Never Sleep With Strangers (6 page)

 

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.

S
abrina 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.

“Ah, you're watching our host,” V.J. whispered to her as Jon greeted Camy and Joshua, listening to some of their last-minute instructions.

“He's an intriguing man,” Sabrina said noncommitally.

“And, of course, the question remains—is he a murderer? Does Susan really think so? Except I'm sure Susan wouldn't think of Cassie's death as murder. To Susan, if Jon did kill his wife, it was justifiable homicide.”

V.J. shrugged, sipping her coffee. “Honey, to half the people here, killing Cassandra Stuart would have constituted a public service.”

“Ladies!” Reggie admonished from behind them. “We're not supposed to speak ill of the dead.”

“Even if the dead caused tremendous ills?” Joe Johnston whispered from behind her.

“Sabrina,” Camy said, walking across the room to her. She stopped, flushed and corrected herself. “Ms. Holloway.”

“Sabrina, please.”

Camy flushed again. “Your envelope. You only get to know your character now. You'll get instructions later regarding what you're supposed to do and where you're supposed to go.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Do you have mine, dear?” V.J. asked.

Camy gave V.J. hers, then handed Reggie her envelope, as well.

“Ouch!” Reggie exclaimed, looking up. She smiled. “I'm the Crimson Lady, a stripper, trying—or pretending—to reform.”

“Great,” Thayer Newby groaned, flexing his muscles. “I'm the effeminate male dancer, JoJo Scuchi.”

“JoJo Scuchi?”
Brett said with a laugh.

“Check yours out,” Thayer warned him.

Brett read the letter in the envelope and made a face. “I'm Mr. Buttle, the butler. Number two on the
New York Times
list, and they make me the butler!” he groaned.

Sabrina, reading her sheet, began to laugh.

“And who are you, my dear?” Brett demanded.

“The Duchess. I run the church choir,” she told him.

“Oh, now that is apropos. The lady who ran naked from her honeymoon suite,” Susan said, staring at Brett. “Neither of you has ever explained that situation,” she reminded him smugly.

Sabrina had lived with what had happened for a long time now, but she still felt her temper rising and her cheeks reddening, especially since she realized that Jon had been watching the exchange. Waiting for a reply?

Or perhaps not, because he was the one who responded to Susan. “And I imagine they don't feel they owe you an explanation, Sue,” he said.

Susan opened her mouth, then quickly shut it, lifting her chin.

“Ah, but Susan,” Joe Johnston said, reading over Sabrina's shoulder, “the Duchess runs the choir by day—and a high-class call girl outfit by night!”

“Hey, it's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it,” Brett declared. “Does the butler get to be in on it?” he asked.

“The butler always did it, you know,” Reggie teased.

“I mean in on the sex,” Brett said.

“You would,” V.J. said with a sigh.

“You know I've always wanted to make it with an older woman,” Brett stated.

“Older than what?” V.J. demanded tartly.

He smiled innocently. “Older than God, darling. That's you, isn't it?”

“Cute, boy, cute!” V.J. sniffed.

Dianne Dorsey suddenly started laughing. Sabrina leaned past V.J. to look at her. As usual, Dianne was in black. Black denim shorts, a ruffled black blouse, black socks and black hiking boots. “You'll never guess who I am.”

“Who?” V.J. obligingly inquired.

“Mary, the Hare Krishna!”

They all started to laugh.

“Susan, who are you?” V.J. asked.

Susan shuddered and looked up at Camy accusingly. “I'm Carla, the call girl with the clap.”

Another round of laughter followed, but Susan was not amused. She glared at Camy. “You did that on purpose!”

“Sue, chill!” Brett said.

“Camy didn't make these up, you know that. We hire writers from the game company,” Jon said impatiently. He sighed. “Trust me, mine is worse.”

“Why, who are you?” Susan demanded.

“Demented Dick,” Jon said dryly. “Serial killer, supposedly cured by his cousin, Sally Sadist, the psychologist.”

“That's me!” Anna Lee called out.

“And I'm Nancy, the naughty nurse, hired by Sally Sadist to look after you. Nancy the naughty nurse!” V.J. repeated with a shudder.

“You think that's bad?” Joe Johnston said, laughing. “I'm Tilly the transvestite, Demented Dick's mother!”

“Hey, Mom!” Jon said, and they all laughed.

“Oh, no!” Tom Heart groaned, looking at Joe.

“What?” Joe demanded.