Never Sleep With Strangers (18 page)

A sheen of tears made diamonds of her eyes.

“So I have to do what I have to do!” she added in an anguished whisper.

Then she moved on along the hallway.

Never seeing Sabrina.

Staring after her, Sabrina waited. Dianne followed the hallway to the stairs and descended to the floor below. For long moments, Sabrina just stood where she was.

Then she walked on to Jon's room and tapped on the door.

He threw it open irritably. “What?” he demanded sharply, then stepped back, eyes narrowed as he saw Sabrina.

“You were expecting me?” she said in response to his obvious displeasure.

“I wasn't expecting anyone,” he told her.

“Not even Dianne Dorsey?” she inquired.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you spying on me?”

She shook her head, yet felt absurdly guilty. “No. No, I just came to hear what you found in the dungeon. I happened to see Dianne leave your room.”

“Nothing. I found nothing at all.”

He didn't invite her into his inner sanctum. He stood at the door, jaw set, staring at her.

“She loves you,” Sabrina blurted.

“What?” he demanded sharply.

“Dianne. She left your room muttering that she loved you but that she had to do what she had to do,” Sabrina told him, studying him for his reaction.

He swore softly. “Excuse me,” he told her, starting by her.

“Is she the one with whom you were having an affair?” she called after him.

He paused, turning around, scowling. “No.”

“Anna Lee?” She wanted to kick herself.

“No, and you will have to excuse me.”

“Sure. I have to get back to Brett, anyway.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. Turning, he walked away from her down the hallway.

She started violently as she felt a tap on her shoulder. She spun around to see Anna Lee. Had she, too, just slipped from Jon's room?

“You've got it all wrong,” she said, her beautiful green eyes assessing Sabrina with amusement. She looked exceptionally pretty and feminine in a pink sweater and jeans that hugged her slim, shapely figure. Her sandy blond hair curled around her classical features.

“I have it all wrong?” Sabrina said.

“Mmm.”

“You weren't having an affair with Jon when Cassandra died, but you are now?” Sabrina inquired politely.

Anna Lee laughed. “No, actually, you still have it all wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You see, I
was
having an affair when Cassie died.”

“Were you?” Sabrina hated the fact that she sounded so stiff and jealous when she meant to be nothing more than competently curious and composed.

Anna Lee smiled, running her fingers through her hair. “But I wasn't sleeping with Jon.”

“No?”

Anna Lee laughed, and Sabrina realized just how uptight she must sound.

Anna Lee reached out and briefly stroked Sabrina's cheek. “I was sleeping with
Cassie,
Sabrina.” She shrugged, serious and sincere, yet still amused. “Ah, but don't go getting any wrong ideas. Cassandra hadn't given up men. I wasn't the only one sleeping with her. But I was one among many. Just like she was one among many with me. Variety can be the spice of life.”

“Was Jon upset?” Sabrina asked softly.

Anna Lee shook her head. “He'd known,” she said simply. “Cassie always played people against each other. She used to ask him if he wanted to do us both together. He wasn't interested. Not very flattering, eh? I always did have a crush on him. And Cassie…well, Cassie had her way of making people love her, too. With Jon, I think she just misjudged her man. Poor Cass. It was all awfully sad, really. She was a bitch, hell on wheels. But she
was
beautiful.”

Smiling, her hips swaying, she started down the hall.

Sabrina's knees felt strangely weak. She was ready to slink back to Brett's room.

Maybe Anna Lee had explained herself—to a degree. But Sabrina didn't pretend to comprehend what was going on with Dianne Dorsey.

Or with Jon.

S
abrina stayed with Brett throughout the afternoon, suddenly glad of a friend she knew and understood and anxious lest he suddenly go into convulsions from his concussion.

She felt numb yet wired. She wanted to see Jon, yet she was furious with herself for wanting to.

For waiting.

And hoping.

That he would come to her.

Brett had brought a tape player with him, and they listened to the latest book by Dean Koontz—which might have been a mistake, since it was about a young woman being stalked by a maniacal killer. But the time passed quickly enough, and as cocktail hour neared, a note was slipped beneath Brett's door.

“What does it say?” Brett asked Sabrina. “Are we playing more games now? Another séance? It's a wretched enough night for one.”

She shook her head. “No, no games tonight.”

“What does it say?”

She read it aloud to him.

“Good. You're locking yourself in with me, right?”

She kissed him on the top of his head. “Wrong. In fact, I'm leaving you now. You're cozy and warm in bed, and I—”

“You can be cozy and warm in bed with me.”

“Do you have another book you want to listen to? I'll set up the first tape for you.”

Brett sighed, looking at her like a deserted bloodhound. “Michael Creighton,” he said dourly.

“Great. That will keep you entertained.”

“He's ahead of me on the list,” Brett said sulkily.

“Better yet. You can study your competition,” Sabrina said. Before leaving him, she slid the first tape of the audio book into the player. “Holler if you need anything. I'll check in on you before I go to bed.”

He wrinkled his nose at her. “If you really love me, you'd crawl in here and keep me company until morning.”

“Brett, I've been with you for hours. I want a nice long bath while the hot-water heaters are still going strong.”

“You can take a bath here. We can save hot water—bathe together.”

“Good night, Brett.”

She let herself out of his room. As she did so, she ran into the housekeeper, Jennie Albright, with two fresh-faced young maids, delivering trays.

“Ah, there, Ms. Holloway, would ye mind, dearie, takin' this on in to Mr. McGraff?” Brett's name burred warmly on Jennie's tongue, and Sabrina took the tray from her.

“Certainly.”

“Thanks so much, my dear.”

“My pleasure. You'll be at this all night, Jennie. Can I help you downstairs?”

“Ah, lass, what a sweeting ye be! But no, my thanks, these were the last. Mr. McGraff, Ms. Sharp and yerself.”

Sabrina pushed open Brett's door with her rear and brought Brett his tray.

He smiled happily. “You're back. I knew you couldn't bear being parted.”

“Your dinner, Brett,” she said, setting the tray by his bed. “See you tomorrow.”

“Hey, room service stays longer than that!” he called after her.

She shut the door behind her just as Rose, the younger of the two maids, gave up knocking at Susan's door. “Jennie, there's no answer here,” the girl said.

“Then just leave the tray outside the door, there's a good lass. There's your tray now, Ms. Holloway,” Jennie said. “Cooked up fresh fish, come in just before the storm. Eat it while it's hot.”

“Thank you. If you need help picking up—” Sabrina began.

“No, now, what a love, being so helpful!” Jennie said gratefully. “But Mr. Stuart said that the lasses and I are to take our suppers and lock in for the night. We'll pick up with the dawn, hoping we've got some natural light by then. This snow must stop sometime and the sun shine again. Take care, dear.”

Sabrina accepted her tray from Tara, the second of the maids, with a soft thank-you. The housekeeping trio bid her good-night, and as she watched them go, she suddenly felt uneasy alone in the hallway.

She took her tray with her into her room and closed and bolted her door, wondering why she felt so edgy. The fish smelled delicious; it was flaky and perfectly cooked over an open fire. She ate it hastily, appreciating the excellent chablis served with it. When she was done, she found that she was strangely loathe to open her door; she had begun to feel safe within her room. She chastised herself, unsure why she should suddenly be so afraid.

The remains of a fish dinner, however, could smell. Determined, she set her tray outside her door, looked hastily up and down the hall and locked herself in.

With her door bolted, she gave herself a shake, went into the bathroom and liberally added soothing salts as she filled the bathtub, delighted to see that the hot water was holding out.

But neither the chablis nor the tub seemed to ease the restlessness in her spirit.

Anna Lee Zane had admitted to an affair with Cassandra Stuart. Diane Dorsey had come from Jon's room, whispering of her love for him. Susan Sharp had claimed she was attacked. And now they were all snowbound. They might all be in danger. And all she wanted to do was touch Jon Stuart, make love with him….

Impatient with herself, she rose from the tub, dried briskly and slipped into a soft silk negligee. She should have been chilly. She felt hot. She opened the doors and stepped out onto the balcony to cool her heated thoughts and flesh.

The snow had stopped. The air was crisp. The stars were unbelievably beautiful.

It was then, as she stood there, that she suddenly felt him behind her.

She should have been afraid. It had been a very disturbing day. And once, not so long ago, a woman had plunged from a balcony of this castle to her death.

His wife.

Sabrina wasn't afraid. Because she knew, intuitively, that it was he. Yet she held her breath. If he wanted to kill her, it would be easy. Come up behind her. Push. No real effort. She was fairly light. As Cassandra Stuart had been.

And there had been other women in his life. She wasn't a fool; she knew that.

But the facts no longer seemed to matter. She sensed that she knew this man, and that there was something right about her wanting him, no matter what the past. His or hers.

No matter, even, what she might fear about the present.

She didn't know how she knew that it was he, she just did, assuring her that people were indeed in possession of a sixth sense, hidden somewhere deep within the psyche. She wasn't afraid. He hadn't come to hurt her.

She didn't turn around. She waited. She tried to remind herself that what had been between them had been a long time ago, that he had had relationships with others, that she should show some restraint, some dignity.

She didn't hear him move, nor did she start when he touched her. He took her by the shoulders and turned her around. His marbled eyes held a strange frustration and a simmering, potent anger. She held her breath and waited for him to speak, to ask the questions so obviously on his lips. She needed to speak herself, to tell him that there were many things they needed to talk about. She needed to ask him about his other relationships.

But he didn't question her, and she couldn't find words at all. He swore softly and dragged her into his arms.

The hard, forceful passion in his kiss sent a wave of electricity shimmering throughout her body. She'd never thought a simple kiss could be so bluntly intimate, but the feel of his tongue lashing hungrily within her mouth seemed so sensually hot that her limbs began to quiver, her body to quicken. She felt the hardness of his erection through the velour of his robe and the silk of her nightgown. The intensity of his body heat seemed to fuse his length to hers, settling in her center as if she were stark naked and touched in the most personal, intimate way.

Then he abruptly drew his lips away a fraction, and his eyes found hers. “Are you still sleeping with McGraff?” he inquired huskily.

Anger, intense as her desire had been, flooded through her. She tried to draw back, but he held her too tightly. She didn't answer because he continued in what sounded like a mocking tone.

“Forgive me, but nearly every time I see you two, you're in somewhat suggestive situations.”

“God knows who
you're
sleeping with,” she responded angrily. “Today your room reminded me of Grand Central Station. Are you sleeping with all those women? And does that mean you killed Cassandra so you could continue to do so?” she countered.

She was instantly sorry. His body tightened like a bow string.

“All right, then, be a bitch. And I won't give a damn if you're still sleeping with Brett.”

His eyes were sharp and damning as he stared at her. Then, abruptly, he spun her around again, and she felt his fingers and thumbs at the base of her neck. He began massaging her nape, her shoulders. She wanted to say something in response, to snap back at him, by God, to move away like a sensible person with at least a modicum of pride. She stood motionless instead, furious, but lulled by the sensual, powerful feel of his hands on her. He was so close behind her. Still aroused. Tense, hot. And seductive.

“If you're angry with me, suspicious, you could leave, you know,” she finally managed to say.

“I could.”

“You might have knocked.”

“I might have.”

“I could throw you out.”

“No, you couldn't.”

“I can tell you to leave.”

“I wouldn't go.”

“Then you're extremely rude.”

“What a shame.”

“And just how did you get in here?” she inquired belatedly.

“Secret passage. It's my castle, remember?”

“Right. That would make you king of the castle, master of all you survey,” she murmured sardonically.

“One would think.”

“Where's the entry?”

“Castle secret. My castle, my secret.”

“My room.”

“In my castle.”

“You've come before,” she murmured accusingly. “No fair. You don't play by the rules.”

His fingers stopped moving. She couldn't see his face, but she could sense his frown. “No,” he told her. “No, I've never come before. Why do you think that I have?”

She shook her head, aware that he had grown even more taut, wired, tense. “It was just a feeling. Waking from dreams. A sensation.”

“You felt it was me.”

“I felt…” She hesitated. What had she felt? “I don't know. I just awakened thinking I wasn't alone.”

“I didn't come to this room before.”

“Really?”

“Did you think that I was uncontrollably lusting after you?” he inquired with a touch of amusement.

She started to pull away.

His hands clasped her shoulders more tightly, and he continued, “I was. But I didn't come here before—other than in lusting spirit, of course.”

She smiled slightly, glad that he couldn't see her face. “Maybe someone else knows about your secret passage,” she suggested.

“No one else should know. The passage I came by connects straight from my room to yours.”

“Interesting. Did you plan it that way when you put me in this room?”

“Yes,” he said bluntly.

“But you didn't come before?”

“No.”

“Why now?”

“I gave up waiting for an invitation. And I quit giving a damn about your ex-husband.” He sounded irritated again. And tense. She still couldn't see his face, only feel his robe against her. “And,” he added softly, “the uncontrollable lust finally got the best of me.”

“Oh, really?”

“I came for sex,” he said very softly.

“Me too,” she replied coolly.

“With which one of us?” he inquired.

“You are a royal bastard, and you should crawl back into your secret passageway and—”

“Not on your life, my love,” he whispered with a quiet intensity that left her shivering, wanting, all over again, despite herself.

He was still, as if he waited for a response. She refused to give him one. Then she felt his hands moving again, along her nape, along her shoulders, beneath the silky straps of her nightgown.

The negligee began to fall. She instinctively caught the fabric over her breasts, yet inclined her neck and thrilled to the hot touch of his lips against her shoulder, the side of her throat. She felt the muscled form of him behind her, the movement of his fingers on the silk over her hip and thigh, his hard palm gliding low over her abdomen, between her legs. Her limbs seemed molten; her knees nearly gave. His heat seemed to radiate into her, enwrap and engulf her, and she thought that she would melt into the floor, with no will to halt the flow of sweet, wicked warmth that filled her.