Dead By Dusk by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online

again. The whisper of her name. She wanted to scream. But she saw the smile, then felt . . .
    A wave of sheer, sweet eroticism. Dear God . . .
    â€œThere should have been more time,” her lover said regretfully.
    â€œI hurried. I ran to you,” she whispered.
    â€œSweet one, my dear, sweet, naive one.”
    â€œThere was something behind me. I thought . . . for a minute . . . it was you. And when I first saw you . . .”
    â€œThere, there, my love!”
    His eyes caressed her first. She felt them, as if they were feathers streaking over her naked flesh, awaking, arousing . . .
    â€œThe day is coming too quickly,” he murmured.
    â€œThe day?” she said foolishly.
    â€œNever mind,” he said, and his mouth found hers, and he drew her from the road, to a copse. Leaves had fallen, and they made the most delightful bed. She had never been with a man, and yet, she couldn’t free herself of any form of modesty quickly enough. He drew her into his arms, seemed to taste her lips, and then her flesh, and she nearly shrieked with the sweet ecstasy of his touch. Everything bold; his hands, so powerful; his kiss, a fury . . .
    And then . . .
    It should have been painful. It was not. It was the most incredible glory.
    She heard him . . . heard him, against her.
    And listening . . . to the sound made . . . it should have been horrible.
    It was not.
    She clung to him.
    Her body seemed to . . . erupt. It was the ecstasy within, about which she had only dared dream. It was hot, vivid, shocking, staggering . . . brilliant . . . climactic . . .
    And then . . . icy. Icy, and dark. And yet . . . he had said that the day was coming too quickly. She was numbed . . .
    It was that strange . . . chill.
    A paralyzing cold that filled her, just as the fire had done. She opened her eyes, and it was a terrible effort. And she saw.
    And she would have screamed—oh, God, she would have screamed . . .
    Except that life expired at that moment, and still staring, she collapsed.
    The faint echo of laughter filled the hills, and the darkness.
    It was still a few minutes before the dawn would actually break.
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    Stephanie was glad that Arturo had told her that she couldn’t possibly expect to meet with her cast until the afternoon.
    She had no idea why, but she’d slept later than she’d imagined possible. Of course, there was the natural adjustment caused by jet lag, but still . . .
    She’d slept the night through, haunted by the strangest dreams.
    At one point, she had awakened, certain that someone was in the room with her. She hadn’t had nightmares—on the contrary, the dreams had left her again with a surreal sense of the world being well. More than well. She had the most absurd notion of being stroked throughout the night, touched, almost sensually bathed by the air beyond.
    The thought made her flush uneasily, and remind herself that she hadn’t been a lone female all that long, and that erotic imaginings were ridiculous.
    She felt an odd sense of discomfort as well. Somewhere in the deep fog of sleep, she had felt as if she were home again, and Grant was there, staring at her. After the image, she had felt the strangest surge of fear, as if she should rise and lock the windows, but she didn’t have the energy to do so.
    Jet lag could do very strange things.
    Ironically, after having arrived to find no one present for the first meeting of the group, she came in that afternoon to discover that she was the last to make it into the club.
    â€œHi! You must be Stephanie, our director!”
    The first of her cast to greet her was a small, pretty woman with dark eyes, dark hair, who looked as if she could be a native—except that her English had no foreign accent. If anything, she had the slight twang of a Midwesterner.
    The woman extended her hand, smiling, showing a mouthful of pearly whites. “I’m Lena Miro. Delighted to meet you.”
    â€œLena,