Never Sleep With Strangers (8 page)

His grip on her arm was very tense, and Sabrina felt the heat and anger and frustration that emanated from him. He stared out on the day; he seemed to have forgotten how tightly he held her, how he had wedged her against the balcony rail.

She felt her heart pounding. And for a moment, she was afraid. She didn't know this man. Sleeping with a man didn't keep him from being a stranger.

Yet along with the fear rippling through her veins was a strange warmth, a static excitement. She liked the feel of his hand upon her, liked his being so close. She wanted him to stay; she was tempted again to throw her arms around him. She felt so strange with him. She had never known another man who could create such a sensual, aching hunger within her. She tried to tell herself that she was a fool, that women who fell for dangerous men were, quite simply, stupid.

But Jon hadn't killed his wife.

Still, he might have wanted her dead.

Yet lots of people had wanted her head.

“Imagine,” he repeated now, drawing Sabrina closer to him, farther over the balcony rail. “Imagine looking, leaning, and then—”

“Jon!”

He jerked back at the sound of his name being called. Sabrina let out a long breath, then swung around with him to face her open doorway.

Camy stood there, smiling but shaking her head impatiently. “We've never going to be able to get this game started!”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Jon said smoothly. Then he smiled at Sabrina. “Good luck finding the killer. It can be a matter of—”

“Life and death,” she said softly.

To her surprise, he took her by the shoulders and kissed her forehead. Then he strode from the balcony and the room.

For a moment, Sabrina stood very still. Then she turned to look after him and saw that Camy was still there.

“We've got to get on with the game!” the young woman said somewhat impatiently.

And Sabrina's door was finally closed with a sharp little click.

J
on strode the length of the hallway to his room, aware that Camy was watching him, anxious for him to reach his room and shut himself in. He smiled to himself. She and Joshua took this all very seriously, which was why, of course, he had asked them to help host the affair rather than participate as players. For, along with the fun and publicity the writers would enjoy, the project was for charity, and he didn't want any more scandal. And who better to see that things ran smoothly than hardworking Camy Clark and meticulous, painstaking Joshua Valine?

Jon reached his room, waved at Camy and locked the door behind him. Alone, he stared at the bed. Why in hell had he ever married Cassandra?

He walked into the bathroom and doused his face with cold water. He stared at himself, noting the lines around his eyes. He'd been younger but still no kid when he'd married Cassie. She'd been a manipulator of the highest degree, capable of appearing pleasant, reasonable and loving when it suited her purpose. But what had truly snared him then, and haunted him now, was the feeling that she had really loved him. True, she had never given up the battle; she had wanted things her way. But as best as Cassandra could, she had loved him.

He walked out to the balcony and stared down at the fountain, remembering. Despite the time that had passed, he felt real pain. Poor Cassie. She had loved life so much.

She hadn't killed herself; he really did know that about her. Her death had been ruled accidental. Perhaps she
had
fallen?

No. He remembered the way she had called his name…remembered the change in her tone of voice. And he remembered that, at the end, he had failed her completely in a way he never should have.

Jon felt a sudden, terrible dread of this Mystery Week. He had thought about it, of course, weighed the grim idea over and over again—for nearly three years now. And it had seemed a sane, sensible, if chilling thing to do. Until…

The irrational unease had seized him when he was with Sabrina. In her room. On her balcony.

He stared down at the Poseidon statue that had cradled Cassie as she died. He'd thought to catch a killer this week. He'd never thought that, in one day's time, he might be wishing for a future rather than trying to resolve the past.

And it made him afraid.

Fear made a man weak.

He couldn't afford to be weak.

He heard a sound and turned. An envelope had been thrust beneath his door.

He reached for, opened it—and felt a chill sweep through him.

The note he'd received was a warning…and not part of the game….

 

The woman burst in on him while he was in his own room, at his desk, head in his hands.

He straightened, staring at her.

Her eyes were downright vicious.

And she pointed at him.

“I know what happened. I know exactly what was going on. Oh, maybe I haven't complete proof, but I've got the story pieced together nicely, and once I give out the truth, well, honey, you can kiss your wonderful little life-style goodbye!”

He stared back at her, filled with dismay, totally speechless at first. Then he got a grip on himself and sat straight and impassive. “Whatever you think you know doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't it? Oh, come now, I can see that you've got a new passion in your life. Maybe an old passion. So hard to tell. But aren't you looking forward to the future?”

“I don't understand this. Why are you here? If you knew the truth—or
suspected
you knew the truth, why haven't you already shared it?”

Her smile deepened. “Because everything in life is negotiable.”

“You mean you're blackmailing me?”

“Oh, dear, what an ugly word! No, no, no, not blackmail. I don't mean to torture you forever or anything like that. But I will admit to having a slight cash-flow problem at the moment, so you see…”

“And what happens if you have another ‘cash-flow problem' in the future?”

“Well, I do try to be reasonable. I seldom find myself strapped as I am now.”

“And there are no morals involved here, I take it? You really don't give a damn that Cassandra Stuart was murdered?”

“Of course not. Many people would have been tempted to push her over. They didn't all get the opportunity to do so. A mean, nasty woman died. Who cared?”

“There were those who cared,” he told her angrily.

She shrugged with a total lack of interest. “I wasn't one of them. This is a business negotiation, nothing more. I'll not be troubled by my conscience later or anything like that, so you needn't fear.”

“But there is the cash-flow thing.”

“So unlikely to occur again!”

“Name your figure.”

She did.

He nodded.

She smiled and left. After all, everyone was supposed to be in his or her own room.

He stared at the closed door long after she had gone, a wave of desperate depression washing over him. She would have a “cash-flow problem” at least once a year—that was simply the way she was. And what if he ran out of hush money?

But what choice did he have?

Of course, there was
one
other choice….

 

Alone, Sabrina tried to shake the unease that had settled over her. A feeling of intimacy had sprung up so quickly between her and Jon, yet it seemed he was trying to warn her away from him at the same time.

She phoned home, checking in with her parents, asking about her sister, brother-in-law and the baby, and telling them that Scotland was wonderful. She assured them that the rumors they had heard about Jon Stuart were just tabloid garbage and that she was in no danger at Lochlyre Castle. Finally she bid them a cheerful goodbye, apologizing for having called so early, and hung up. She tried to lie on her bed and close her eyes and rest. She was too restless.

She wandered back out to the balcony. For a moment, she couldn't go near the edge. How odd it had been to stand there with Jon! To feel a hint of fear. But he wouldn't have thrown her over the edge; he would have no reason to do so.

Had there been a reason to kill Cassandra? Silly question—everyone seemed to think there was a reason to kill Cassandra.

Sabrina gazed down the length of the castle toward Jon's suite. She wondered if things would have been different if she hadn't been so young when she'd met him, been with him. Not just young, but so naive. She felt her pulse quickening and bit her lower lip, admitting at last why she had come here. She was still in love with him.

But surely, that was absurd. She hadn't seen him in far too long.

And there were some who still hinted that he
had
been involved in the death of his wife, no matter what the findings at the inquest.

But logic was proving worthless at the moment. She didn't believe for a minute that Jon had killed Cassandra. Still, was she being hopelessly naive again?

She heard a noise and hurried back inside. A note, her first set of instructions, had been slipped under her door. She ripped open the envelope and studied the words.

Studying the little map beneath the printed sheet, Sabrina shuddered and muttered to herself, “Great! The chapel is in the dungeon beyond the chamber of horrors!”

There was a tapping on her door. She answered it, to find Brett waiting with a smile. He didn't exactly push his way in; he brushed by her before she could stop him.

“So what were your instructions? What are you to do, Madame Pimp?” he asked. “Are you the murderer?”

“I can't tell you that. It will spoil the game, and you know it!”

“You should tell me,” he said determinedly, hopping up on her bed, stretching out and lacing his fingers comfortably behind his head. “You should confide in me, and I should confide in you. We could catch the killer that way and become a real husband and wife sleuthing team. Then we could write stories together and get fabulously rich and famous.”

“We're not married, Brett.”

“Oh, that can be easily rectified. You're just being stubborn.”

“Because I'd like a husband who'd like to be monogamous?”

“I can do that.”

“Brett, I don't think you can, but that's beside the point. Now get off my bed.”

“Come help me up.”

She sighed with irritation as he stretched out a hand entreatingly. She took it, intending to pull him up.

He pulled her down instead. “Gotcha!”

He said the word with such childish delight as she landed on his chest that she didn't have the heart to either yell or slug him in the jaw. “Brett McGraff, you—” she began in laughing protest, trying to push away.

But she never finished. At that moment, they heard the explosive sound of shots being fired.

Brett clutched her, his eyes wide.

“Sabrina! What happened?” V.J. cried, swinging around the doorway. “Oh!” she gasped, seeing the two of them together on the bed. “Oh, I am so sorry, but the door was open, and—”

“How absolutely delicious!” Susan Sharp exclaimed.

There suddenly seemed to be a meeting occurring in Sabrina's doorway.

“Everyone in there alive?”

Sabrina felt her cheeks flood with color at the sound of the deep, slightly burred, masculine voice. Jon Stuart was now standing between V.J. and Susan in her doorway.

“Hey, who got shot?” demanded a second male voice. It was Tom Heart, peeking in over V.J.'s shoulder.

“No one in here. We're fine,” Sabrina said irritably, trying to push free of Brett's grasp.

Brett held on. Tightly. He grinned at her wickedly. “I haven't been so fine in a very long time.”

Sabrina gritted her teeth, tugged herself free at last and stood. As she straightened her clothing, she checked it and Brett's for red paint. “No, we've not been shot,” she said with a false cheerfulness. Her cheeks, however, were as red as tomatoes.

“Well, I wonder who has been?” V.J. demanded.

“Let's go see,” Tom suggested.

“What's happened?” Standing in the hallway, red-haired, muscular Thayer Newby had his hands on his hips, looking every inch the cop he had once been in Houston, Texas. His tone was sharp, and he was ready to question them all.

Dianne Dorsey stepped from her room into the hallway. Two doors down, Anna Lee Zane did the same.

Joe Johnston stepped out from behind Anna Lee.

“Oh, now, this is all just too rich!” Susan exclaimed.

“We were just talking,” Joe said indignantly.

“Ah, then perhaps it's those two who are conspirators!” Susan said, pointing into Sabrina's room.

“Conspirators at what?” Sabrina asked. “A gun went off, but we're all alive, and none of us is wearing red paint.”

“Now there's a fabulous investigative deduction!” Brett exclaimed, applauding. “We're all still alive.”

“What happened?” Joshua asked, striding down the hallway. Apparently his room was at the end of the wing, near Jon's suite. He looked around with a frown. “Where's Camy?”

As he asked the question, Camy came up the stairs from below. She looked at her watch, then at the guests gathered in the ancient arched hallway. “I can see that we're going to have to keep a strict eye on all of you!” she declared. “The time is barely up, and every single one of you is out of your room!”

“Shots were fired. We were trying to figure out who had been killed first,” Tom Heart explained.

Camy shook her head. “I think that you're all mistaken. It wasn't time for shots to have been fired.”

“We heard shots,” V.J. insisted.

“A car backfiring, perhaps?” Camy suggested.

“Whose car? What car? We're all here.”

Camy smiled, shaking her head. “We do receive mail and deliveries here, you know. It's not the end of the earth.”

They all looked at one another.

“Could it have been something other than gunshots?” Dianne asked.