"But not to even mention it?" Stephanie asked.

Suzette shrugged.

"Well, I'd like to know that she's really all right," Stephanie said.

Arturo sniffed. "The closet is empty."

"Let's take a look around anyway, just make sure that we don't see anything funny, huh?" Stephanie said.

"Funny?" Drew said, arching a brow. "Like what?"

"Like blood on the floor," Lena said.

"My God, no!" Suzette cried.

"Suzette, we're not going to find blood on the floor," Stephanie said, but a strange unease filled her.

Suzette let out another little squeal.

"Suzette, really, we're just looking for a note or something—" Stephanie began.

"No, no, it's the roach again. Moving! There, on the wall!"

Clay Barton strode across the room, picked up a tourist magazine from the dresser top, and whacked the roach.

"Ugh!" Suzette said.

"Hey, he just did the manly thing. The roach is dead," Doug told her impatiently.

"Dead as a doorknob!" Drew added cheerfully.

"Yes, it's still ugh!" Suzette said.

Clay shook his head and walked into the bathroom, came back out with toilet paper, and picked up the insect's remains.

They heard a flush as he sent the tissue and mini-carcass down the toilet. When he walked back out, he told Stephanie, "I'll look around downstairs."

"Suzette, you and Lena look around in here," Stephanie told them.

"In the roach room! Hey, look, Clay was a manly man, all right, but there are still roach guts on the wall, even if he wiped it," Suzette said.

"We don't need to look at the wall," Lena told her. "Come on, Suzette, let's just check out the drawers and the bath… it will only take a minute."

"Drew, Doug, please take a look around outside, and I'll head downstairs as well," Stephanie told them.

"Aye, aye!" Doug said, saluting. Drew followed his example. They both stared at her, standing at attention.

She forced a smile. That was what you got when you worked with improv players. "Cute, cute. Save it all for Friday night, huh?"

She turned, and nearly walked into Arturo, he had been standing so close behind her.

"What can I do?"

"Why don't you go to the lobby, see if you can find the maid who did this room today, and ask her if Gema left a message, or if she found anything," Stephanie suggested.

"Yes, yes… then we'll all meet in the lobby bar… it's just opposite the club. And the restaurant is behind—we can have a few drinks… have some dinner. You haven't had a dinner here yet. Fantastico!"

he assured her.

"That will be great."

Arturo, pleased that he could help, started down the stairs. Stephanie glanced at Suzette and Lena.

Suzette seemed 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.

"What 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.

"Clay?" she said.

"Nothing."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. There was nothing," he said.

"What were you expecting?"

"Ah, well, you've got me playing detective, I guess," he said with a shrug.

"But you can see the floor easily enough—even from here. It's white tile," she pointed out.

"Yes, 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…"

"But the floor was fascinating?" she pressed.

"I 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.

"Nothing, nothing at all," Lena said. "Every drawer is empty."

"She just left," Suzette said firmly.

"So it seems," Stephanie said.

"Wow, we're screwed then, huh?" Lena said. "Well, I suppose the outlines could all be redone. But hey, a vamp is usually necessary."

"We'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?"

"Yes, 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."

"Great. What about the boys?" Lena asked.

"Doug 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 fuck-you-if-you-don't-like-it amusement.

"Ah, gentlemen!" Arturo said, noticing that the men's eyes had strayed, and their attention had wandered from the conversation. "You must meet Stephanie Cahill. Stephanie is here to direct our first venture into entertainment. Carlo Ponti, Miss Cahill—Stephanie, Dr. Carlo Ponti. And this! A fellow American, Stephanie, here to work the dig. Mr. Grant Peterson. Mr. Peterson, Miss Cahill!"

Carlo Ponti offered her a pleasant appreciation with a kiss on the hand and a sparkle in his eyes.

Grant didn't leave his chair.

"It's a small world, Arturo. Stephanie and I are old friends. Very good friends, as a matter of fact.

Steph…"

Then he rose at last, coming toward her. He kissed her on both cheeks.

And they seemed to burn, as if she had been brushed by the most searing fire, a blaze that burned brighter than the sun.

"Well, hello!" Suzette said, inching her way between Stephanie and Grant. "Suzette Croix, hi. We saw you working last night—we were stuck after the rock slide—but you never made it back to the camp.

I'm part of the comedy improv group."

"How do you do," Grant said politely. "This is Dr. Carlo Ponti."

"Hello, Suzette!" Carlo Ponti said, his voice full of the flattery that Italian men seemed so capable of giving, a very simple and pleasant appreciation that was usually lovely. "We almost met before. You were out at the dig."

"Yes, yes! And this is Lena Miro—who was with me," Suzette said quickly.

" Il piacere è mio," Lena murmured, which caused Carlo Ponti to ask about her Italian, and the two went into a conversation in the language, which left Carlo appearing very pleased.

"So! You two worked together!" Suzette said, taking Grant's arm and looking from one of them to the other.

"Grant owns the club in Chicago where I worked," Stephanie said. To her own ears, her words sounded stiff and forced. But she must have been speaking fairly normally, because Suzette didn't seem to notice a strained tone.

"Really! Imagine that! Did you know you would both be here? Well, actually, how could you not—"

"We didn't," Stephanie said sharply. Too sharply.

Grant's eyes were very cold. "We didn't. Stephanie had left the club when she accepted this offer, I believe. And I knew nothing about the club here when I signed up to volunteer at the dig."

"Wow! Small world, huh?"

"Way too small, isn't it?" Grant murmured.

"Hey!" Drew said, coming up behind Stephanie and placing an arm casually on her shoulders. "Hi," he said to Grant, aware that the women were grouped around him, and he was obviously someone they had met who was interesting. "Drew Cunningham."

"Grant Peterson."

Doug was behind Drew; introductions went around again, with both men meeting Carlo Ponti as well.

"We should get a big table, huh?" Drew said. "Arturo—you still buying?"

"Tonight, yes!" Arturo called back to him, grinning. "After tonight—no! Then the bar must begin to make money, not spend it."