature in the world," he told her gently. And his gaze was very serious and somber. "Actually, I was thinking that you are the world, everything good in it, light and laughter and sanity and caring… you know that I love you, Stephanie."
She shook her head, withdrawing slightly. "Grant—"
"Don't go panicking on me. I won't say it again," he told her, rising. "I'll settle for you letting me hang around. I'm going to hit the shower."
He left her.
Did he really love her so deeply?
It couldn't be with a greater force than what she felt for him.
But then…
What was so wrong?
She rose, suddenly eager to make some kind of amends. As she stepped from the foot of the bed to the carpet, she frowned.
He had left a little trail of sand on his walk to the bathroom. Where the hell had that come from, she wondered.
The beach, she told herself.
He must have picked it up when they walked back to her cottage after attending the wake. But he'd had his shoes on then, and they had stuck to the paths.
She shrugged. Didn't matter. The maids around here were incredible, vacuuming every day, keeping the cottages just beautiful.
She walked to the bathroom, then hesitated. He had the door closed. She could hear the shower running.
Let it be, she told herself.
But she couldn't.
She tapped lightly, then entered. She could see his form through the lightly fogged glass enclosure of the shower. Tall, sleek, tightly muscled. A terrible urge to come close to him ripped through her.
She shed her clothing quickly and opened the door just as he was sudsing his chest.
He arched a brow, looked her up and down.
"Let me do that for you."
"Only if I get to wash your chest, too," he said.
"I intend to wash lots of places on you," she informed him.
"Well, then it's only fair that you be as clean," he returned.
"I wouldn't want to be anything less," she assured him. She stepped in, closing the door behind herself.
The space was tight. It didn't matter. The water was hot, and the pressure was even better. The soap was slick, and she took it out of his hands.
It was good, running it down his flesh.
It was better when he took it, all playful sparks gone from his eyes, his intent vividly clear as he used it on her… soap, hands, fingers… all manipulating.
She felt the ferocity of the water. The sound in her ears seemed to drown out all else, except for the beat of her pulse, and the rhythm of desire rising in her. She closed her eyes, and let sensation take over. In a matter of minutes, it was madness.
The shower worked for a few minutes…
Then they burst out of it.
Bed, carpet… everything was soaked. And it didn't matter in the least. There was nothing like being alive in his arms… nothing like dying a little there… nothing like the raw heat, the feel of flesh, the urgency, striving, flying, falling…
Or the tenderness that followed. But that was what seemed to scare her then. She was afraid that she was in love with someone who was becoming a bit of a madman.
Leaving him quickly when he would have held her longer, she ran back to the shower. She was quick, and she dressed immediately, running out then without looking at him, saying that she'd fix coffee.
As she did so, she was shaking, and she didn't know why. How could she love him so much, and be so afraid, deep in the pit of her soul?
They made it into the restaurant in good time—the tour group had just departed. The Sunday brunch was a really magnificent display.
There were a number of townspeople back in the restaurant; they seemed to prefer the resort when the tourists were present.
To Stephanie, it seemed that everyone was whispering. She felt, as well, that people looked at her and Grant, and whispered some more. They were speaking in Italian, and doing so rapidly, so it didn't really matter that they whispered. Still, she knew that they were talking about the wake the night before.
Arturo stopped by their table and joined them, telling them he was sorry they had witnessed the horror the night before.
"It's Lucretia we feel so badly for," Stephanie told him. "The poor woman is simply demented with grief."
"Yes, of course," Arturo murmured.
"What will happen now?" Grant asked.
"She will be properly embalmed, and the funeral will take place tomorrow," he said.
"Will there be repercussions against the doctor and the coroner?" Grant asked.
Arturo shook his head. "Not here," he said softly.
"That's interesting," Grant murmured. "I mean… isn't saying that something was done when it wasn't…
illegal?"
Arturo shrugged. "Oh, the state authorities could try to make something of it, but… there would be such an outcry here that everyone intends just to let it all slip by. There were discussions and meetings last night, but… everyone is back in harmony. There was no wrong intended." Arturo hesitated. "We are still a little superstitious here, you know? Some people are certain that if Lucretia was compelled to sever her daughter's head, there might be good cause."
"Good cause!" Stephanie exclaimed, shocked.
"As I said, we're superstitious here."
"Severing a dead child's head is taking superstition to extremes, don't you think?" Stephanie said.
Arturo shrugged. "Yes. It's also an insane act of someone in terrible pain. So… the priest said that no one must be made to suffer more for what happened, so… Maria will be buried, and life will go on." He rose. "Excuse me. There is still a lot to be done today."
Just as Arturo left the table, Clay Barton arrived with Liz, and the two took chairs at their customary table.
"Good morning," Liz said. She looked at Stephanie. "Are you all right?"
"Of course," Stephanie said, frowning.
"We heard you'd been at the funeral parlor last night," Clay said.
At Stephanie's side, Grant had already stiffened. He did so the minute Clay Barton came near him, she knew. She didn't understand it. Clay was responsible, good at his work, and always polite. She couldn't believe that Grant was suddenly suffering a bout of low self-esteem, so she didn't think that he would dislike the man simply because he was so good-looking and macho-esque.