Dead By Dusk Read Online Free PDF Page A

burning lanterns the workers had meted out at the campsite.
    And that was a distance from him now.
    The world, he reflected dryly, had changed. His world, at any rate.
    The darkness was amazing. The night sky was broken only here and there by a star, and looking about the lush trees and foliage that seemed swamped in secrecy, it was possible to just faintly see the line where mountains, hills, and tors gave way to the heavens. The air was sweetly cool, and the breeze moved through the trees gently, seeming to whisper.
    She would be here now.
    Riveting. Just the knowledge was riveting . . .
    And now, it was connecting; how or why, he wasn’t certain.
    But here, in the night, he, a man not at all prone to fantasy, felt that he was lifted. A dream world? Maybe. The call of the darkness? Perhaps. Simple weariness from backbreaking labor and time and distance? Most probably.
    And still . . . he felt that he had moved. Covered time and distance and space from some bizarre mist that rode over the earth.
    Dreaming?
    Ah, yes, dreaming.
    Simply that, and nothing more.
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    â€œGod in heaven! But you are some man!” Gema Harris said lightly. She spoke beneath her breath, but she wasn’t certain that it mattered.
    She was pleased, definitely, to see the fellow at her side, having felt as if she had come to the ends of the earth where her great talents would be sadly wasted. Jewels cast before swine, or some such thing. She had been sitting at the small bar on the little seaside strip on the Adriatic, enjoying good, cheap wine here rather than spending her time at the more modern complex where she would soon be working. She had, albeit, almost been crying in her beer—except that it was wine, and she hadn’t exactly been crying, just rueful of her lot in the world at the moment, and wondering if she couldn’t improve it. She was a good actress, a good comedic actress, with a quick wit, which made her a natural for ensemble work that included a lot of improvisational theater. At last check, she was far more than average-looking, being a tall blonde with a natural hourglass figure and beautiful, long legs—if she did say so herself.
    Lately, she hadn’t needed to. Italian men were wonders in the flattery department—unfortunately, those she had met so far were either short and bald or tall and somewhat sexy with wives and dozens of little bambini !
    She had just been considering breaking her contract and making a move to Rome—she had informed anyone who might listen that it was something she could very easily do—when she had turned to see the man at the bar.
    Mamma mia!
    Maybe he didn’t speak English.
    Didn’t matter much. In her experience, men tended to be a lot better when they kept their mouths shut. Um. Not exactly, she thought whimsically. They were better when they didn’t use their mouths for speech. Talk tended to be so much rubbish, and little more. She’d never wanted promises. She had a life to lead herself, a career to pursue. One day, wherever the hell she was—though she doubted if it was going to be at this little comedy club—the right person was going to see her. And she would be a star. Men—the right men—would be at her beck and call. But until then . . .
    Damn, this one looked good.
    â€œ Scusi. Parla Inglese ?” she asked.
    He smiled, sitting at her side, and spoke in Italian to the bartender, ordering a Campari for himself and, she saw, though she didn’t quite understand his words, another drink for her.
    Whatever he spoke, they were going to get on fine.
    â€œThank you. Grazie !” she said.
    He nodded.
    â€œ Io parlo un poco Italiano, ma non parlo molto bene ,” she said, explaining, she hoped, that she spoke some Italian, but not very well.
    His smile deepened.
    â€œGod, you’re hot!” she whispered, finding it somewhat amusing that she could probably say whatever came to mind, and he