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In his kitchen, he popped the aspirin, and found that he was thirsty, so he drank two glasses of water.
Did that help dilute the alcohol—or did it just make it slosh around more?
He really had no clue.
The sharp knocking at his door made him jump.
Who the hell… ?
He walked back to the door. He may not have been in great shape, but he had just seen to it that Suzette had gotten back to her place safely. She wouldn't have left and come back for any reason—would she?
Well, there had been a few women in the bar to whom he had just happened to casually mention his cabin number…
Great. He might just get lucky. And if he did, he'd probably pass out before he was able to pass in to anything!
Looking through the peephole, he was astonished to see Gema standing on his doorstep.
He threw open the door.
"You!" He wasn't drunk enough not to feel a rise of anger. "What are you doing here now, Gema? The show went up without you—as you certainly must have seen. And it went up well. "
She arched a brow and just smiled. "Don't get in a huff, Drew. The show was wonderful. I just came to tell you. And don't worry—I'm not trying to get my job back, I'm just passing through for the night.
Aren't you going to invite me in?"
"No! You screwed us all, and we came out all right in spite of it!"
He slammed the door in her face.
Should he have done that? He didn't know. He wasn't going to have to wait for the morning; his head was pounding already.
"Drew, come on, please… I just need to talk to you for a few minutes. I'll make it worth your while!"
she teased.
He turned, leaning against the door.
He toyed with the idea of opening it. She'd treated him like dog poop before. Neither he nor Doug had seemed to be the least interesting as human beings to her at all.
And still…
Gema was stacked. Had she paid for the boobs? If so, she'd gotten her money's worth.
"Drew… ?" Her voice was coercive.
Yes, tempting.
But he was sliding against the door. His knees were just giving.
"You ass! I'll fuck you like you've never been fucked before!" she said.
Too late.
His keister hit the floor, and his head fell forward toward his knees. He was passing out.
Too bad.
It would have been nice to see just what she had intended. It wasn't like he got an offer like that every day of his life.
That was his last thought… then the swimming in his brain went still.
And dark.
They did consume most of the brandy.
They had done so sitting on the sofa downstairs. And they hadn't talked a lot. They'd mention something about the show, and then something about the wake. And then Stephanie would shiver again, and they'd fall silent. Then they'd mention something about the show…
And something about the wake.
And drink more brandy.
Stephanie had gone from sitting beside him to resting her head on his shoulder. And now, she was lying on his lap, and as he gently moved his fingers over her forehead, smoothing dark strands of her hair from it, he saw that she had fallen asleep. Thank God. He needed sleep, too. He needed time to try to forget.
He waited, just watching her, as she breathed in and out. For a moment, the love he felt for her was so fierce that he shivered, and shivered with a fear that made no sense.
It was this place.
No, it had started before they had come to this place. They hadn't even come together. And yet…
He had been drawn here.
And despite Reggie, maybe Stephanie had been drawn as well.
Whatever was happening had torn them apart.
He gritted his teeth. He had to make whatever was happening put them back together again.
She shuddered slightly in her sleep, then a sigh escaped her and she settled against his lap again. He waited a few minutes, then rose carefully, balancing her weight. He brought her upstairs to the bedroom and slipped her shoes off, leaving her in her clothes. Settling her head on her pillow, he drew the covers to her shoulders, then slid off his own shoes and crawled in next to her.
Once again, he just watched as she breathed.
And the sense that he had to protect her, above all else, against all odds, swept over him.
And with it, suddenly, an anger.
Whatever the hell it was, he damned sure was going to beat it.
He lay awake a long time, and realized that he was waiting for the light. That night, he intended to wait out the darkness.
At one point, he rose restlessly, walked to the sliding glass windows, and looked out at the night. The heavens seemed shaded again, as if the moon and stars were blocked by a giant, sweeping cloak that enwrapped the area.
He gripped the balcony railing. He could hear the breeze. It seemed that there were whispers in it.
Voices that called to him.
He closed his eyes, on the one hand telling himself that he was being absurd, and on the other hand…
listening. He sat on the balcony, leaned against the glass, feeling the air, smelling the salt from the water.
Again, his eyes closed. As if it were a physical presence as solid as the arms of a woman, the air seemed to enwrap him…
Doug was already lying down when he heard the rapping sound. Groggy, he listened for several minutes before he realized that the tapping was coming from the sliding glass doors just feet away from his bed.
He buried his head back into his pillow, exhausted. It had been one hell of a night, and the mingling with others after the show had been a definite boon to his ego. They might be working a new, small club in Southern Italy, but for a stage performer, there was little so sweet as being received with such tremendous enthusiasm.
The tapping continued.
"Go away," he muttered aloud. He hadn't gotten quite as carried away with alcohol as the others, but…
was the tapping real, or was it in his mind?
It was real.
He struggled out of bed, anxious to stop the noise. Padding softly in his Calvin Kleins, he reached the doors and drew back the draperies.
He was astounded to see Gema Harris standing there.
But then, maybe he shouldn't have been quite so surprised. Suzette had sworn that she had seem Gema; she had kept trying to find her among the people thronging the bar after the show.
She had her nerve, coming back. He intended to tell her so. Knowing Gema, though, she'd have some ridiculous story about being spirited away for just a few days by Steven Spielberg, or something of the like. Yeah, right, Gema.
He found the lock and opened the door, sliding the glass back wide. The ocean air hit him, and for a minute, it was sobering. He stared at Gema, ready to yell, to tell her that he was sleeping, that she wasn't wanted.
The words froze in his mouth. His boxers were spacious, and the material was suddenly standing like a tent.
Gema looked incredible. She was blessed with a real hourglass figure—paid for or not, he had no idea—but in the last week, certain of her assets seemed to have grown. And she didn't have a hard look to her at all. Her eyes were bright, her smile was amazingly sweet.
"You're not getting your job back, you know," he heard himself say.
"I know. I just really wanted to apologize. " Her eyes swept him up and down. Surely, she was aware of the physical reaction she had caused.
"You're knocking at my door in the middle of the night to apologize to me? Stephanie is the one you walked out on, you know. You were here earlier—Suzette saw you. While people were actually still awake would have been a nice time to apologize or explain, or whatever. "
"Doug, you were always the most decent to me, you understood me
best," she said, and for the life of him, she actually seemed distraught. "Let me in, please. Let me just talk for a minute?"
He sighed. Gema would be pleased, of course, knowing that she had the charm and ability to manipulate him. But, hey, what the hell?
"Sure. You want a drink?"
"A drink? You're offering?" she said, and giggled slightly. "Oh, Doug, that would be lovely. "
"We can go down to the kitchen. Let me just grab a robe. "
He started to head for his closet. He felt her fingers on his bare back. If his Calvin Kleins had been in trouble before, they were instantly strained to the breaking point by that one touch.
"Doug… you don't need a robe. "
Astounded, he turned to her. She had never shown the least sexual interest in him before—he wasn't rich enough, or muscle-bound enough.
She was wearing a knit, halter-type dress. With no underwear, he quickly discovered.
She was sliding out of it, the very act a tease of the highest variety, her every little nuance of movement sensual enough to wake a dead man.
"Gema?" His voice sounded funny. High and cracking.
He backed away at first. She didn't care a hoot about him. She was going to use him to get back in Stephanie's good graces, somehow.
She was naked, breasts huge as pendulums, hair falling around her shoulders, lips moist, pouting slightly.
She wants something, he reminded himself.
But then…
Who the hell cared?
He did manage to ask her, "Gema, what do you want?"
"You," she whispered. The simple word was delightfully lascivious.
Then she moved against him. She came to her toes, tongue teasing his lips as she pressed against him.
His insides seemed to explode.
Screw it. She could have whatever she wanted.
He felt her tongue moving against his earlobe, felt her body press firmly to his. He seemed to be fitting to her just like a glove.
He grabbed at the waistband of his boxers, nearly stumbling in his haste to be rid of them. She started to press him toward the bed. His arms wrapped around her. He wanted her down.
Lord, but she was a strong one!
He was twisted around, forced down. She straddled him and started kissing him again in a frenzy.
"Gema… if you want it, you'd better go for it now!" he said hoarsely.
Then… in the midst of her erotic play, he felt the sharpness of pain.
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