Lena was right. The woman was simply wild.

Stephanie heard Franco say, " Il conto?" to Arturo, which she knew to mean that he was asking for the check. Arturo waved a hand in the air, and the two policemen left with the distraught woman.

Arturo and Carlo returned to the table.

"What was that all about?" Drew asked.

"That was Lucretia Britto. Her daughter, Maria, has not come home," Arturo explained.

"How long has she been missing?" Grant asked.

Arturo shrugged ruefully. "Just a few hours. She didn't return for dinner. She works in the souvenir and furniture shop up the cliff."

"She's been missing just a few hours—and her mother is that upset?" Suzette said. "Perhaps she just met some friends for dinner—or, Lord! Just stopped to be alone a bit. Maybe she went for a walk on the beach—it's so beautiful at night."

"Ah, yes, just a few hours, we should not be too worried," Arturo said. "But… you must understand.

Here, girls come home after work, even when they are twenty. Their mamas—and their papas!—keep a stern eye on them. Maria's father has been dead many years. Her brother is working in the United States at a theme park. So Lucretia and Maria are alone, and Maria is very good about telling her mother anything she wants to do. So… though it is just a few hours, Lucretia is very worried."

"Can we help?" Stephanie asked.

Arturo shook his head. "No—as you see, the police here are very different, too. They are going with Lucretia now. They'll go to the shop with Lucretia, and they will gather together many of the local people to look for her. I'm sure they'll find her."

Stephanie didn't think that he looked very sure.

She suddenly decided that the entire day had been long enough for her. "Arturo, the chef was wonderful, the food was delicious. I think I'm still feeling some of the effects of jet lag. If you'll all excuse me, I'm off to bed. Tomorrow, we've got to get an earlier start. Say, ten?" She looked around at her cast members.

There were nods of assent, and every man at the table rose.

"Steph, I'll walk you wherever you're going," Grant said.

"Hey, I'm fine, just out back and to the left," she said lightly.

"I can walk you," Clay said.

"I just gave her the same offer," Grant said.

In a minute, Stephanie feared, fists would be flying. At that particular moment, she didn't want either of them walking her anywhere.

"I'm fine, honestly. Sit down, both of you—have coffee, dessert, and after-dinner drinks," she said.

"Actually, I'd like a word with you," Grant told her.

She was aware then that everything said was being heard—and that at the table, eyes were going from one to the other of them as if they were at a tennis match.

"All right, fine. Thanks, Grant, and thank you, Clay." She gave Arturo a kiss on the top of the head and waved to the others.

There was an exit to the beach at the back of the restaurant, Arturo pointed out, and they headed that way. They were barely out the door before Grant said, "There's something about that guy I don't like."

"Which guy?"

"Clay Barton."

"I think there's something about you that he doesn't like," Stephanie said with a shrug.

"Because he knows that I don't fall for that polite exterior of his," Grant said.

Stephanie laughed. "Oh, Grant, really! He's an actor."

"He's not. I'm willing to bet that he isn't really an actor."

She stopped, and she wasn't amused, just serious as she looked at him in the moonlight. "Are you jealous?"

"No. Yes, probably, but that's not what it is. There's something strange about him, and I'm worried sick about you." He ran his fingers abstractedly through his hair, frowning, as if he didn't understand what he was saying himself. "Stephanie, whatever happened between us, I don't really know or understand. But you can believe in the fact that I care about you. Watch out for him."

She let out an impatient sigh. "Grant! I went my way, you went yours. Pure coincidence brought us to the same place. Unless you did follow me?"

"Don't be silly. This came through one of those societies I subscribe to," he told her, aggravated. "Did you follow me?" he asked.

"Now that's really ridiculous. Reggie owns the place."

"Where is Reggie?" he asked.

"Off getting customers. Grant, I'm fine. I can deal with Clay Barton, and any problem that may come up.

Really."

"I should stick around," he murmured.

"You're not responsible for me!" she exclaimed.

He slipped an arm around her shoulder, drawing her from the rear of the restaurant, as if he was afraid that their words would be overheard. As they moved her along, he was tense. "Stephanie, there's something very wrong here."

"What do you mean?"

"Your actress is missing. Another local girl is missing."

"We don't know anything about the local girl yet. And my actress probably took off for Rome. Rude and very unprofessional, but that's what appears to have happened," Stephanie told him.

"Yes, one would think," he murmured.

They came to her door.

"This is it," she said. "I'm back, safe and sound."

He took a step back from the doorway and looked skeptically at the cottage. "Anyone could break into this place way too easily."

"Grant, no one is going to break in here. Really," she told him.

"Stephanie," he said, and she was startled by the passion in the single whisper of her name. He reached out, as if compulsively, and touched her cheek with his fingertips. She was stunned by the emotions and sensations that such a little caress created within her. "You know—I pray you know, at least—that no matter what has gone on between us, your welfare means more to me than… life itself."

His fingertips awakened all the hungers she had repressed. She wanted nothing more than to step forward, and pretend that the bizarre estrangement had never come between them. They shifted, just slightly, and in split seconds she remembered only nights where she lay cocooned against his naked flesh, felt his arms around her. Times when she would awaken and turn, and see his eyes, and then a slow, lazy smile, and feel his hands or his lips, stroking somewhere erotically against the most erogenous areas of skin. Those times when she had wakened slowly, rather, and known the feathery brush of fingers against her spine, lips against her nape. Gentle security suddenly turned to erotic fantasy and more.

She stepped back.

Those times had ended. His arms had grown too fierce. He had whispered another woman's name.

"Grant, I'll be fine, really."

"I'm sorry I came here, I think, and sorrier that you did so." He held his distance, but his speech remained as passionate.

"Grant, I'll lock all the doors tonight. I swear it, all right?" He was, she believed in her heart, strangely sincere.

"I don't mind helping with this, you know," he said.

"You're here fulfilling your life's dream," she reminded him.

"I'm here," he said with a wave of his hand. "That's what's important. Because there is something going on, Stephanie. I know it."

"I told you. I will lock up tightly." He still didn't look happy. "Hey," she teased, "want me to run back to the restaurant and ask Arturo for a big bag of garlic? I can deck it around all the windows."

She was surprised when he didn't even crack a smile. "Hell, maybe that's not a bad idea," he murmured.

She sighed. "Grant, good night. Thank you for walking me here." She moved forward, meaning to stand on her toes, and give him a brief thank-you kiss on the cheek. Somehow, she moved too close. His arms wrapped around her. His knuckles were below her chin, and his lips were on hers, open-mouthed, forceful, tremulous, and passionate. His tongue moved against the walls of her mouth, plunged with sensual insinuation, and she felt the wild birth of a wicked, aching arousal. She wanted nothing more than to stay there, feel what he would do next, return the urgent quest with a hunger all her own.

She stepped back, ever so slightly afraid. He released her, yet his eyes remained dark and searching, with a strange anguish she found hard to bear.

"Good night," she told him quickly. "I'll lock up—I swear it."

She escaped quickly then, and stepped inside, locking the door.

Clay Barton watched Grant as he returned to the restaurant. Both Suzette and Lena had opted for bed earlier, while the men had remained, Carlo and Arturo with their cigars, Doug, Drew, and Clay sipping on brandies. Merc had returned, asking them if they would help with the search for the missing girl. They were just rising to do so, having been given the territory they were to travel.

"We're going to search the beach along the resort area, see if Maria is anywhere around," Clay told Grant.

"I said that we'd be delighted to help, of course," Carlo said.

"Sure. Does anyone really think that the girl might be lost on the beach?" Grant asked.

"No," Clay said flatly. His answer said much more. They were afraid that the girl might be dead, and that she had washed up on the beach.

"All right. Which way do I go?" Grant asked.

"You and I will walk south to where the rocks jut out, and then back," Clay told him. "Drew and Doug are walking all around the immediate resort area, and Arturo and Carlo will head north along the beach."

"Fine."

Grant eyed him suspiciously. Clay shrugged with a small smile.

"We meet back here, right?" Doug said.

"Yes, we come back here," Arturo said.

They exited together by the rear of the restaurant, then split to go their separate ways.

"So," Clay said to Grant as they walked, "you own a playhouse. You've a reputation for excellence in comedy, satire, and improv—and you're here at a dig site."