Never Sleep With Strangers

“Sure,” Joe Johnston said, speaking up. “Even if I’m not the murderer, can I shoot Susan anyway?”

Laughter rose, then faded, as Susan stared them all down. “You’re right at the top of my list, too, Joe,” she told him sweetly. She pointed a finger at him and made a popping sound, as if she were pulling a trigger. “And you’ll be covered in something a lot worse than red paint!”

“Come, come, children, behave,” Anna Lee Zane drawled.

“Well, shit, I’m sorry!” Joe said.

Anna Lee shook her head, as if it were as impossible to deal with writers as with unruly children.

Jon rose. “If you all will excuse me, I have a few things to attend to,” he said. “Please, make yourselves at home. We’ll meet here at nine tomorrow morning. For the early birds, coffee will be on the buffet by six.”

He exited the great hall, closing the double doors behind him. Sabrina stared after him, biting her lower lip, wishing suddenly that she hadn’t come.

Brett’s hand landed on hers where it rested on the table. “Want to see my room?” he inquired hopefully.

She withdrew her hand, smiling because he could be so much like a child, so eager, so unwilling to admit defeat.

“No. I’m going to bed.”

“That will work with me.”

“To sleep. I’m one of those guests with jet lag. I got to London late last night and came here this afternoon. I’m tired.”

“All right. I’m right next door to you, if you change your mind. If things go bump in the night.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” she told him.

She waved a good-night to the others as she escaped the great hall.

The castle foyer and magnificent staircase were empty. With the doors to the library and great hall closed, she suddenly felt very alone in the ancient edifice.

She hurried up the stairs and down the second-floor hallway with its Norman arches toward her own room.

It was huge, retaining a historical feel yet updated to offer incredible warmth and comfort. The bed sat on a richly carpeted dais, and heavy draperies hung at the balcony doors to ward off cold drafts. The closet and bath were large, and an antique desk sat to the side of a massive hearth. A fire had been built and stoked, and it burned brightly as she entered her room, hesitated, then carefully shot the bolt.

She kicked off her shoes and stripped away her stockings, then found herself wandering to the glass-paned balcony doors that closed out the night beyond. She opened them and stepped outside. From this vantage point she could see rolling fields, the shimmering waters of a small loch and the purple crests of mountains in the distance. The scenery, even by moonlight, was breathtaking. This trip was the opportunity of a lifetime.

She never should have come.

Sabrina drew a long, shaky breath. “So,” she asked herself aloud, “did you come to try to convince yourself that your brief, shining moment in his company is completely over and forgotten? Or were you hoping to sleep with him just once more, whatever the consequences?”

She felt her cheeks redden. How humiliating. Would he sleep with her again? She undoubtedly had a reputation for being rather…casual. Just think of the way she had left Brett, running away naked….

Funny. Brett was okay. She liked being friends. It was even flattering that he still pursued her. What he had done was terribly wrong, but what she had done was wrong, as well. She had married him without truly loving him.

Because, of course, she had been in love with Jon Stuart.

A cool breeze suddenly wrapped around her, and she remembered being in New York City for the very first time and winding up at a party for one of her publicist’s other clients, who had just had a Broadway opening. Sabrina had had no idea who the handsome party guest was when she met him, other than that his name was Jon. He’d had her laughing, telling her about the terrors of the big city and how it might well be a death-defying feat simply to survive her first experience with a New York cab driver.

Admittedly, she’d drunk too much. She’d been exhilarated with the success of selling her book and excited at being in his company. He had a car, and he offered to drive her back to her hotel.

She’d fallen asleep on his shoulder in the car, and when they’d reached her hotel, she was still drowsy, intoxicated and giddy. She remembered opening her eyes and seeing his face above hers, his eyes dark, marbled, fascinating. “We’re here,” he’d told her.

And she’d nodded, though she hadn’t moved, and then he’d said, “I can carry you up to your room. Which is what I should do. Because if I bring you home with me, I’ll take advantage of you. I won’t be able to help myself.”

Even with the breeze caressing her now on the balcony, she could still remember her reply.

“Please do.”

No amount of alcohol could forgive that, she told herself now. She hugged her arms around her chest. Yet it had been wonderful. The best time of her life. They’d driven to his apartment in the city, and he’d carried her upstairs. He had undressed her in his bedroom, and, still dressed himself, he had demanded to know if she was sure….

Then he had kissed her, and for the rest of her life she would remember his touch on her body, his lips, burning, intimate, demanding, everywhere. She would remember him, the feel of his flesh, the touch of his hands, the mole at the small of his back….

The night had been pure magic. The next day they’d cooked breakfast together, wandered through the Metropolitan Museum of Art and gone out for Chinese before returning to spend the evening making love again. Absurdly, after all that, it wasn’t until the next morning that she’d asked his last name and learned that he was “the” Jon Stuart, the well-known author.

Jon had been in the shower when his “fiancée,” Cassandra, showed up. Sabrina herself had been wearing a terry robe, her hair wet and plastered around her face. She’d been stunned when the door opened. Cassandra had stared at Sabrina, looking her up and down, not appearing angry—just amused. Then she’d made a comment about Sabrina being an annoying little whore, thrown some money at her and told her to get out.

One of the biggest regrets of Sabrina’s life was that she had done so—after throwing the money back, of course. She’d come from the farmlands of the Midwest, and even with a college education, a little work experience behind her and a four-year relationship with the captain of her college debate team, she was incredibly naive. Every time she replayed the scene in her head, she was newly humiliated and newly furious with herself. Where had her backbone been? Why hadn’t she challenged the woman? She should have—but she hadn’t. Maybe she had just been too stunned, or too insecure. She’d grabbed her own clothing and left.

Jon hadn’t made any promises to her. He’d been honest, asking about her life, admitting his involvement with Cassandra, saying that they were on and off more often than a water spigot. When Sabrina looked back at the situation, she realized that she had simply been too afraid she might lose if Jon had had to make a choice between the two of them. Life, she’d since learned, meant taking chances. She’d just learned it a little too late.

Jon had tracked her down, all the way to Huntsville. But she’d told her mother to tell him that she’d gone to Europe. He’d written to her, telling her that he wasn’t engaged, and that he’d had no commitments whatsoever the night they met. He’d asked her to contact him, since he hadn’t been able to convince her mother to quit lying for her.

Sabrina had just reached the point of deciding she was being a worse fool not to respond when she heard that he and Cassie had suddenly done the deed, marrying after a late night in Las Vegas.

Not much later, she’d married Brett.

End of story.

Until she’d run naked from her honeymoon suite. And Cassandra Stuart had plummeted from her balcony into the waiting arms of death.

The wind was growing sharp. Sabrina shivered and looked out into the darkness.

The moon was high, struggling to shine through the clouds. Outdoor lights slightly illuminated the courtyard below. The castle was built in a horseshoe shape, surrounding the courtyard. The maid who had brought her to her room earlier had told her that the far end of the left wing comprised the master suite, with balconies opening to the central courtyard and to the rear.

Glancing in that direction, Sabrina saw the shape of a man standing on the far balcony in the moonlight. His shirt ruffled in the wind; his hair flowed back. He stood tall and still, staring at the moon.

Then he turned, and she knew he was watching her, and she was watching him.

It was Jon. And standing there, watching him, she wondered if he was in pain, if he was missing his wife, if he was reflecting on her death.

He lifted a hand, as if saluting her.

Sabrina backed away, right into the door, and for a moment a scream lodged in her throat as she thought that someone was behind her.

She felt a moment’s strange fear. She was standing on a balcony. And whatever the situation, Cassandra had fallen to her death from a balcony not far away. She had plummeted into the arms of a statue of Poseidon below. His trident had torn into her, and she had died instantly, even before her husband had come running back to her. Poseidon still stood below that balcony, though the rosebushes surrounding his fountain were no longer in bloom.

It was so easy to feel that someone was standing behind her now, ready to push….

But when she spun around, no one was there. She went into her room and discovered that the bolt was still thrown.

The rooms were all supplied with brandy.

Sabrina hated brandy, but she poured herself a snifter, wrinkled her nose and swallowed a fairly large portion. “If you’re going to survive this week, you’re going to have to cool your imagination,” she told herself.

She’d claimed downstairs that she was tired. And she was. Shaky, exhausted from the time change and lack of sleep.

But she couldn’t seem to get drowsy.

She stayed awake for hours. She sipped brandy, making faces at the taste, and read some magazine she’d brought for the flight.

She had V.J.’s latest book, and after she finished the magazines she began to read, until she realized that she just couldn’t concentrate. She finally lay down, determined that she had to get some rest.

But even when she finally slept, she tossed and turned and began to dream disturbing dreams.

In the darkness of the night, he moved down the steps, silent, a wraith. He tried to tell himself that it would all go well, that he didn’t need to be afraid.

But he was afraid. Because he loved her.

They had prearranged their meeting, yet even so, he was suddenly, perhaps ridiculously, uneasy. In the ancient dungeon, he suddenly felt as if long-dead murderers had come to life, as if they were mocking him, telling him that he was no better, even if he hadn’t actually performed the deed. The lighting was pale, purplish, seeming to cast a ghoulish fog over the faces of torturers, swordsmen and more. Executioners in their dark masks seemed to move, taunting him, warning him.

He came to the tableau of Lady Ariana Stuart upon the rack, and for a moment he paused, forgetting both fear and reason. She was the finest of all the pieces. Something in her eyes was real, a touch of the innocence and sincerity that belonged to Sabrina Holloway. Startled anew by the resemblance to the living woman so nearby, he was tempted to reach out and touch her, to rescue the beauty from the beast who threatened her.

“My love!”

The whisper drew him back to the present, and he spun around. She had come. She rushed to him, and he wrapped her in his arms. “Why are you so afraid? Why did we have to meet in secret?” he queried gently.

She shook her head against his chest. “This is all so dangerous. I know that they know. I know that we’re in danger. I just wish…”

“Don’t be so afraid. Don’t create trouble before trouble appears.”

She shook her head and stepped back. “You don’t know how vicious, how dangerous, they can be!”

“Our game is dangerous, my pet. We mustn’t overreact. We must just wait, listen, watch…and see what comes.”

She leaned against him. “I’m so afraid. Hold me.”

He did, feeling the movement of her body against his, her touch. He felt her tugging at his clothing. Felt her hands…finding bare flesh. To his amazement, he hardened instantly, a streak of desire flashing through him. He looked around at the ghoulish setting, amazed, somewhat aghast, and all the more excited because of it.

“Someone could come. Look where we are….”

They seemed to be staring at him. Headsmen in their black hoods, murderers, executioners, rogues. Joan of Arc, so saintly on her cross.

She laughed softly, and the sound washed over his senses. He groaned and slipped down with her, and within seconds they were sprawled out on the cold floor. She was as naked as a jaybird as purple light bathed them. She was insatiable, rising above him, crying out. He tried to hush her, but she laughed, and when they were both spent, she lay at his side and looked up at the faces surrounding them. “It was fun, like an orgy,” she teased.

“You worry me.”

“Come on. It was as if they were all watching. It was an incredible turn-on.”

He hesitated. “You liked to watch…her,” he said, suddenly realizing the truth of his own words.

She shrugged. “So? That was a turn-on, too.”

“But this is dangerous, meeting here, like this,” he told her. “Everything we do now is dangerous. The days to come are dangerous. We don’t know what people know, what they saw, what they might have suspected….”

“We’ll be careful,” she whispered. “We’ll be okay. But I have to be with you….”

He nodded slightly.

She knew how to move him, how to make him need her. Because he loved her, of course.

He closed his eyes and opened them, then started.

She was looking at him. Lady Ariana Stuart was turned his way, and she was looking at him with her huge, wide, beautiful blue eyes.

She was watching.

He could feel her eyes. Looking at him, seeing him. Watching…

It was a turn-on.

And yet dangerous.

He was both aroused and afraid.

It was as if she knew….

She didn’t want Jon Stuart; she’d told herself that time and time again. She wasn’t absurdly, naively young anymore; she was older now, wiser. But in her dreams, she was lying in her bed, naked, waiting, wanting….

Because he was there. Tall, towering, dressed in black. Standing over her…

It was Jon.

It wasn’t. The tall figure was surrounded by fog and changed with each slight flutter of a purple-gray breeze.

It was a torturer, intent upon her agony and destruction, and she was caught, tied, unable to move, to escape, because ropes bound her tightly, and all she could do was look up into the eyes of death with a silent, wax-cast scream….

She awoke with a start, shaking, drenched in sweat. She sat up wildly, looking around.

Her room was empty. The fire burned low; moonlight filtered in.

She could see plainly that she was alone, entirely alone.

And yet it seemed…

There was a presence, a scent, a feeling, something in the air. A feeling she couldn’t shake that someone had been there. Jon? Or Brett? Or an artist’s rendering of a medieval torturer in wax?

“Too much time in the dungeon,” she told herself softly. But her unease persisted.

She leaped up. The bolt was still secure. She’d been dreaming, and she was alone.

Shaking, she curled back into bed and tried to sleep again. But the moon began to set, and soon daylight was filtering in.

She sat up again. “Oh, the hell with this!” she groaned aloud.

So she rose and showered and was the first one downstairs for the six o’clock coffee.

But not even coffee and sunlight could dispel the strange feeling that she hadn’t been alone….

Someone had been with her in her locked and bolted room.

5

Sabrina had a pounding headache and felt so tired and wretched that she could barely sit up.

So naturally the first person into the great hall for breakfast was Susan Sharp.

“Good morning! Nice to see you up!” Susan said with a cheerfulness that was doubly irritating. “Don’t you just love this place? I slept like a baby.”

“The castle is beautiful,” Sabrina replied.

Susan drew up the chair beside Sabrina’s at the polished oak table. “Can you believe that Cassandra absolutely hated this place?”

Sabrina told herself that she didn’t want to gossip, but with Susan there was little choice. And despite herself, she wanted to know everything she could about Cassandra Stuart.

“Did she really?”

Susan nodded grimly, stirring sugar substitute into her coffee. “Hated it. I never understood why Jon put up with her.” She shrugged. “Frankly, I never understood why he married her.”

“Well, she really was beautiful. And smart,” Sabrina heard herself comment.

Susan wrinkled her nose. “Yes, but…well, Jon is gorgeous himself. He could have dozens of women. Has had dozens of women. Why marry that one?”

“He must have loved her.”

“Well, maybe he did. But I can tell you this—he was ready to divorce her when she died.”

“How do you know?”

Susan added milk to her coffee. “Because I was here, remember? They were fighting like crazy. Jon has always loved it here. He didn’t grow up with money, you know. The family inherited this place, but it was a disaster, an albatross hanging around his neck when he first came into possession of the property. Cassandra’s family was swimming with cash—she never wanted or needed for anything. Jon’s dedicated to his children’s charities, and these little Mystery Weeks of his make some really big money. Cassandra didn’t like games, hated half of Jon’s friends. She couldn’t bear V.J., because V.J. would never suck up to her. She said whatever she damned well felt like saying—you know her. Cassie tortured Jon every time he held one of these. He’d be in the middle of something, and she’d supposedly be his hostess—and then she’d suddenly decide she simply couldn’t bear it and throw a tantrum or be off. I know Jon had decided that he was done with her when she died.”

“Susan, maybe they had problems,” Sabrina said, “but how can you possibly know their marriage was over?”

“Because I know Jon,” Susan purred. She leaned back, lifting her long-nailed fingers in a casual gesture. “But then again, Jon wasn’t the only one fighting with Cassandra. She and Anna Lee Zane had barely been civil to one another all week. For one thing, Cassandra had given a scathing review of Anna’s last book on national television in the States. And, of course, Anna is stunning, and she and Jon have been good friends for a very long time. Cassandra never understood the concept of friendship, especially not between a man and a woman, even a woman who goes both ways. Then again, I admit, I don’t quite get friendships, either. I mean, it’s hard to like a man and not want to sleep with him.”

Susan shrugged. “But that’s beside the point. Cassie also completely dished Tom Heart in a review that might have cost him a spot in a really important anthology that came out last year. And of course she was also afraid that Jon was sleeping with someone who was a guest here, and she herself was supposedly sleeping with someone else, as well. I don’t know if she really was or wasn’t, since she adored Jon. She really did. She just didn’t know how to be a wife to him. She was always jealous but always taunting him. It was as if she thought she had to let him know at all times that other men found her desirable, that she was a special prize he needed to cherish. Jon never did take well to threats. But then, she threatened everyone all the time—she seemed to need to hold something over the head of every single human being she ever met.”

“And you fought with her, too, of course.”

“Of course,” Susan said, smiling. “I’ve admitted I hated her. She was the worst bitch known to man.”

“Oh, come now!” Brett exclaimed, entering the great hall. He poured himself coffee and sat down at Sabrina’s other side. “Was Cassie really such a bitch? Or was she misunderstood? Maybe it was hard being married to Jon Stuart and giving in to his every whim. She loved cities, glamour, excitement, and he liked to tuck himself away here in the country and watch the wind blow.”

“That’s not true,” Susan said, staunchly defending Jon. “He has homes in London, New York and L.A., as well.”

“Poor fellow,” Brett murmured lightly.

“Poor fellow, indeed!” V.J. announced, sweeping into the room with an audible sniff. She ruffled Brett’s hair. “As if you’re going to be suffering financially after your next contract!”

Brett smiled sheepishly. “Okay, so I’m not a poor fellow, either. I’m a happy one right now. And I’m going to be really, really rich, as well. You truly should remarry me, Sabrina.”

“Not a chance, I’m afraid.”

“Sleep with me, then. Men always buy their mistresses better presents. And we were good together, right?”

Susan and V.J. were both staring at her.

“Brett!” she said, nearly strangling.

He ignored her protest, his eyes suddenly on Susan again. “Here you are, Sue, defending Jon now, but you seemed to be absolutely convinced he killed Cassandra when it happened.”

“Don’t be silly. He was outside when she fell.”

“He could have paid someone to do the deed,” Brett said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Isn’t it rather rude, the way we’re sitting around discussing our host as a potential murderer,” V.J. queried.

“But it is a Mystery Week,” Brett said.

As if on cue, Camy Clark came into the room bearing a stack of envelopes. “Good morning, everyone.”

“Everyone isn’t here,” Susan said snidely.

Sabrina frowned, wondering why the woman was continually so rude to Jon’s assistant. Camy didn’t intrude; she was quiet and tended to stay out of the way.

“Well, it’s still early,” Camy said. “But if you’d like—”

“Ah, you have our character descriptions and our instructions!” Brett said, flashing her one of his devastating smiles.

Camy flushed, smiling. “Yes, I do. Now remember, everyone is to know one another’s character but nothing else. You’ll receive more instructions as we go along. The murderer will, of course, know who he or she is and where to get the murder weapons. And remember, the murderer may have an accomplice. If you’re killed, you’re dead, but you’re a ghost, and you can still warn others of impending danger and help solve the crime.”

“I’m dying for my envelope, darling,” Susan told her, drawling the word dying.

The others laughed. As Camy began handing out the envelopes, more of their number began to arrive: Anna Lee, looking fetching and slim in stirrup pants and a halter top; Reggie in her inevitable flowered dress; Tom Heart, tall and dignified in a smoking jacket and flannel trousers; Thayer Newby in a Jets T-shirt and slacks; Joe Johnston, casual in a golf shirt and chinos; Joshua Valine looking very artistic, with a paint-smudged denim shirt over a plain white T and baggy pants; Dianne Dorsey in a calf-length skirt and sleeveless knit top. And Jon.

Jon, too, was casual, in a navy denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and form-hugging jeans. His dark hair was damp, as if he’d just showered, and Sabrina couldn’t help but wonder if he’d slept late…because he’d been up late, wandering restlessly around his castle at night. She reminded herself that her door had been bolted. And that just because she hadn’t forgotten a reckless sexual encounter in her youth, there was no reason to assume Jon might have any remaining interest in her whatsoever. Her reputation wasn’t exactly a sparkling one.

She rose for more coffee. V.J. came up beside her, offering her cup to Sabrina to fill, as well.