Free Dead By Dusk by Heather Graham

to have gotten over her bug phobia, and was working on a dresser, going through it, drawer by drawer.
    Stephanie went down the stairs, slowly.
    She paused as she reached the bottom step.
    Clay Barton was on his knees by the front door, studying the tile at the entry.
    â€œWhat is it?” she said sharply.
    He glanced up quickly, then rose, dusting his hands on his jeans. He had a rueful expression, and yet . . .
    She could have sworn that before, he had been intense. As if he had seen something on the tile.
    â€œClay?” she said.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m sorry. There was nothing,” he said.
    â€œWhat were you expecting?”
    â€œAh, well, you’ve got me playing detective, I guess,” he said with a shrug.
    â€œBut you can see the floor easily enough—even from here. It’s white tile,” she pointed out.
    â€œYes, so it is. And like I said, there’s nothing.” He strode back toward the center of the living area. “No note—I’ve looked. Nothing broken, no sign of a struggle . . .”
    â€œBut the floor was fascinating?” she pressed.
    â€œI guess I thought I saw a footprint, but hell, we’ve all walked over the entry area, so . . . and a footprint wouldn’t mean anything, anyway. Hey, Arturo said something about drinks. I’m going on over to the bar.”
    He smiled, and exited.
    She stared after him, and felt the strangest wave of fire and ice wash over her.
    Then it was gone.
    And she wondered if she was still suffering from jet lag . . .
    Or if it was all part of the strangeness—that which made her feel wonderful, and that which made her feel uneasy—that had wrapped around her from the time she had first arrived.
    As she stood at the base of the stairs, she heard the pounding of footsteps behind her. She took the last few steps to the landing and waited as Suzette and Lena joined her.
    â€œNothing, nothing at all,” Lena said. “Every drawer is empty.”
    â€œShe just left,” Suzette said firmly.
    â€œSo it seems,” Stephanie said.
    â€œWow, we’re screwed then, huh?” Lena said. “Well, I suppose the outlines could all be redone. But hey, a vamp is usually necessary.”
    â€œWe’re not screwed,” Suzette said, staring at Stephanie. “That’s what you did in the States, right? Didn’t you work with an improv group?”
    â€œYes, well, we’ll see,” Stephanie murmured. She was suddenly feeling the urgent need for a drink herself. “Let’s just head on over to the bar for now. Arturo has suggested drinks before dinner.”
    â€œGreat. What about the boys?” Lena asked.
    â€œDoug and Drew? They’ll find the bar,” Suzette assured them.
    Stephanie started across from the cottages to the rear doors to the main resort, followed by the other two. Behind her, they argued about Gema.
    She had no idea what to think herself, but since the woman had apparently spoken to anyone who would listen about giving up her gig before she even started it, maybe it shouldn’t be such a surprise.
    Or a worry.
    She walked across the lobby, slightly ahead of the other two, irritated at feeling the hint of a headache coming on. What the hell. A drink would kill or cure her.
    She walked through the scattered tables where, it seemed, the locals had already found a place to relax and gather. A few people looked at her, some with curiosity, and some with smiles and acknowledgments. She smiled back, and headed around the curve of the bar.
    And stopped short.
    Arturo was there, waiting as he had suggested.
    He wasn’t alone.
    There was a dignified, scholarly looking gentleman with gray hair and a beard, at his one side.
    And at his other side . . .
    Grant.
    He looked up just as she stopped. His eyes, so deep a blue they were like the ocean at night, were wary. They offered both a rueful apology, and