Never Sleep With Strangers (13 page)

Still, he knew he had to find them. The weather coming in could be treacherous, and neither of them was familiar with what an early storm could be like in this wild countryside.

As he strode from the crypt, he heard the others commenting on his hasty exit.

“Well, he's in a bit of a mood, wouldn't you say?” Dianne murmured.

“He's concerned,” V.J. said in his defense.

“Think he would have raced after the butler that way?” Dianne again, sounding resentful. He could just imagine her face tilted up, eyes staring at him, challenging, angry. “Out to rescue the lovely Ms. Holloway, right in front of her beloved ex. Cassie must be spinning in that grave.”

“I think that Jon is a responsible man worried about his guests,” Reggie announced impatiently. “Now, I'm an old woman contorted into a ridiculous position on this silly cushion. Can we get on with this thing?”

Bless you, Reggie, Jon thought.

Moments later, he was up the stairs and out of the castle, looking up at the sky. Gray clouds billowed in an angry pattern, rapidly darkening the day. The wind picked up even as he stood there. He hurried on to the stables.

 

The first drop of precipitation seemed mild enough—a little wet kiss on the face as Sabrina dismounted from her horse. “Snow!” she called to Brett.

“No, just a little rain!” he called back. “But that's okay, we'll hole up in the lodge!”

He came to her, slipped an arm around her, and they ran together to the door. Brett pushed it open, and Sabrina stepped inside, looking around for the others.

No one was there. The lodge was empty except for the furnishings and the cozy little fire that burned in the hearth.

It was an inviting if masculine place, a true hunting lodge, with rough wood paneling, a boar's head over the mantel, and a quilt-covered bed. The small kitchen area had a pump in the sink and an old-fashioned ice box. The entire look was rustic—except for the ice bucket and champagne that sat surrounded by finger sandwiches and chocolate-covered strawberries on a table by the bed.

Sabrina spun around to look at Brett. “Where is everyone?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “They didn't get here? Maybe they're lost.”

She stared at him sternly. “Brett, where are they?”

He shrugged again, but then looked contrite. “Sabrin—”

“You deliberately lured me out here alone, didn't you?”

“I know that if we just had some time together—”

“Brett!”

He stayed across the room from her, staring at her. “I love you, Sabrina, you know that.”

She shook her head impatiently. “Brett, you may think you love me, but trust me, you love anything female.”

“Give me a chance. We'll take things slowly. Dear God, Sabrina, surely you must have needs, as well.”

“Brett, you're my friend. Let's just stay friends.”

“It's him, isn't it?” Brett said angrily.

“What?” she queried carefully, because it seemed as if something about him had changed. His devil-may-care bedroom eyes had a sharp, hostile glint to them.

He moved toward her. “It's him, our great, wondrous host. You've got some kind of an obsession going there. It's him, all right. You
would
sleep with me, except that you want to sleep with him.”

“Brett, you've got to understand—”

“Well, there it is. It's true. You want to sleep with him—again. It is again, isn't it? Exactly when did you sleep with him, may I ask?”

“No, you may not ask! When you and I were married, I was faithful. You were not. So no, you can't ask questions. Brett, I want to stay friends with you. Don't make that impossible. Let's get out of here. Now.”

She started past him, walking toward the door.

His arm snaked out; his fingers closed like a vise around her wrist. Startled, she saw the deep-seated anger glinting in his eyes.

“Oh, no,” he told her. “We're not leaving. Not yet.”

“Brett, let me go.”

“Never, Sabrina,” he said passionately. “It's you, it's all you. Everything—even Cassie—everything. I can't let you leave. Haven't you guessed?”

 

V.J. was anxious. Too anxious to sit silently at a table in the crypt. “Well?” she said.

“Well, I say Jon has been our basic killjoy. And it's his party,” Dianne complained.

“He's worried, dear,” V.J. said, studying Dianne. The girl was so restless. What had caused her strange mood? She suddenly looked very young and very upset. V.J. sighed, surprised to feel sympathy for a young woman who had stormed her profession at a ridiculously tender age. “Dianne, there's some fierce weather coming in, and neither Brett nor Sabrina knows this country at all.”

“Snow is snow,” Thayer Newby said. “Can't be much worse in one place than another. Why, I remember one year when I was in basic training up in New England, it was so cold and there was so much snow that people froze right in their cars. Can't be much worse here.”

“How reassuring that a storm can't be much worse than one that killed people,” V.J. murmured.

Tom placed a hand over hers, seeming to feel an empathy with her controlled impatience. “They may be in trouble,” Joe agreed, rubbing his bearded chin.

“Think Jon needs help finding them?” Thayer asked.

“Think any of us knows this countryside well enough?” Reggie queried.

“Reggie, no offense,” Tom interjected, “but you can't possibly mean to help Jon—”

“Hey,” Reggie protested, “you're no spring chicken yourself, Tom. V.J., tell the boy he's an old man, will you?”

A moment's laughter rose among the group, then faded.

After an uneasy silence Dianne said, “I've been here to Scotland many times. I actually do know the countryside.”

“You don't know it as well as Jon, dear,” Reggie said. “He'll find Sabrina and Brett.”

“Hey, where's Susan?” Thayer asked, as if suddenly noticing her absence and considering it highly suspicious.

Anna Lee, snickered. “Maybe she followed Brett and Sabrina to spy on them. She's forever nosing into everyone else's business, and the more potential for dirt the better.”

“Okay, so should we leave Jon to the rescue and just get on with this séance?” Joe said. “Then we can get up from this stupid table.”

“You're right, let's play the game,” Anna Lee intoned.

V.J. looked around the circle. Dianne was definitely behaving strangely. Anna Lee was in a nasty mood. Reggie was in her Queen Victoria mode, and right now, scratching his bearded chin, Joe looked something like a cranky homicidal maniac. Thayer was staring at Anna Lee as if he knew something he shouldn't. Susan was missing, and it was true, she was probably nosing into somebody's dirty laundry. My friends, she thought. What a group! Then she felt Tom's eyes on her, and she calmed down a bit. “Yes, let's play the game,” she said.

“You know,” Joe said, “if Brett and Sabrina
are
out shacking up somewhere, at least they've found shelter and they're safe from the snow.”

“If Brett is out shacking up with his ex-wife, he won't be playing the game as the dead butler. ‘Mr. Buttle' will not be appearing here out of the tombs to make ghostly noises,” Dianne said flatly. “So, you all still want a séance?” she inquired. She lowered her head and began swaying back and forth. “Spirits of the dead, give us a sign. Knock on wood, cry out!”

As if on cue, they suddenly heard a succession of eerie, muffled screams.

“What the hell is that?” Thayer demanded, leaping up.

They all rose, looking around. The sound seemed to fill the crypt, and yet wasn't coming from the crypt itself.

“Help! Help! Jesus, sweet Jesus, for the love of God!”

“Oh, Lord!” Dianne cried, pale as death herself.

“It's coming from—” V.J. breathed.

“The chamber of horrors!” Reggie finished.

They all stared at one another.

And raced from the crypt toward Joshua's excellent exhibition.

 

Brett let go of Sabrina's arm, and he was suddenly on his knees, clutching her. And she was unbalanced and startled.

“Sabrina, give me a chance! I can change. I've been wrong. I've been reckless ever since we parted. I've done things I'm not proud of. But I think I really love you, and—”

“Brett…”

“Sabrina, I had to see you alone. Please forgive me for—”

“Brett, what were you saying about Cassie?”

“Cassie?” he said blankly.

She was alone with this man. Alone and far from the castle. In a snowstorm. She told herself that she couldn't believe Brett would ever kill anyone, but he had said that everything was her. Everything. Even Cassie.

“Brett, did you kill Cassandra Stuart?” she demanded.

“No!”

“You said that—”

“My arguments with her,” he mumbled. “Sabrina, okay, I lured you here dishonestly, but you have to listen to me.”

“Brett,” she protested again, trying to step backward. He was still down on the ground, his arms wrapped around her knees. The situation was ludicrous. A good percentage of the female reading populace would gladly have changed places with her; Brett McGraff was famous, charming, and rich—a number two bestseller, right behind Michael Creighton. But then, those women hadn't been married to him. And then again, how flattered could she be when he'd said, “I
think
I really love you.”

Still, Sabrina couldn't really believe that Brett was a killer. He could be so childlike and endearing, and he seemed to be in earnest now. She didn't want to hurt him.

“Give it a chance, a real chance. I'm on my knees to you, Sabrina!”

“Don't Brett, please.” Again she tried to back away. Again he clung.

“It is him, isn't it? I knew. I just knew that there was something between the two of you.”

“Brett, you're tripping me.”

“Sabrina, I can get past it. I can forgive you.”

“You can forgive
me?
Brett—”

“Sabrina, I can't tell you how passionately I want—”

“Brett, you only want me because I'm saying no, and you're not familiar with the word where women are concerned. Please, Brett—”

She'd backed up until she struck something behind her. The bed. She lost her balance completely and fell backward.

And Brett was quick to take advantage. Up in an instant, he threw himself atop her. As she tried to crawl out from beneath him, she began to slide, the bed coverings coming with her. In seconds she was on the floor, entangled with Brett, a pillow, and the quilt. Another pillow fell on her head.

“Brett—” she began breathlessly.

But as more of the bedding tumbled down on her, she heard a crack like thunder as the door burst open.

 

“They're stuck! The doors are stuck!” Tom told Joe, leaning his weight against them.

More shrieking came from the other side.

“Do something!” V.J. commanded.

Dianne Dorsey stood back in the corridor, arms folded over her chest. “It's just Susan, being a melodramatic pain,” she said.

“Oh, come on, she's frightened. Get her out,” Anna Lee said.

“Help!” Susan pleaded. “Please, please, he's coming after me! He's going to kill me with his knife! Please—”

“Who's coming after you with a knife?” Reggie called to her.

“It's—it's Jack the Ripper!” Susan shrieked.

“Susan, Jack the Ripper is made of wax—he can't move. Just open the doors. I think you've got them locked,” V.J. called.

Susan started screaming again.

“Step aside,” Thayer Newby said firmly, all-cop. They cleared the doors.

Thayer stepped back and hunched his formidable shoulders. Tom and Joe joined him. Thayer nodded, and they all started forcefully for the doors.

Susan screeched hysterically, an ear-shattering sound.

Then she was silent.

 

Tangled in the bedclothes, Sabrina went still, listening as long strides brought someone close.

“What the hell—” Brett began.

The quilt was pulled off Sabrina's head. She found herself staring at Jon, who was hunched down before her. At her side, Brett struggled out of the tangle. “Excuse me for interrupting,” Jon said smoothly, “but the storm is worsening. The snow—”

“Is just snow!” Brett interrupted. He sounded petulant, making Sabrina feel even more embarrassed.