Dead By Dusk by Heather Graham Page A

here.”
    â€œYou didn’t know about Reggie’s place?” Clay asked casually.
    Again, Grant shot him one of those looks that assured Clay that the fellow was barely controlling his temper. “I’ve seen Reggie three times. I knew she was Italian. That hardly meant that she was going to open a resort in Calabria and put a comedy club in her resort.”
    â€œKind of strange, though, huh?” Clay said lightly.
    Grant was assessing him as well, Clay knew.
    â€œStrange. Yes. But then, a lot of things seem strange. Somehow, you just don’t look like the usual comedian.”
    â€œNo?” Clay said. He shrugged. “Well, hell, I always thought that actors and comedians came in all shapes and sizes.”
    Grant stopped suddenly. He’d veered very close to the water. Clay hadn’t gone so far. The sand was deep, and the air was filled with the scent of the salt water. And something more.
    The smell of death.
    â€œThere,” Grant said.
    Despite the darkness and the night, they could both see a clump of something ahead of them on the beach. They looked at one another for a split second, then headed toward it. They hunched down. The clump was covered in seaweed.
    Grant let out a sound of relief. “Dolphin,” he said.
    â€œPoor thing,” Clay murmured. “Looks like it beached itself.”
    â€œMaybe. I don’t know a damned thing about dolphins,” Grant said. He stood. He seemed inordinately relieved. “We’ll have to tell Arturo. He won’t have any tourists out on the beach for a week if they don’t dispose of the carcass.”
    Clay nodded, and stood as well. “The cliffs are just there. There’s nothing, no one, out here.”
    â€œI didn’t think there would be, but what the hell,” Grant said.
    They started back. Again, Grant seemed drawn to the edge of the water. Clay kept to the sand, watching.
    When they returned to the restaurant, the others were there, just as frustrated. They told Arturo about the dead dolphin, and he assured them that he’d have it taken care of by morning.
    â€œWell, we should head back,” Carlo Ponti told Grant.
    Grant took a long, wary look at Clay. “Carlo, I’ll be out first thing in the morning. I’m going to take a room here for the night . . . maybe for the week.” He stared at Clay as he spoke, as if warning him.
    Or threatening him?
    Clay wasn’t certain.
    Grant kept looking at him. “I intend to be around here,” he continued. “In case. Just in case Stephanie decides that she needs some help. You know, putting up the show.”
    Putting up the show. He didn’t mean that at all. Nor did he mean “needs some help.” What he meant was, “needs me.”
    That was fine, Clay determined, smiling deeply.
    He was glad that Grant Peterson would be exactly where he could keep a close eye on him.
    Just as, he was certain, Grant Peterson would be watching him.
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    She didn’t owe Grant anything, Stephanie reminded herself. And still, that night, she locked the front door, and the back door, and when she went upstairs, she closed and locked the entry from the balcony as well.
    Too bad. She had loved the breeze.
    It was all silly, really—it had to be. Gema Harris had taken off for the bright lights of Rome, and the missing girl would be found soon as well. Maybe she had run away with a lover who would not be approved by her family. Such things were surely known to have happened before. By tomorrow, the mystery would be solved.
    Still . . .
    She wondered if it was more than Grant urging her to be careful that made her walk around the place with nervous determination. She felt edgy herself. She wasn’t certain if she was really feeling anything unusual, or if the fact that there were missing persons in the area, and Grant’s assertion that something was off, causing her to experience the unease.
    She was really