But getting together a group of unknown variables—actors—in the time given was a bit daunting.

"Would you like to see your room?" Arturo asked brightly. "You must be very tired, traveling all night—and then all day."

"Yes, of course, thank you," Stephanie said, rising. She started to gather up her various bags, but he shook his head. "No, no, we have help! Leave your things, and Giovanni will come for them."

She smiled, but took her backpack anyway. She never left her passport lying around. But she touched nothing else, determined that she wouldn't let these people think that she might even begin to imagine that something could come up missing.

"You are outside, in one of the beach houses—cottages, bungalows, whatever you'd like to call them.

You have the best one, naturally, but since there are twenty-two of them and we're not at anything near capacity, we've got your cast in them as well." He winked. "Honestly, though. I chose them. Yours is the best! And closest to the back, or theater side entry to the club. Reggie thought you would like that,"

Arturo informed her.

"Whatever Reggie says," she murmured.

He grimaced ruefully. "Come this way. There is a door that leads to the beach, and your little cottage. It is delightful. And you can slip back into the theater area without having to go around or come through the rest of the club. You will love it."

He was so delighted with the arrangement that she nodded and forced a smile. "Sounds wonderful."

She followed him up the few steps to the stage and then into the backstage area. There was a loading dock, and a regular doorway. Arturo opened it and moved on out. A small, paved area gave way to the beach and, not fifty yards away, a scattering of small cottages that sat right on the water. The sea scent was strong on the air, but pleasant. The breeze was light, wafting, and felt magnificent against her cheeks.

A short walk brought them to the door where Arturo handed her a key. She accepted it, opened the door, and stepped into her little cottage.

Reggie had done well. It was delightful. There was a living roam with a light Berber carpet and modern furnishings to match. The draperies were beige with soft blue sea patterns—mermaids, starfish, and other delicately drawn little creatures. Steps led to the loft—the bedroom, she assumed—while the living room went straight into a dining area, and back past that, a kitchen with doors that opened directly to the beach. She could faintly hear the fall of the waves against the shore.

She turned to Arturo. "Wow!"

He nodded, very satisfied. "Brilliant, yes? Not so much money into development as you might think, either! Of course, unlike the great structures in Rome, these little places will probably not stand for several thousand years. But! They are new, clean, clever, and very nice, yes?"

"Very, very nice." Stephanie made a mental note to quit damning Reggie in her mind. Her living quarters were beautiful.

"You must go up to the loft. You will like it even better," he told her.

"I'm pretty happy right now," she told him.

With a broad gesture, he indicated the stairs. "I'll leave you to that exploration alone," he told her.

"Giovanni will bring your things, and I will certainly be here first thing in the morning. The kitchen has a few basic needs, but if you wake and wish to have a truly fine espresso, the morning room with its little coffee bar is open from six a.m." He gave her a modest shrug. "Your actors may not be together by then, but you need only ask, and I will be happy to join you."

"Thank you, Arturo. You are very kind."

" Buonasera, e buonanotte!" he told her, and with a deep smile and low bow, he left her.

Stephanie looked up at the painted wrought-iron steps that led to the loft, then hurried up them. The area was even better than the downstairs. The same light tones and decor had been used throughout the entire cottage, but here, there were more of the sea blues used in the carpet and bedspread. There were ample pine dresser drawers, the bed itself was queen-sized, a half-wall looked down to the living area below, and huge sliding glass doors opened to a wide, railed balcony that looked directly over the sea.

For several moments, she stood by the little whitewashed rail that surrounded the porch, just staring at the sea at night, hearing the lulling crash of the waves. Then she turned. To the west, she could also see the rise of the cliffs and hills and jagged, mountainous tors inland. The summer sky was not truly dark, but a deep, beautiful blue. The moon and stars cast the night into a magnificent frame around the darker rise of those cliffs, and the towns that sat upon the jagged, surreal landscape. Breathtaking. Here, the sea, and there, the mountains.

Haunting.

She was a beach person, herself. She loved water, and everything to do with it. Sun and sand, sailing, diving, fishing. All of it.

And yet…

As she stood there, just staring at the darkness and mystery of the inland area, she was surprised to feel a yearning to go toward the mountains. So lovely and fascinating. She knew that the towns upon the cliffs were old, very old, and charming. The history of the area went back… well, probably forever.

It was Italy.

Stephanie closed her eyes. The trials of the long day seemed to slip from her shoulders like a discarded cloak. The air seemed to stir around her, warm enough, yet pleasant and cooling. She looked to the mountains once again and smiled. How odd.

In the night, they seemed to beckon.

She gave herself a shake. Giovanni would be bringing her things. And she needed to get some sleep.

But still…

She found it difficult to tear herself away from the night, from the view, from the comfortable, encompassing touch of the sea breeze.

She wouldn't have to leave it, she reminded herself. After Giovanni brought her baggage, she'd take a quick shower, slide beneath the cool sheets, and sleep with the vast glass doors open to the night breeze.

She couldn't wait to rest, to fall deeply asleep in the soft bed, caressed by the gentle and lulling breeze.

Strange. She had been feeling so tired, frustrated, and aggravated. Then…

Well, now…

She felt almost seduced.

The night sky was magnificent. Since they were far from a town, much less a city, there were no lights, other than the dimly 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.

"God 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.

" 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.

"Thank you. Grazie!" she said.

He nodded.

" 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.

"God, you're hot!" she whispered, finding it somewhat amusing that she could probably say whatever came to mind, and he wouldn't have the least idea.