Never Sleep With Strangers (21 page)

“So this is all to catch a killer,” she said. “You know, there are those who believe
you
to be the killer.”

“No one with good sense.”

“You do have the ability to sneak up on any of us—whether we want company or not.”

“Do you really want me to leave?” he inquired.

She stared at him, but then lowered her eyes. “Why didn't you tell me about Dianne? You knew that I was…” Her voice trailed off.

His hands fell on her shoulders. She felt their strength and warmth, and for the life of her, she couldn't help but remember how they felt when they were more intimately upon her.

“Why didn't I explain that she was my stepdaughter and that I wasn't sleeping with her?”

“You—you could have,” she stuttered.

He shook his head. “No, I couldn't have. I had promised her that I wouldn't, though, of course, I would have forbidden her to come to Mystery Week or thrashed her hindquarters if I'd had any idea she meant to pull such a dangerous stunt.”

“You care about her,” Sabrina said softly.

“Of course. She was just a young kid, scared, unsure, who'd never known her father and wasn't allowed to have a mother. I liked her from the start. She's searched for an identity, done all sorts of ridiculous things, but she's worked hard, and, despite all appearances, she's become a decent young woman.”

Sabrina nodded, her head down. “Dianne is your stepdaughter. And Anna Lee…”

“Anna Lee seduced Cassie. And Cassie was happy to be seduced. She wanted to be shocking, and titillating. She thought that I was interested in Anna Lee as more than a friend and colleague.”

“But you weren't?” Sabrina said, looking up at him.

He shook his head, smiling slowly.

“The rumor is that you were having an affair, as well, with one of the guests at the party. Perhaps V.J.?” she inquired, thinking of her beautiful older friend—married at the time, but then, stranger things had surely happened.

“V.J.?” Jon exclaimed. “I do love her, but as a dear and cherished friend.”

“Susan?” she whispered.

He made a face.

“Reggie?” she inquired incredulously.

“Oh, please!” he groaned.

“Well, that's the group, other than—”

“Has it never occurred to you that it might have been rumor and nothing more?” he asked softly.

“But—but you knew that your wife was having affairs—”

“Yes, and I had a life other than the week in which I had friends out here for a charity function,” he said.

“Then you were seeing someone else?”

“I was seeing someone, yes. But neither one of us was deeply involved. She knew that I was married, and she knew that there were difficulties. We weren't in love—it was a brief relationship, that's all. I wasn't seeing anyone who was here at the Mystery Week. From what I knew and suspected, most of them were already pretty busy, and that's all there is for me to tell,” he said.

And she knew that the matter was closed. “But, Jon,” she ventured, trying very hard to sound determined, sure and matter-of-fact, “So much has happened, there's so much that we don't know, and—”

But he interrupted her. “Yes, so much has happened, and there's a million things between us to discuss. We could fight over a dozen things for a dozen weeks, but—”

“You came for the sex,” she interrupted bitterly.

He went still, watching her. “I came to make love. Because I'm not sure that I've actually
made love
since you walked out on me years ago.”

It might not have been true. It might have just been the right thing to say. But it didn't matter. He was tense, and passionate, as if he'd rediscovered a hunger that couldn't be simply sated. His energy was electric, and she wanted to feel him again.

Still, she hesitated.

“But, Jon, I don't know what I feel. Anger, fear…”

That last word did it. He backed away from her and started across the room toward the balcony. He touched a brick in the wall, and a slim doorway slid open with the silence of well-oiled if ancient mechanisms.

“You can slide the top lock on your hall door to keep me out,” he said curtly. “And you can wedge this door shut by shoving the fire poker into the crack,” he told her.

Then he was gone.

She was stunned. Then she suddenly, belatedly found realization. And regret. She had told him she was
afraid.
She ran after him, hurrying to the secret door. But she couldn't even see it anymore. The bricks hid it completely. “Jon!” she whispered, and she banged against the wall. “Jon!”

He didn't reply. She pressed brick after brick. No passageway opened to her.

She sank down on the foot of her bed. A minute later, she curled up on it.

She closed her eyes, feeling ill, wishing she hadn't thrown him away when she'd had him. If he came back, she would tell him…

Tell him what? That she'd never gotten him out of her mind? Her heart? That she was
willing
to be afraid, to risk anything, to forgive anything, to believe anything, to be with him?

She closed her eyes.

Uncertain how long she might have lain there, her mind numb, she suddenly became aware of him again. She jerked herself upright. And he was there, standing at the foot of the bed.

“You didn't put the poker in the door,” he told her.

“No,” she whispered, and she jumped up, throwing herself into his arms. “Jon, I—”

“I don't think that we should talk,” he said roughly.

And for the moment, she agreed with him.

She didn't want to talk. Not now. She wanted to make love.

She opened her mouth, but said nothing, for he kissed her hard, forcefully, demandingly, leaving her no room for speech or argument. She returned his force, eager just to have him, touch him, feel him touch her.

His hands brushed over her clothing, and it was gone. And then he was naked with her, touching her, and in a few frenzied moments he was within her, and the taste, touch, scent and feel of their lovemaking was all she needed.

What remained of the night became a blur. She was sated, dazed, floating on clouds, and then he was within her again. And then, exhausted, she slept, secure in the arms that held her so tightly.

Yet later she awoke feeling cold, her teeth chattering.

She was alone in the darkness. He had left her.

Sabrina rose, seeking her nightgown and robe. She hurried to her door, and it was locked. He hadn't left that way. Why should he have? He had come by the secret passageway; he had surely left that way.

Yet she suddenly felt uneasy. She unlocked her door and looked out into the hall.

It was empty.

Strange what night, darkness and being alone could do. It seemed as if there were sounds, movements, coming from every dim corner, from the stairway, from below. The wind outside gave a low moan as it swept around the castle. She thought that she heard cries and whispers within that sound.

She stood in the hallway shivering, trying to tell herself that she was sensible, that the wind didn't mask the cries of ghosts, nor was death shooting across the night sky in a banshee carriage to take any of them away.

Yet he had left her. Jon had left her. And to her deep dismay, she was afraid.

Worried, she moved to Brett's door. She hesitated, then tapped on it.

She was startled when the door drifted slightly open at her knock.

“Brett?”

She pushed the door open.

In the very pale lantern light from the hall, she could see nothing but a mound upon his bed. She hesitated in the doorway, suddenly terrified to walk into the room, afraid of what she might find.

“Brett!” she whispered more urgently.

Still no answer.

She didn't want to walk into the room. It was dark; it was filled with shadows. She was tempted to run back to her own room, bolt her door, curl into a ball on her bed and start praying for morning.

Even if she bolted the door, however, she could have visitors, of course. Jon.

Jon had said that he hadn't come before. She hadn't pressed the point; she hadn't actually seen anyone. But she'd had that feeling, at times, that she hadn't been alone. So either she was highly imaginative, or Jon had been lying….

Or someone else was aware of a passage into her room?

It didn't matter, she told herself. She wasn't being threatened. But Brett
had
been hurt. And though he had seemed okay, she should make sure.

Still she clung to the doorframe.

Then she became angry. Silly fool, she charged herself. If Brett was hurt…

She gathered her courage.

“Brett!”

No answer still. She walked into the room.

And discovered why he hadn't spoken.

 

Susan Sharp was dimly aware of movement.

She was annoyed at first, and nothing more. She couldn't remember anything. She must have fallen asleep…somewhere. And now she was groggy. And angry. Though a little hazy, she knew she had a right to be furious. She'd been played for a fool, and now they were going to pay. Oh, definitely, they were going to pay.

Except that she didn't know where she was. Or why she was feeling…movement.

It seeped into her clouded mind that she'd been drugged. She should have known, should have been wary. She'd been so busy being furious, demanding that she be paid and that the tricks stop. Yes, definitely, drugged. The merlot?

It had made her eyelids heavy. She couldn't move them. She wanted to open her eyes, rip into someone.

But she couldn't quite force herself to move anything. Not her limbs, her mouth, her eyelids…

Yet she felt…movement.

Then, in the midst of her haze and anger, it began to occur to her that she really should have been more careful. Even dealing with sniveling cowards, she should have been careful.

Where on God's earth was she?

She became aware of being cold. Stone. She could feel stone against her flesh, and the icy cold that could settle into stone like nothing else. It seeped into her side, where she lay.

Then she heard laughter—nervous, desperate, edgy laughter. Voices so low she could barely hear them.

“There, right there, yes, perfect.”

“This is madness. It will never work.”

“It will for a while. What else is there now?”

“There's time to change—”

“No, there's no time.”

“But…”

The voices trailed away. Susan had heard nothing but whispers, low, sexless whispers, yet she knew who her attackers were. And when she got the strength to get up, she'd kill them.

She finally managed to open her eyes, slowly, so slowly. And she was staring up into the face of a killer….

No! No, it was an image. Yet am image of evil.

Not a killer.

Not real.

Was she losing her mind? She couldn't move, could barely breathe. If she could just see a bit more…

Tremendous strain. She twisted. Half an inch. It was enough. Just enough…

For her to look into her own face. And, looking, she saw her own death.

Sheer terror seized her. Yet still she couldn't move, scream, make a single noise.

Glass eyes returned her stare. Painted blood covered a knife. Her own face, contorted in the agony of death, lay just inches away. She looked at it. It looked at her….

Inside, she felt the welling of a scream. But she couldn't scream, couldn't move, couldn't make a single sound.

She should have told the truth, told what she knew! She had thought that she could deal with this. She had thought that her fury, her power, would be forceful enough to get her what she wanted. She had thought that…

“She's awake!” a voice whispered.

“She can't be awake.”

“I tell you, she is! Look at her eyes!”

“Don't look at her eyes! Don't look at her eyes, you fool!”

Her eyes. She could see her own eyes. She could see her own scream. See her own death…

She had to scream. Plead, maybe, cry out, give promises. They'd never believe her; they'd know that she'd skewer them the moment she had the chance. Oh, God, no…

“Her eyes are open!” She heard the fervent cry once again. “We can't do this! There's got to be another way!”

“We have to do this. There is no other way. And, frankly, it's only what she deserves.”