“You are ready to order, señors?”
All three men turned to peer blankly at the waiter who had approached their table, but it was Raffaele who recovered first and shook his head. Opening his menu, he murmured, “No, sorry. We’ll need a minute.”
“Sí. Of course. I will return,” the man said, smiling brightly.
Santo shifted with agitation as the waiter moved away, and then asked, “How many people did you see with bites?”
“A good forty or fifty throughout the day,” Raffaele guessed. Once they’d noticed the first two groups with bite marks on them, they’d started examining everyone who had come down to the beach. At least those who had got close enough for them to look over.
“And they were all young,” Zanipolo said suddenly and, when Raffaele glanced at him with surprise, added, “Didn’t you notice? They were all in their early twenties.” He pursed his lips briefly, and then added, “They were all fit and attractive too.”
“Or maybe we didn’t see anyone older or unfit with bite marks because they are sensible enough not to go to the beach wearing little more than tiny triangles of cloth connected by bits of floss,” Raffaele said dryly.
Zanipolo grinned at his comment. “Careful, cugino, your age is showing.”
“Were the—?” Santo began, and then paused to scowl at their waiter as he approached again. “Not yet. We will signal you when we are ready,” he said, waving him away.
“Sí. Of course, señor.”
The waiter’s smile was a little strained this time, Raffaele noticed, but turned his attention to Santo as the man asked, “Were the bite marks not all on the neck?”
Raffaele shook his head. “Some were, but most were on the arms, wrists, legs, ankles, and even thighs.”
“Odd,” Santo said with a frown.
“Smart, more like,” Raffaele countered. “Fifty people with bite marks on their necks would definitely draw more attention than a rogue would want. Bite marks in different spots on several individuals could pass as bug bites of some kind, and that’s what most of them thought they were. At least in the case of the people I bothered to read.”
“Did you learn anything else from the people you read?” Santo asked at once.
Raffaele eyed him briefly. He didn’t really want Santo getting too invested in this matter. The trip was supposed to be so he’d relax, after all. However, curiosity soon got to him, and he reluctantly asked, “Like what?”
Santo shrugged discontentedly. “Anything. Trips or tours they might all have in common?”
“You mean like maybe a nest of immortals run the local ziplining place and they feed on each customer as part of their payment?” Zanipolo suggested.
“Sì. Like that,” Santo said at once.
Raffaele shook his head slowly, and admitted, “I did not think to search for that kind of information.”
“Maybe we should,” Zanipolo said solemnly, and then added, “That group at the table in the corner behind you were one of the ones where everyone seemed to have a bite.”
Raffaele glanced over his shoulder at the table in question. They looked a little different dressed than they had on the beach in almost nothing, but he recognized them anyway.
“The group has been on a lot of tours,” Santo said, focusing on one member after another with narrowed eyes. “A monkey safari, a catamaran trip, an island tour, the Seaquarium, shark feeding, ziplining, scuba diving . . .”
“Those are all day tours,” Raffaele pointed out. “Immortals are more likely to run night tours of some kind.”
“Maybe not,” Zanipolo argued when Santo sat back in his seat with a cluck of irritation. “What do they care if they’re out in the day if they’re rogues who feed freely off of every mortal who passes through? I mean, we saw a lot of people with bite marks, Raff, and that was just here at this resort, and it was only the ones dressed scantily enough for us to see the marks. If this all comes down to a local tour, and there are tourists at every resort with these marks . . .” He arched his eyebrows. “That’s a lot of people bitten.”
“A hell of a lot of people bitten,” Raffaele muttered, frowning at the thought. This could be a lot bigger nest than they’d considered.
“Señors, I apologize to interrupt.”
All three men turned to eye their waiter as he stopped at their table again. He was still smiling, but it was a cross between a pained smile and one of apology as he said, “But if you wish to order, you must do so now. The kitchen is closing.”
Raffaele raised his eyebrows at this news and glanced at his watch, surprised to see how late it was. They’d been searching the resort for much longer than he’d thought. It was almost ten o’clock. Lifting his head, he glanced to Zanipolo in question. “Well?”
Zanipolo took a quick glance through his menu, but then let it slip closed and shook his head as he got to his feet. “If the kitchen is closing, the restaurant is too. I don’t want to keep these guys past their shift. We can go down to the waterside pub-style restaurant. They’re open until two or something, and had a burger on their menu I wanted to try anyway.”
“Oh, no, señors, por favor. You are welcome to order. We do not mind the staying late,” their waiter protested, glancing from them to the maître d’ with alarm. It seemed obvious he feared getting in trouble.
Smiling faintly, Raffaele reached into his pocket and retrieved a couple of bills as he stood. He slipped the tip to the man as he shook his hand, and then said loudly enough for the maître d’ to hear, “We aren’t feeling like Italian tonight, after all. Maybe another time. Sorry for the trouble. Have a good evening.”
“Gracias,” the waiter said sincerely. “Por favor. You must come back. Anytime. I will be happy to serve you.”
Raffaele nodded and ushered Santo and Zanipolo out. The three of them were silent as they made their way across the resort toward the beach and the restaurant there. It was a much more relaxed restaurant, a bar as much as a food place, and had a band playing when they entered.
“This is more my style,” Zanipolo said cheerfully as they took their seats and accepted the menus offered them.
“It reminds me of the restaurant where we played in St. Lucia,” Santo said, his voice a deep rumble.
“Yeah,” Raffaele agreed with a smile, glancing around at the high, round wooden tables and the barstool chairs. They’d asked for the deck, and had been led straight to a table along the rail. It overlooked the dark beach and the water beyond.
A beautiful view, Raffaele decided, and it truly was. The night was so clear and the ocean so calm inside the reef that the moon and stars were reflected on the water’s surface as if it were a mirror. Shaking his head, he murmured, “You can see for miles.”
“Yeah, but I was talking about the food,” Zanipolo said with amusement. “Look, they have chicken fingers, and fish and chips.”
“I thought you wanted a burger?” Santo said, sounding amused.
“Sì, but look at all the options,” Zanipolo said.
Raffaele didn’t look. He was busy squinting out at the ocean.
“What’s got your attention, cugino?” Zanipolo asked suddenly.
Raffaele frowned. “I think there’s something floating out there.”
“What? A boat?” Zanipolo asked, turning to peer out at the water now too.
“No. Not a boat,” he said with certainty.
“Madre de Dio,” Zanipolo gasped suddenly. “It looks like a floater.”
Raffaele’s mouth tightened at the word. That was exactly what he’d feared it was—a dead body floating in the water. Someone who had fallen off a cruise ship, or simply been dragged out by the currents and was now being floated gently back in, he thought, and then stiffened as an arm came up out of the water and then slid back in as the other arm rose and did the same.
“Is that—? They’re swimming! They’re alive!” Zanipolo exclaimed with excitement.
“Not for long,” Santo predicted grimly, and then pointed out, “Whoever they are, they’re beyond the reef that protects the swimmers on the beach, and I’m quite sure that’s a shark fin I see off to the right out there.”
Raffaele didn’t comment. He was already on his feet and leaping over the railing surrounding the deck. He hit the soft sand below with a jolt and took off running, shedding his clothes as he went. By the time he reached the water, Raffaele had torn off his T-shirt, kicked off his shoes, and undone his pants. He paused at the shoreline long enough to push them off, and then raced into the cool water, his gaze measuring the distance between the shark fin and the swimmer. By his guess, it would be close, but he should reach the swimmer before the shark did . . . hopefully.
Jess managed another couple of strokes before she had to pause again and return to simply floating along in the water. She knew she should probably turn over and look around to be sure she was still moving toward shore and hadn’t somehow drifted off course, but she was so tired she couldn’t make herself do it. She’d just float for a bit more first, she decided, her eyes drooping closed.
Jess was exhausted. The waves had helped, carrying her along as she kicked her feet, but she’d had to battle them to keep from being taken off course. She was hoping to reach shore near the resort where they were staying. She had no money, and all she was wearing was her bikini bottoms and the torn T-shirt, which she’d knotted between her breasts in an attempt to make it more decent. Jess would really rather not stroll up on shore at the hedonist’s resort she’d heard was up the beach from theirs in one direction, or the private nudist’s resort in the other. Her resort, where her family was, and where her room waited with her clothes in the closet, and her money in the safe, was her aim.
Fortunately, her battle with the waves had ended when she reached the protected bay. The wind had died abruptly, the waves disappearing, and swimming had become much easier. Unfortunately, Jess had been exhausted by then, and now faced a different battle. Her arms felt leaden, as did her legs, and she was struggling to keep from falling asleep and drifting back out to sea.