Never Sleep With Strangers (2 page)

Three years later

T
he scene was definitely a chilling one. A beautiful woman in medieval dress, her long blond hair waving over the workings of the mechanism, was tied to the implement of torture, with a dark-haired, bearded and mustachioed man standing over her.

The Earl of Exeter's Daughter, also known as the Rack, proclaimed the sign overhead. Named after the Man Most Proficient in the Art of Extracting Confessions from his Victims.

The artist who had created the wax figures had been proficient, as well. The blonde stretched out on the wicked wooden rack was exquisite, with fine, classically molded features and huge blue eyes widened by her fear of her tormentor. Any sane man would long to rescue her. While the fellow standing above her—his features were pure evil. His eyes gleamed in sadistic anticipation of the pain he was about to inflict.

Many of the exhibits in the hall were excellent, retelling ancient tales of man's inhumanity to man. This particular display outdid them all.

So Jon Stuart thought as he stood silently in the shadows, leaning casually against the stone wall, his presence obscured by the darkness of the dungeon. He stared watchfully, contemplatively, at the exhibit—and at the flesh-and-blood blonde now standing in front of it.

She was nearly—in face, coloring and form—a mirror image of the poor beauty stretched out on the rack itself. She was a young woman with a glorious mop of blond hair that cascaded freely over her shoulders and down her back. She was slender and beautifully shaped, doing incredible justice to the jeans and fitted sweater she wore. Her features were very feminine: fine, straight, slender nose; high, chiseled cheekbones; beautiful blue eyes; and full, lushly shaped lips. She was surveying the display with a certain amount of interest—and wariness. She looked as if she wanted to laugh ruefully, reminding herself that she was looking at wax figures, but the scene was scary, and she was alone in the shadows. Or so she thought.

Sabrina Holloway.

He hadn't seen her in more than three and a half years now, and though he was somewhat surprised by her presence; he was glad she had decided to come. She had politely declined his invitation to the last, fateful Mystery Week. The occasion when Cassandra had died.

Whether Sabrina realized it or not, she had most certainly been Joshua's model for the beauty on the rack; she was the victim's spitting image, and Joshua always enjoyed using people he knew in his art. He had mentioned to Jon that he had met Sabrina Holloway in Chicago, and he had sounded entirely infatuated, so Jon had refrained from telling Joshua that he, too, was acquainted with her. It was easy to understand Joshua's head-over-heels reaction; he'd experienced something quite similar when he'd met her himself. Before…

Well, there was a lot to admire—or covet—about Ms. Holloway. Jon hadn't been the only one to fall victim to her charm; she had attracted the attention of Brett McGraff, as well. Jon shook his head. She'd gone off and married McGraff. Whirlwind courtship, whirlwind marriage—scandalous divorce.

Jon watched her now, glad of the distance between them. He stared at her in simple assessment. She possessed a rare grace and beauty. Even though he'd been something of a recluse over the last few years, he'd kept up with her career, reading about her in the papers and tabloids. Reporters had leaped wholeheartedly on Brett McGraff's last, noisy divorce from such a beautiful young creature.

She had been stunning when Jon met her. So innocent, eager, fascinated. He was certain that the rose-colored blinders were gone from her eyes now. She had matured. And now she was…

Spectacular. More elegant than ever. She looked thoughtful, even wise.

And how would you know? Jon taunted himself.

She might well have matured into a hard, ambitious bitch, he reminded himself dryly. Life often did that to people. After all, she'd walked away from him with a will of steel. And she'd been able to stand her ground during the media blitz after her divorce, even in the midst of a shocking situation. Still, she now maintained a strange, compelling air that combined sophistication and innocence, although, God knew, he'd learned the hard way that the most delicate, fragile females could be the worst black widows.

She was a Midwestern farm girl, Jon remembered, and he had to smile. She possessed both warmth and reserve, and yet there had been moments when she'd let down her guard and he'd felt that he had known her forever. He had found her to be both captivating and as down-to-earth as her natural beauty. She'd been twenty-four, fresh from the country, when they met. She'd turned twenty-eight last month. Plenty of time to learn, to harden, to change. If only…

Well, it had been a different time, a different place, a different life. No one had ever been the wiser. He hadn't told tales.

She hadn't wanted any told.

Still…

Jon suddenly felt a deep irritation. His feelings were totally unjustified, he told himself. Brett McGraff was here, as well. She and McGraff had actually been married. Jon had no right himself. And yet…

Hell, it was his place, his party. And he intended to spend time with all his guests. McGraff's presence would only make it a more intriguing enterprise to attempt to get to know Sabrina again.

But was she in over her head? he wondered suddenly. Maybe he should have left her name off the guest list. But then, he hadn't really expected her to come. And they were all in over their heads. Still, he suddenly wished he hadn't taken the chance of making her, like the others, an unwitting pawn in this dark game.

But he'd set this board into motion; he'd had no choice. It was either this or give up his sanity. And there were others to whom he owed both the truth and justice, if not to himself. He wasn't exactly in this alone. He had promised to do things again, exactly this way.

Maybe he should just stay away from Ms. Sabrina Holloway. Of all the people here, she alone was clearly innocent.

He wondered if he could stay away from her. And he reminded himself that she was here by choice. They'd all come willingly enough, ready to play. Some for the fun of it, some for the publicity. Cassie, the inveterate journalist, had once told him, “Never miss a photo op, darling!” He'd noticed that very few writers, actors, musicians or artists ever tended to do so, and, in a manner of speaking, this week was a major photo op. Even the reclusive types who preferred to remain in the shadows wouldn't dare miss this. The world had gotten far too competitive, and name recognition could mean the difference between starvation and healthy income.

Yet, he mused, Sabrina Holloway had inadvertently garnered enough publicity already. Marriage to and divorce from Brett McGraff had put her squarely in the public eye. But she had maintained a steady course, and though her notoriety had given her popular career a jump start, she'd managed to accrue a respectable amount of critical praise for the writing. He hadn't been in the States for a while now, so he wasn't sure who else was doing the talk-show circuit, but apparently she'd hit just the right chord with her Victorian thrillers. She was also young and lovely, and the media loved to hop on a personality with sex appeal and presence.

He was about to approach her when he realized that another woman was walking toward him. Susan Sharp. He groaned inwardly and considered a fast retreat up the secret staircase behind him. His ancestors had been Jacobites and had filled the castle with hidden doors and passages, a multitude of escape routes.

But Jon didn't escape; he didn't want his secrets known as yet, so he stood still while Susan sashayed closer, delighted with her good luck in discovering that he was literally cornered.

“Well, well,” she said happily. “Darling! So here you are, in the darkness. How delightful. How wickedly delightful. Do give me a kiss, darling. We've all missed you so much.”

 

Sabrina Holloway stared at the disturbing display, marveling at its realism. The woman on the rack looked as if she were about to open her mouth and cry out. Her eyes were glazed, as if she were trying to deny the terror that was threatening her. Sabrina could almost hear the man demanding that his victim confess her terrible crimes and spare herself the agony of the rack.

A strange tremor snaked up Sabrina's spine.

Whoa. Excellently done. Totally unnerving. There were others ambling around the dungeon displays at Lochlyre Castle, many of them friends, but at the moment she felt thoroughly uneasy in the gloom. Just imagine. If the lights were suddenly to go out…

She would be alone. In the darkness. With him—the dark-haired torturer with the slim mustache and sadistic eyes who looked upon his victim with such pure evil in his heart. The figures were so realistically done that she could easily believe they might come to life in the dark. They would move, walk, stalk, wield their weapons of death and destruction….

Hands landed on her shoulders, and she almost screamed aloud. She jumped, but somehow she choked back the sound that had risen in her throat.

“Well, my love?”

Another little shiver snaked along her spine—she was again unnerved, but not so frightened this time. Brett McGraff moved beside her then, settling an arm easily around her shoulders. She was ashamed to realize that his presence made her feel more secure in the shadowy dungeon, though still far from comfortable.

She was torn between clinging to him and shaking off his arm. As usual, she felt an amazing combination of emotions toward him. Sometimes he made her want to gag. Then again, she wasn't always immune to the purely sensual charm that had attracted her to him from the very beginning. Most of the time, however, she was only slightly impatient with him and fairly tolerant.

“It's very real,” she murmured. “It actually scares me a little.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“I think I want you scared.”

“Oh?”

“Might make you a little clingy.” He tightened his arm around her and lowered his mouth to whisper huskily against her ear. “We've each been assigned our own room in the castle—our host doesn't seem to remember that we were married—but I'd be happy to keep you company during the long, spooky nights.”

“
Were,
” she reminded him, “is the operative word here. We
were
married, once upon a time, more than three years ago—for all of two weeks.”

“Oh, it took longer than two weeks to get a divorce,” he said smoothly. “And don't forget how much we were together on our wonderful honeymoon.”

“Brett, the marriage ended while we were still on that honeymoon,” she reminded him.

He wasn't to be deterred. “And now we're getting to be such good friends again,” he added with assurance.

Despite herself, Sabrina felt a rueful smile curving her lips. Brett was tall and good-looking, with unruly brown hair, dark bedroom eyes to match and a laconic charm that had made him a media idol. He wrote medical thrillers, with both commercial and critical success. He'd made a small fortune at his craft and still managed to be annoyingly arrogant only on occasion. Sabrina had met him soon after the sale of her second book before it had even been on the market—which had been soon after his divorce from his third wife. To say that she'd been naive was a terrible understatement. She'd also been healing from a far unhappier situation.

A whirlwind courtship had sent them on a honeymoon to Paris—at a time that happened to correspond with the French publication of Brett's latest thriller. She'd been amused, at first, by the number of women who gave him less-than-subtle hints regarding their carnal interest, then less amused when she realized how many of them he already knew. Carnally. Still, being an optimist who longed for a future, she'd decided she could live with Brett's past. It hadn't even been so bad that the women he'd known hadn't seemed to care that he had a new wife; she hadn't held other people's behavior against them. Ultimately, it had been Brett's indifference to the discomfort of her position that had disturbed her. He was a good lover; he could be amusing, charming. He'd made her laugh and love when she'd felt adrift and unsure.

But Brett could also be self-centered, selfish and downright mean. He'd disappeared with the voluptuous owner of a major bookstore for several hours and been totally impatient with his young bride when she'd demanded to know what was going on. Then he'd informed her that he was Brett McGraff, and opportunities were going to come his way. He'd told her she shouldn't mind; she should just be grateful he had actually married her, had made her his wife.

To Sabrina, his words had been devastating. She'd been stunned. Then furious—with herself. She'd been looking so desperately for someone to make her forget her past, to fill her life. And she'd been so wrong. She'd cared for Brett, believed things could work. But she'd been mistaken. So she was at fault, as well, for not seeing or believing that their visions of love and marriage were so wildly different.

Brett had seen the change, the new awareness, in her eyes, and he'd tried to placate her, to seduce her….

The rest had been hell.

She didn't want to remember. She'd learned some good lessons from that time, and maybe even taught him a few. To this day, he still couldn't believe that she'd left him and filed divorce papers, not asking for one red cent. In the months to come, when they'd met at various publishing events, he'd sought her out. He still referred to her as his wife, and she could actually smile sometimes now at the various lines he deployed to try to get her into bed. She should sleep with him because they had been married; because she'd already slept with him, and it wasn't good to sleep with strangers. Because she already knew him—and as a result there would be no ugly little surprises. Because he was good in bed; and she had to admit that he
was
good—naturally, because he was so practiced. Because surely
everybody
needed sex now and then, and since she was capable of being such a sweet, puritanical prude, coming from an apple-pie farm family and all, she was slow to form intimate relationships and therefore should simply indulge in a basic, necessary activity with him.