Never Sleep With Strangers, Page 3

  Until now.

  Three years after the death of his wife, he had opened the doors of Lochlyre Castle to the outside world once again.

  “Come to think of it, Cassie’s praise of Sabrina’s work was noteworthy,” Brett mused suddenly, “because she wasn’t usually so generous. She supposedly liked my work, but she ripped Scalpel to shreds. Remember, Jon? She even blasted your work sometimes, and though I hate to admit it, that’s hard to do.”

  “Thanks. That’s quite a compliment,” Jon said dryly.

  Brett grinned. “I’m feeling chipper. Just got the word that Surgery is number two, the New York Times list, come a week from Sunday.”

  “Congratulations,” Sabrina told him wholeheartedly. He always made the bestseller lists, but his position was rising steadily, much to his delight.

  “Great,” Jon said. “You can keep everybody’s spirits up during the week. Remind them that, dire perennial rumors to the contrary, publishing is not yet dead. So…what do you two think of the chamber of horrors this year?”

  “Ghoulishly wonderful,” Brett said.

  “Too real.” Sabrina shuddered.

  “Ah,” Jon murmured, eyes pure gold with sudden devilish humor. “I wouldn’t let your resemblance to the lady on the rack upset you,” he said. “An artist named Joshua Valine created the figures for the exhibit. He’s also done a lot of cover art—he met you at the booksellers’ convention in Chicago and was duly impressed.”

  “Not very positively, if he has me on the rack,” Sabrina commented.

  Jon laughed, a deep, husky, compelling sound. “Trust me, his reaction was quite positive. He always uses real people, whether he’s painting or working in wax. And if you’ll look around, you’ll see that there really wasn’t a pleasant situation in which he could have put anyone. Look to the far corner,” he said, that glimmer still in his eyes.

  As hardened as she told herself she had become, Sabrina could still feel the force of his charisma. He had just the slightest hint of a Scotsman’s burr in his deep voice, acquired from all the time he had spent here. His features and build—his entire presence—were exceedingly masculine. Even his subtle aftershave seemed intoxicating.

  Indeed, Jon Stuart was a dangerous man, she reminded herself. And a stranger, really, though she had once known him well—in a way.

  “In the far corner over there,” he said now, “Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette are off to face the guillotine, and Joan of Arc is about to be burned at the stake. In the next display, Anne Boleyn is ready to meet her swordsman, and over there, Jack the Ripper is in the midst of slicing Mary Kelly’s throat.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “Joshua is not fond of Susan Sharp, I’m afraid. Go take a look at Mary Kelly.”

  “So I suppose I should be grateful to be on the rack? Tortured for endless hours before death?” Sabrina observed.

  Jon cocked his head slightly, amused. “Actually, Ms. Holloway, the beautiful blonde on the rack is the only victim in this room to survive. She is Lady Ariana Stuart, and before she could be stretched and broken—accused of an attempt to turn young Charles over to Cromwell’s forces when his father was about to be beheaded—her brother brought a plea regarding her innocence before the young Charles himself, who was by then returned to the throne as Charles II, king of England. Charles, being the lusty fellow he was, instantly saw the waste in destroying so fine a damsel, so he ordered her out of the torture chamber and into his bed. Naturally, being the charming man he was, he made her one of his mistresses. She bore him numerous illegitimate children and lived to a ripe old age.”

  “How comforting,” Sabrina said.

  “Very romantic,” Brett sniffed. “I bet you made all that up to placate Sabrina.”

  “I swear it’s God’s own truth,” Jon Stuart assured them.

  “Well, Joshua certainly had a field day with Susan Sharp,” Brett said, chuckling with malicious pleasure. “And what a perfect Ripper’s victim. After all, she has been known to ‘entertain’ men for the rewards she might gain,” he remarked.

  “That’s hearsay,” Jon murmured, shrugging.

  Sabrina gritted her teeth at Brett’s boorish comment and silently applauded Jon’s refusal to speak ill of others.

  “Who did old Josh use for Joan of Arc?” Brett asked, unfazed.

  “My assistant, Camy,” Jon said. “She’s actually quite religious herself, I believe, and a good, hard worker.”

  “How apropos,” Brett said. “I approve.”

  Jon grinned. “So far you do.”

  Brett let out a groan. “So there’s something I’m not going to like?”

  “Most probably not.”

  “He used me?”

  Jon nodded.

  “As?”

  Jon indicated the torturer about to twist the rack with the blond beauty upon it.

  “Take away all the facial hair…” Jon suggested with a touch of rueful apology.

  Brett gasped. “I should sue!”

  Sabrina couldn’t help but laugh, which irritated Brett still further.

  “Come on, Brett, be a sport. You were just a model—and with the beard and mustache, no one will guess. And remember, the weekend is all for charity. Have a sense of humor,” she suggested.

  “Oh, very funny. I get to torture my ex-wife. So are you in this rogues’ gallery?” he demanded of Jon.

  Jon arched a brow. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Where?” Brett demanded.

  “Come on.”

  Brett looked at Sabrina, shrugging. “He’s probably set himself up as a king—or as Gandhi.”

  “Gandhi would hardly fit in here, and a number of kings weren’t such great fellows,” Jon reminded him. “But I didn’t have anything to do with Joshua’s choice of models. He doesn’t tell me how to write, and I don’t tell him how to sculpt.”

  They followed him down a corridor to another display. A tall man in European dress of perhaps the 1500s stood above the sprawled body of a woman. Her head was turned to the side, hiding her features from them. The man was staring down at the woman with a mixture of anger and confusion on his face. He had long, light brown hair, but he was still quite evidently Jon Stuart.

  “Who are they?” Sabrina asked, confused.

  “He’s not well-known to Americans,” Jon said, studying the display dispassionately. “His name was Matthew McNamara. Laird McNamara. He was a Scotsman who did away with three mistresses and two wives.”

  “How?” Brett asked. “I don’t see a weapon.”

  “He strangled them,” Jon said simply.

  “How did he get away with so many murders before he was found out?” Sabrina asked.

  “He was never brought to justice. He was considered so powerful among the clansmen that executing his own wayward women was considered his right,” Jon said.

  He turned away from the figures to look at her again, and she saw that his marbled eyes had gone very dark and cold. A strange trembling touched her as he slowly smiled. Was he mocking her? Or himself? She was afraid, she realized.

  And worse.

  She felt like a moth attracted to a flame. Time hadn’t changed anything, nor had distance. That Jon Stuart was virtually a stranger to her meant nothing at all. She felt the same fierce and immediate fascination she had felt the first time she’d met him, a little more than three and a half years ago.

  The first time…the last time.

  “Who’s the model for the wife?” Brett asked. Then, as if suddenly realizing that he might not want to hear the answer, he hurried on. “Joshua Valine is good. What an eye for detail.”

  “Relax, Brett. It isn’t Cassie,” Jon said, a dry smile curling his lip. “It’s Dianne Dorsey. You can see her face if you look at the tableau from the other side.”

  “Dianne…well, yes, of course. I guess I thought of Cassie because of the black hair, but Dianne is dark, too….” Brett murmured, clearing his throat. He looked at Jon uneasily.

  “Cassie’s over there, Brett,” Jon said, in
dicating a figure praying in front of mullioned windows. “Joshua used her for his Mary, Queen of Scots, contemplating the morning of the day of her execution.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s definitely Cassandra,” Brett said, staring for a long moment. His eyes jerked back to Jon’s. “Doesn’t that…bother you?”

  “They all bother me—they’re so real,” Jon admitted. “But Josh is an artist, and that’s how he works. Besides, I think Cassie makes a good Mary, Queen of Scots.”

  “They’re all women, the victims,” Sabrina commented.

  Jon smiled. “Well, historically, it seems, lots of men were monsters. But I assure you, we have some lethal ladies here, as well.” He pointed across the room. “There you have Countess Bathory, the Hungarian ‘blood countess.’ Allegedly she sacrificed hundreds of young women so she could bathe in their blood to retain her youth and beauty. V. J. Newfield is the model, as you might notice.”

  “Oh, you’re in trouble there!” Brett warned.

  Jon laughed. “V.J. will get a good laugh out of it. Besides, the countess was supposed to be quite beautiful as well as bloodthirsty.” He pointed out another tableau. “There you have Lady Emily Watson, who poisoned no fewer than ten husbands to get their worldly goods. So you see, we do try to be an equal-opportunity chamber of horrors.”

  “Who’s the model for Lady Emily?” Brett queried.

  “Anna Lee Zane. And her victim is Thayer Newby.”

  Brett laughed. “Thayer, downed by a woman! He’s going to love that.”

  Jon shrugged. “There’s Reggie Hampton as Good Queen Bess, signing the death warrant for Mary, Queen of Scots.”

  “Who are the others?” Sabrina asked, indicating the rest of the tableaux receding into the shadowy depths of the castle’s basement.

  “Naturally Tom Heart and Joe Johnston are in here, but I’ll let you find them. Joshua used a few of the household staff, as well, so don’t be surprised if you find your breakfast being served by Catherine the Great.”

  “Sabrina,” Brett puffed, “we really should remarry, and quickly! Jack the Ripper could arrive for your laundry!”

  “Oh, I think I can manage my own hand laundry, and I’ll make sure to have breakfast with a crowd,” Sabrina told him. She wanted to kick him when she saw that Jon was studying her again.

  Jon merely shrugged and seemed to ignore the exchange. “Joshua had lots of people working on this project for more than a year. We’ll be donating the sculptures to a new museum in the north country when we’re done here.”

  “You’ll need releases from the models,” Brett warned him.

  Jon smiled. “I think I’ll get them. The publicity will be phenomenal, you know.”

  “Great, I’ll go down in history as a maniacal torturer!” Brett moaned, but the word publicity had won him over.

  “Don’t feel bad. One way or the other, I go down as a wife murderer. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few things to attend to. Enjoy yourselves. Brett, you know your way around. Ms. Holloway, please make yourself at home, as well. I’ll see you at cocktails.”

  He turned and walked away with strong strides. In a moment the shadows swallowed him.

  Yet somehow his presence seemed to linger, and Sabrina found herself turning to stare again at the wax tableau of Matthew, Laird McNamara.

  Very tall, straight, broad-shouldered he was, with hands on his hips as he stood over the woman at his feet. Handsome, proud, merciless, powerful—laird indeed of his domain.

  So powerful that he could kill and get away with it?

  She forced herself to turn away, to look at the other figures as they engaged in their various dances with death.

  The diffuse lighting made everything even more horrible. Shadows filled the room except where each scene stood, looming out of the darkness in eerie purple light, adding to the sensation of everything being real. Sabrina could imagine that the figures breathed. That they twitched, that they sweated. That they might move at any second…

  Matthew McNamara stood over his wife, fists clenched.

  Jack the Ripper wielded his knife.

  And Lady Ariana Stuart continued to scream in terror and chilling silence.

  A new wave of chills began a route through Sabrina’s bloodstream, and she jumped again when Brett’s hands fell on her shoulders.

  “Let’s get out of here, shall we?” he said.

  And she realized that even he suddenly sounded afraid.

  3

  “Ms. Holloway!”

  Cocktails were being served in the library of the castle, just down the grand staircase from the guest rooms on the second floor and opposite the great hall, where everyone would gather for dinner. Sabrina found herself arriving rather late. She’d lingered in the modern bath for a very long time, drawing together the courage to dress and go downstairs. Her brief meeting with Jon Stuart had left her far more unnerved than she’d imagined it would. For once she had to be grateful for Brett’s presence. He kept her from feeling too lost and alone, even if he was annoying.

  She’d barely reached the doorway to the library when she heard her name being called. A small woman with short-cropped, shiny brown hair was moving toward her, offering her a glass of champagne. She had powder blue eyes, a pretty, heart-shaped face and a tentative smile that immediately set Sabrina at ease.

  “Welcome, welcome, we’re so delighted that you could come. Well, I’m delighted especially, since I’m a true fan.” She pressed the champagne flute forward into Sabrina’s hand.

  “Thank you so much,” Sabrina said. “And you are…?”

  “Oh!” The young woman said, and flushed, making her appear even prettier and more delicate. “I’m Camy, Camy Clark. I’m Jon’s secretary and assistant.”

  “Of course, Joan of Arc!”

  Camy flushed more deeply. “Yes, that would be me. Joshua Valine is a good friend.”

  Sabrina laughed. “He must be. You look lovely, even being martyred.”

  “Well, Josh is a dear. He makes everyone look wonderful. You’re definitely the finest looking victim I’ve ever seen on a rack.”

  Sabrina laughed again, lifting her champagne glass. “He’s very talented, certainly.”

  “So are you. I love your work. The male writers can be so dry. You know, all action but no endearing characteristics to their people. I just love your Miss Miller. She’s a delight. So real, so sympathetic, brave but not ridiculously so.”

  “Thank you again. Very much.”

  “Camy, Camy, Camy!”

  A slim woman of about five-five, with short, artfully styled dark hair, was bearing down on them. Her off-the-shoulder cocktail dress was elegant designer wear; her shoes matched its soft mauve. Sabrina knew Susan Sharp, because Susan herself made a point of knowing everyone. Most writers both feared and appreciated the literary critic because she had so much clout, especially in the world of the wealthy, and thus, by word of mouth, could help make or break a book or an author. She had written two mysteries herself and done very well with them, since her characters were clearly based on her acquaintances among the rich and famous. But she could also be loud, opinionated and abrasive, drawing mixed reactions from friends and enemies alike. It was rumored that she had absolutely hated Cassandra Stuart, who had often been her competition in talk-show bookings.

  “Camy, Camy, Camy!” Susan repeated, reaching out to curl her perfectly manicured fingers around Sabrina’s arm. “You can’t just pin Ms. Holloway down at the doorway—we’re all waiting to see her. Authors get to be such good friends, you know.”

  “Yes, of course, Ms. Sharp,” Camy murmured, flashing Sabrina an embarrassed look. Susan had put her in her place. She was just an assistant. The rest of them were authors.

  “Camy, it was wonderful meeting you, and I look forward to getting to spend more time together,” Sabrina told the young woman.

  Camy lit up with a smile. “Thanks!”

  Susan drew Sabrina on into the room. “How have you been? It’s been ages since I
’ve seen you.”

  “It was just last June, in Chicago,” Sabrina reminded her.

  “Yes, of course, you were doing so well. So many people adore that Miss Mailer of yours.”

  “Miller,” Sabrina corrected smoothly.

  “Yes, yes, Miss Miller. So tell me, what’s up with you and Brett? Are you planning on remarrying?”

  “What?” Sabrina demanded.

  “Well, Brett does make it sound as if you two share so much passion, both of you being so talented and wild. I’ll never forget how delicious it was when the tabloids ran those pictures of you running naked from your hotel room in Paris.”

  “Susan, maybe you’ll never forget, but I’d like to. It was a very painful time in my life,” Sabrina said firmly. “Oh, look, there’s V. J. Newfield. I haven’t seen her in quite some time. Excuse me, will you?”

  Sabrina escaped Susan and hurried toward V. J.—Victoria Jane—Newfield. V.J. was somewhere in her fifties or sixties and had been writing forever, or so it seemed. Her work was dark and scary but far more psychological than graphic, always striking a resonant note on the human condition. She was very slim, tall, with silver hair and a graceful carriage. She was a stunning woman and doubtless would be so until the day she died. Sabrina had met her early on in her career at a group autographing, where V.J. had assured her that the nicest thing about doing signings with other authors was that there was always someone interesting to talk to if no one stopped to buy a book.