Never Sleep With Strangers (5 page)

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.

R
eggie 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?”

“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.