Dead By Dusk by Heather Graham

passionate.
    â€œGrant, I’ll lock all the doors tonight. I swear it, all right?” He was, she believed in her heart, strangely sincere.
    â€œI don’t mind helping with this, you know,” he said.
    â€œYou’re here fulfilling your life’s dream,” she reminded him.
    â€œI’m here,” he said with a wave of his hand. “That’s what’s important. Because there is something going on, Stephanie. I know it.”
    â€œI told you. I will lock up tightly.” He still didn’t look happy. “Hey,” she teased, “want me to run back to the restaurant and ask Arturo for a big bag of garlic? I can deck it around all the windows.”
    She was surprised when he didn’t even crack a smile. “Hell, maybe that’s not a bad idea,” he murmured.
    She sighed. “Grant, good night. Thank you for walking me here.” She moved forward, meaning to stand on her toes, and give him a brief thank-you kiss on the cheek. Somehow, she moved too close. His arms wrapped around her. His knuckles were below her chin, and his lips were on hers, openmouthed, forceful, tremulous, and passionate. His tongue moved against the walls of her mouth, plunged with sensual insinuation, and she felt the wild birth of a wicked, aching arousal. She wanted nothing more than to stay there, feel what he would do next, return the urgent quest with a hunger all her own.
    She stepped back, ever so slightly afraid. He released her, yet his eyes remained dark and searching, with a strange anguish she found hard to bear.
    â€œGood night,” she told him quickly. “I’ll lock up—I swear it.”
    She escaped quickly then, and stepped inside, locking the door.
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    Clay Barton watched Grant as he returned to the restaurant. Both Suzette and Lena had opted for bed earlier, while the men had remained, Carlo and Arturo with their cigars, Doug, Drew, and Clay sipping on brandies. Merc had returned, asking them if they would help with the search for the missing girl. They were just rising to do so, having been given the territory they were to travel.
    â€œWe’re going to search the beach along the resort area, see if Maria is anywhere around,” Clay told Grant.
    â€œI said that we’d be delighted to help, of course,” Carlo said.
    â€œSure. Does anyone really think that the girl might be lost on the beach?” Grant asked.
    â€œNo,” Clay said flatly. His answer said much more. They were afraid that the girl might be dead, and that she had washed up on the beach.
    â€œAll right. Which way do I go?” Grant asked.
    â€œYou and I will walk south to where the rocks jut out, and then back,” Clay told him. “Drew and Doug are walking all around the immediate resort area, and Arturo and Carlo will head north along the beach.”
    â€œFine.”
    Grant eyed him suspiciously. Clay shrugged with a small smile.
    â€œWe meet back here, right?” Doug said.
    â€œYes, we come back here,” Arturo said.
    They exited together by the rear of the restaurant, then split to go their separate ways.
    â€œSo,” Clay said to Grant as they walked, “you own a playhouse. You’ve a reputation for excellence in comedy, satire, and improv—and you’re here at a dig site.”
    Grant flashed him a sharp and wary glance. “Yes.”
    â€œReally? I mean, sorry, but it does look as if you followed Stephanie here.”
    Grant stiffened. Clay observed him—physical features, stance, bearing. The guy was assured, and tall, broad-shouldered, and apparently composed of pure muscle. He was built like a rock, but seemed to have an easy coordination and agility.
    â€œI’ve always had a fascination with archeology, the past, anthropology, you name it,” Grant said. “I grew up in Chicago—one of my first memories is of the Egyptian exhibit at the Field Museum. This came up, and I came