Never Sleep With Strangers

3

“Ms. Holloway!”

Cocktails were being served in the library of the castle, just down the grand staircase from the guest rooms on the second floor and opposite the great hall, where everyone would gather for dinner. Sabrina found herself arriving rather late. She’d lingered in the modern bath for a very long time, drawing together the courage to dress and go downstairs. Her brief meeting with Jon Stuart had left her far more unnerved than she’d imagined it would. For once she had to be grateful for Brett’s presence. He kept her from feeling too lost and alone, even if he was annoying.

She’d barely reached the doorway to the library when she heard her name being called. A small woman with short-cropped, shiny brown hair was moving toward her, offering her a glass of champagne. She had powder blue eyes, a pretty, heart-shaped face and a tentative smile that immediately set Sabrina at ease.

“Welcome, welcome, we’re so delighted that you could come. Well, I’m delighted especially, since I’m a true fan.” She pressed the champagne flute forward into Sabrina’s hand.

“Thank you so much,” Sabrina said. “And you are…?”

“Oh!” The young woman said, and flushed, making her appear even prettier and more delicate. “I’m Camy, Camy Clark. I’m Jon’s secretary and assistant.”

“Of course, Joan of Arc!”

Camy flushed more deeply. “Yes, that would be me. Joshua Valine is a good friend.”

Sabrina laughed. “He must be. You look lovely, even being martyred.”

“Well, Josh is a dear. He makes everyone look wonderful. You’re definitely the finest looking victim I’ve ever seen on a rack.”

Sabrina laughed again, lifting her champagne glass. “He’s very talented, certainly.”

“So are you. I love your work. The male writers can be so dry. You know, all action but no endearing characteristics to their people. I just love your Miss Miller. She’s a delight. So real, so sympathetic, brave but not ridiculously so.”

“Thank you again. Very much.”

“Camy, Camy, Camy!”

A slim woman of about five-five, with short, artfully styled dark hair, was bearing down on them. Her off-the-shoulder cocktail dress was elegant designer wear; her shoes matched its soft mauve. Sabrina knew Susan Sharp, because Susan herself made a point of knowing everyone. Most writers both feared and appreciated the literary critic because she had so much clout, especially in the world of the wealthy, and thus, by word of mouth, could help make or break a book or an author. She had written two mysteries herself and done very well with them, since her characters were clearly based on her acquaintances among the rich and famous. But she could also be loud, opinionated and abrasive, drawing mixed reactions from friends and enemies alike. It was rumored that she had absolutely hated Cassandra Stuart, who had often been her competition in talk-show bookings.

“Camy, Camy, Camy!” Susan repeated, reaching out to curl her perfectly manicured fingers around Sabrina’s arm. “You can’t just pin Ms. Holloway down at the doorway—we’re all waiting to see her. Authors get to be such good friends, you know.”

“Yes, of course, Ms. Sharp,” Camy murmured, flashing Sabrina an embarrassed look. Susan had put her in her place. She was just an assistant. The rest of them were authors.

“Camy, it was wonderful meeting you, and I look forward to getting to spend more time together,” Sabrina told the young woman.

Camy lit up with a smile. “Thanks!”

Susan drew Sabrina on into the room. “How have you been? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

“It was just last June, in Chicago,” Sabrina reminded her.

“Yes, of course, you were doing so well. So many people adore that Miss Mailer of yours.”

“Miller,” Sabrina corrected smoothly.

“Yes, yes, Miss Miller. So tell me, what’s up with you and Brett? Are you planning on remarrying?”

“What?” Sabrina demanded.

“Well, Brett does make it sound as if you two share so much passion, both of you being so talented and wild. I’ll never forget how delicious it was when the tabloids ran those pictures of you running naked from your hotel room in Paris.”

“Susan, maybe you’ll never forget, but I’d like to. It was a very painful time in my life,” Sabrina said firmly. “Oh, look, there’s V. J. Newfield. I haven’t seen her in quite some time. Excuse me, will you?”

Sabrina escaped Susan and hurried toward V. J.—Victoria Jane—Newfield. V.J. was somewhere in her fifties or sixties and had been writing forever, or so it seemed. Her work was dark and scary but far more psychological than graphic, always striking a resonant note on the human condition. She was very slim, tall, with silver hair and a graceful carriage. She was a stunning woman and doubtless would be so until the day she died. Sabrina had met her early on in her career at a group autographing, where V.J. had assured her that the nicest thing about doing signings with other authors was that there was always someone interesting to talk to if no one stopped to buy a book.

“Trip the customers as they go by, dear,” she had advised. “When they think you’re sitting at a table piled high with books just so you can direct them to the nearest ladies’ room, trip them! Then apologize to pieces, and you’ve snagged them!” V.J. had been great. Already popular, she had convinced most of her fans that they simply had to buy Sabrina’s book, as well, and Sabrina remained grateful to this day.

“V.J.!” she now said with pleasure, approaching the woman at the buffet table, where she was studying caviar-covered crackers and trying to decide whether or not to indulge.

“Sabrina, dear!” V.J. said, turning with a smile and offering her a warm hug. “I wanted to call and make sure you were going to come. I was so sorry when I learned that you turned down the last invitation, though that did become quite a tragedy. I just got back from a cruise down the Nile—do you remember my telling you how much I wanted to take one of those?”

“Yes, and I’m glad you got to go. How was it?”

“Wonderful. Exhilarating. Awesome. The sense of history is so intense, so chilling. And I do just love a good mummy.”

“I’ve got nothing against loving mommies,” Brett said, slipping an arm around Sabrina’s shoulder and smiling at V.J. “Mommies these days can be just as exciting as the innocent girls. It’s great to see you, V.J. You look splendid. Sexy as ever. A great mommy.”

“My children are all long grown up!” V.J. reminded him.

“Mummies, my boy, mummies. We’re talking about dead women, though from what I hear of your indiscriminate womanizing, that might not make any difference to you. How are you, Brett? A kiss will be acceptable, but just on the cheek. And quit mauling Sabrina. The child has the good sense to be your ex-wife, and if the right man is out there, we don’t want him being put off by your foolishness.”

Brett laughed, freed Sabrina and good-naturedly planted a kiss on V.J.’s cheek.

“I am the right man, V.J.,” Brett protested in a mock-pitiful voice. “One moment’s bad behavior, and she won’t forgive me.”

“My boy, I’m no marriage counselor, but I sense that it might have been a bit deeper than that. Still…” She smiled, lifting her champagne flute to him. “Congratulations, I hear you’re just below Creighton on the list.”

Brett bowed his head in humble acceptance. “Thank you, thank you. Creighton just had to put out another book the same month, huh? I might have made number one.”

“Well, there’s always next year.”

“So there is. And since we’re all together here, a fine assembly of mystery, suspense and horror writers, surely we can come up with some new ways to bump off the competition. What do you say?”

“I say it’s in bad taste, considering where we are,” a masculine voice stated softly, and Joe Johnston stepped into their circle. Joe was an Ernest Hemingway lookalike, a handsome man with a bushy beard and a pleasant way about him. He wrote a series about a down-and-out private investigator, charming and laid-back, who still solved the crime every time.

Joe clinked glasses with Sabrina by way of hello and continued, “I mean, who really thinks that Cassandra Stuart threw herself from that balcony?”

“Joe, shush!” V.J. warned. “It was great of Jon to do this again after what happened last time.”

“My point exactly,” Joe said. “And that’s why we can’t talk about bumping off our competition.”

Susan Sharp sidled into their group. “We can’t talk about bumping people off?” she protested indignantly. “Joe, it’s Mystery Week. One of us is supposed to be a murderer and bump off the others until the mystery is solved. That’s the whole point.”

“Right, but that’s all pretend,” Sabrina said.

Susan laughed dryly. “Well, let’s hope that Cassandra’s being dead isn’t pretend. Can you imagine if she were suddenly to walk back into this room?”

“Susan, that’s a horrible thing to say,” V.J. admonished. “If Cassandra were to suddenly appear here, alive—”

“If Cassandra were suddenly to appear here, alive, more than half the people here would be thinking of ways to kill her again,” Susan said flatly. “Cassandra was vicious and horrible.”

“And smart, talented and very beautiful,” V.J. reminded her smoothly.

“Oh, I suppose. And just think—everyone who was here when she died is back again. The guest list is exactly the same,” Susan said.

“I wasn’t here,” Sabrina reminded her.

Susan shrugged, as if her presence were of little importance. “Well, you were invited, and the point is that those of us who were here then are here again. All of us. Ready to defend ourselves if we’re accused.”

“Accused of murder?” V.J. asked.

“Accused of anything,” Susan said blithely. “We all have our little secrets, don’t we?” she demanded, staring hard at V.J.

V.J. stared right back at her.

“Susan, if you’re going to start implying things about the rest of us—” Joe began.

“Oh, come now, Joe, we’re all grown-ups. Everyone knew that no matter how polite and controlled he seemed, Jon was furious with Cassandra. He thought she was having an affair—and she implied to me on several occasions that she was!”

“Susan, ‘Pass me the butter’ has made you think people were having an affair on at least one occasion,” V.J. said impatiently.

“V.J., it’s all in how someone says it. The point is, Jon thought she was having an affair, and she thought Jon was. If they were both right, then you have two other people involved. And God knows, Cassandra nearly destroyed some careers. Any number of us despised her at various points for what she said about our work.”

“You might well have despised her,” a soft voice said. It was shy, retiring Camy, who smiled apologetically at Susan. “After all, Ms. Sharp, you two were often in direct competition, weren’t you?”

Susan arched a brow, staring at the girl imperiously. She didn’t mind the accusation; she minded Camy’s interrupting her. “My dear child, I have no real competition. But just for the record, I did despise Cassandra Stuart. She was an opportunist who used and manipulated people, and you should be grateful that she’s dead, because she would have had you fired by now otherwise. Now please excuse me.” She turned her back on the girl and spoke to the others. “You mark my words. Everyone here has a secret, not to mention a reason to hate Cassandra Stuart.”

“Except Sabrina,” Joe commented quietly.

Susan stared sharply at Sabrina. “Who knows? Maybe she had as much reason as the rest of us. But you couldn’t have tossed her over the balcony, could you, Sabrina? You turned down the invitation to come here last time. Why? Most writers would kill—if you’ll pardon the expression—for such an invitation.”

“Fear of flying,” Sabrina said sweetly.

Susan kept staring at her. “I’ll just bet,” she said. Then, whirling around, she left the group.

“I think she did it,” Brett said with such simple conviction that they all laughed.

“According to the police, no one did it,” Joe said.

“Cassandra didn’t commit suicide,” V.J. commented. “She loved herself far too much for that.”

“But I thought she had cancer,” Sabrina said.

“She did, but maybe it was treatable,” Brett said.

“Maybe she simply tripped,” Sabrina suggested.

“That’s probably just what happened,” another masculine voice interrupted. It was Tom Heart. Tall, lean, white-haired, handsome and dignified, he was the unlikely author of some of the most chilling horror novels on the market. He smiled, lifting a champagne flute to them all. “Cheers, friends, gentlemen and ladies, Brett, Joe, Sabrina…V.J. Good to see you all. And, Sabrina, you may be right on the money. From what I understand, Cassandra was shouting at Jon, who had simply had it with her mood of the moment and was walking away. Perhaps she leaned over to shout louder and leaned just a little too far. Ah, there’s our host now, with the lovely Dianne Dorsey on one arm and the exquisite Anna Lee Zane on the other.”

Sabrina looked toward the library door. Their host was indeed just arriving—in style.

He was in a tux, and achingly handsome. His height and dark good looks were enhanced by the elegance of his attire. His hair was slicked back, his crystalline eyes enigmatic as he talked and laughed with the two attractive women.

Anna Lee was a writer whose novels were based on true crimes. She was somewhere in her late thirties, very petite and feminine, and rumor had it that she happily chose her sexual partners from either gender.

Dianne Dorsey was considered the up-and-coming voice of horror. She was fond of creating alien beings with a bizarre hunger for human flesh. She was very young, having just turned twenty-two, and had published her first novel as a junior in high school, her second as a senior, and now, just out of Harvard, she was a veteran, with four books on the market. She was considered a genius and already had a huge following. Older writers had a tendency to be jealous of her amazing success at so tender an age, success acquired with what appeared to be so little effort. Sabrina was only envious because Dianne seemed to have acquired such self-assurance at so young an age. She would still give her eyeteeth for that kind of assurance. She had a feeling, though, that Dianne had had a tough childhood, that something had happened to make her a fighter even early on.

As she contemplated Dianne, Sabrina realized that Anna Lee was waving at her, smiling. She smiled and waved back.

Then Dianne spotted her, and she, too, grinned and waved. Sabrina lifted a hand in return. Dianne was into the Gothic look. She always wore black; her hair was jet-black; her lipstick was black; her skin was flawlessly white. She favored huge medallions, medieval-style jewelry and slinky clothing and yet managed her look with a sexy femininity that made her unique and appealing.

Still smiling, Sabrina suddenly became aware that Jon was watching her.

Once again, she was right next to Brett. Brett was, in fact, brushing up against her.

She quickly lowered her eyes. She told herself that she didn’t want to get involved with anyone. She hadn’t come here hoping to find something she had lost. She was a mature woman now, with a good career, lots of friends and a great family. She was here as a guest, participating in an important charity event, and it was icing on the cake that it might be a boon to her career, as well.

Liar! an inner voice taunted.

“Ladies, gentlemen, dinner is being served in the great hall,” Jon announced. He excused himself from his two companions, and Sabrina bit her lip to keep from taking a step back as he walked purposefully toward her. “Ms. Holloway, you’re the only one here who might not have had a chance to meet everyone. Excuse me, Brett, may I claim your ex-wife for a moment?” he asked lightly.

“Sure—for a moment,” Brett replied in kind.

Sabrina was dismayed by the warmth that filled her when Jon took her by the arm, flashing his smile, and led her across the room to where a tall, slim man with curly blond hair and clean, handsome features was standing. He looked like an artist, impeccable in his dress clothing except for a tiny drop of paint on his tie. “Ms. Holloway, I’m sure you remember Joshua Valine, our sculptor extraordinaire.”

“Oh, yes,” Sabrina said, instantly remembering the man as his warm brown eyes touched hers. They’d met briefly in Chicago, at the booksellers’ convention. She’d been signing books, and one of the sales reps had introduced him. “We’ve met,” she told Jon, shaking Valine’s hand. “How nice to see you again. Your wax work is incredible. But so real and scary! I’m going to have nightmares about being tortured by my ex-husband,” she told him.

Joshua flushed and flashed a smile. “Thank you. Forgive me for putting you on the rack. You do live, though, you know.”

She laughed softly. “So I’ve been told.”

“You’re rescued from the rack on the command of the king.”

She nodded, adding, “I’m glad I didn’t have to be one of Jack the Ripper’s victims.”

Joshua wrinkled his nose, lowering his voice. “Susan Sharp does it well, though, don’t you think?”

“Shh. Susan has exceptional hearing,” Jon teased. “Let’s see, Joshua, is there anyone here that Sabrina might not know yet?”

“Have you met Camy Clark?” Joshua asked.

“Yes, she’s charming. You’re very lucky to have her, Jon.”

“She’s organized and incredibly competent, and I am very lucky,” Jon agreed. “How about…?”

As he turned to look around the room, they were joined by a solid-looking man with his bright red hair in an old-fashioned crew cut. He flashed a smile at Jon and Joshua and extended his hand to Sabrina. “We’ve met, but only briefly, at a conference in Tahoe. I don’t know if you remember me or not, but I’m—”

“Of course I remember you,” Sabrina told him. “You’re Thayer Newby. I went to every one of your lectures. You probably didn’t see me, because the rooms were so full every time you were speaking.”

Thayer Newby flushed to the roots of what there was of his hair. He’d been a cop for twenty years before becoming a writer, and his talks on police procedure were excellent.

“Thanks!” he said, staring at her and still holding her hand. He shook his head slightly. “How did McGraff ever let you get away?” he inquired. Then he suddenly blushed again. “Sorry, none of my business. I did see that picture, of course.”

Sabrina gritted her teeth, trying not to blush herself. But she could feel Jon at her side, looking at her, and she knew that of course anyone who had ever seen that tabloid photo would wonder just what had caused her to go running naked from her honeymoon suite.

“Brett and I have different ideas about marriage,” she said as smoothly as she could manage.

“But you’ve remained friends, huh?” Thayer said, trying to be casual.

Somehow the words didn’t sound right. And Sabrina realized that he’d probably seen her with Brett most of the night and, like others, had jumped to the conclusion that they had remained more than just friends.

“Yes, we’ve managed that,” she said flatly.

“Ah, there’s Reggie,” Jon said, lifting a hand. “Do you know Reggie Hampton?” he asked Sabrina.

Old yet somehow ageless, Regina Hampton might have been seventy or a hundred and ten. She had written scores of books about an amateur sleuth who was a grandmother and solved local mysteries with the help of her cat. Reggie was blunt, intelligent and a great deal of fun, and she had walked straight across to them as she came into the room. “Reggie,” Jon began. “Do you know—”

“Of course I know the dear child!” Reggie exclaimed. She was tiny and thin and looked as if a breeze would blow her over, but she hugged Sabrina with an amazing strength that gave proof to the rumor that she was a tough old bird. “How lovely to see you here, Sabrina! Jon, however did you convince this lovely young thing to come visit a morbid, reclusive old man in his decaying castle?”

“The same way I convinced you, you old battle-ax,” he teased her affectionately in turn. “I sent her an invitation.”

“Well, it’s just wonderful that you’re here. We need new blood in on these affairs!” Reggie said.

“Ah,” teased Susan, striding over to the group, “let’s just hope we don’t shed new blood, eh?” She smiled wickedly.

“Let’s eat—I’m famished!” V.J. called from across the room. “Jon, you did announce dinner, didn’t you? If we don’t eat soon, we’ll all expire, and not so mysteriously.”

“Perish the thought!” Joe Johnston quipped.

“Perish! That is the thought,” Reggie retorted.

“Right, Jon, let’s eat,” Brett said. “And by the way, think we could break out some brewskies? This champagne just doesn’t cut it for me. How about you, Thayer?”

“There’s a full bar in the great hall, with beer on tap and all kinds, domestic and imported, in the bottle. Go on in and help yourselves,” Jon said.

He glanced down at Sabrina, his eyes strangely dark. She felt as if he were studying her, assessing her. And he looked as if he suddenly wanted to push her away from him.

“Excuse me, will you, please?” he said quietly. And then he was gone.

4

Reggie Hampton linked arms with Sabrina. “My dear, you are a breath of fresh air. Tell me, what’s been happening with you since July?”

Sabrina tried not to watch Jon Stuart as he strode away from her. She forced herself to focus on Reggie, and replied with enthusiasm, “I’ve been home visiting my family.”

“At the farm?”

“Yes. I have an apartment in New York now, but I’ve been staying at my folks’ and my sister’s for a while. She just had a baby, her first, a little boy. Naturally, we’re all just delighted. I spent a few months out there to help when the baby was born.”

“You should be having your own babies soon.”

“Reggie, not every woman has babies these days.”

“But you want children, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do, when the time is right.”

“Are you going to remarry Br—”

“No. Enough about me, Reggie. How is your family?”

Reggie told her briefly about her sons, grandsons and new great-granddaughter as they crossed the entry to the great hall, where dinner would be served. They all milled around the bar first, making drinks.

Brett popped up again to supply Sabrina with a gin and tonic, heavy on the lime, then whispered happily that he’d moved the place cards around at the dinner table and put her next to him. They sat down to a magnificent meal of pheasant and fish. As they ate, they all talked and laughed; it might have been a high school reunion. Then Jon, at the head of the table, rose, thanked them again for coming and reminded them that they were there not only for fun but also for the benefit of children’s charities. Each writer had submitted a favorite cause, and the one who solved the mystery claimed the lion’s share of the donations.

“When do we start?” Thayer called out.

“Tomorrow morning,” Jon replied. “Those with the energy are welcome to catch up on each other’s lives tonight. Those who are too exhausted from jet lag can get some sleep. Things will be pretty much the same as they were previous years. Camy and Joshua have worked out the particulars. I won’t know who the murderer is any more than any of you will. In the morning, you’ll all receive your character roles and a description of the situation. The murderer will discover who he—or she—is, and then he or she will have to get busy before being discovered. The murderer will have been assigned the order in which the victims are to be dispatched. The victims will be ‘murdered’ with a washable red paint, and naturally we’ll take care of any cleaning expenses. Any questions?”