Never Sleep With Strangers (23 page)

“You're jealous!”

“Naturally, don't you think?”

“But I told you that I care about him.”

“It's how much you care about him that concerns me.”

“I've been with you,” she said softly.

He cocked his head slightly. “Nice to think that tonight has solidified our relationship.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I suppose I could be jealous of lots of people.”

“If you weren't somewhat jealous, I would be entirely insulted.”

“So I should be flattered that you think so little of me that you assume I could jump from bed to bed?” she inquired.

He smiled slightly, his eyes dark and marbled. She felt a strange tremor streak through her. He was still a stranger, no matter how well she thought she knew him.

“I didn't say that,” he told her.

“You suggested something very close.”

He caught her arms and pulled her up against him. “Sorry. I am just…jealous.”

She held herself stiffly, but she didn't want to resist him. She felt his warmth, his scent, the pounding of his heart. She didn't want to say more, but she heard herself ask, “You left my room and returned by way of the secret passage?”

“Yes.” He held her close, his voice drifting over her hair.

She pulled back, looking up at him. “But you said you had been out in the hallway, chasing shadows.”

He smiled, looking down at her. He rubbed his chin, saying, “I went back to my room to shave.”

“You decided to shave in the middle of the night?” she asked him.

He smiled again and touched her cheek. “I noticed I'd given you razor burn. Sorry. But I've paid for my sin. Knicked myself incredibly.”

He touched his own cheek, and when he drew his hand away there was a smudge of blood on his fingers.

“That's from a knick?” she inquired.

“Took out a fair hunk of skin,” he admitted.

“I'll say.”

“Sorry, looks as if I got it on your robe.”

“No, no, you didn't—” she began, then broke off.

“Then who did?” he inquired, eyes narrowed.

“Uh…Brett.”

“Brett bled on you? This is pretty wild. Don't tell me, he'd been shaving, too, before wandering into the night?” he said suspiciously.

“No, he didn't decide to shave in the middle of the night.”

“He's just running around bleeding then.”

“He cut himself coring an apple.”

“How'd he get the blood on you?”

“Oh, please.”

“Sabrina, how?” Jon demanded tensely, taking her arms again.

She sighed. “He caught my arms while he was talking to me, just as you're doing now.”

“Oh?” he said, his voice grating.

“Jon, he knows that I'm—that I was—that we were together.”

“How?”

She felt the color flooding her cheeks. “He heard us.”

“Through the walls?”

“Through the door.”

“What was he doing at your door?”

“Seeing if I wanted to raid the great hall for food with him.”

Jon was silent for a moment. “This is a busy place,” he said very softly. “You running around, Brett out and about. Susan won't answer her door—”

“So I heard.”

“From whom?”

“From Brett,” Sabrina said sharply. She offered him a hard smile. “And since we're busy casting stones here, why were you knocking on Susan's door?”

“To make sure she was all right. She was really angry today, and someone—Dianne included—has been playing some pretty mean jokes. Actually, Dianne and Thayer didn't answer their doors, either.”

“Nor Tom,” Sabrina murmured, “nor Joe.”

“You were knocking on Tom Heart's door?” Jon demanded. “And Joe's?”

“No!”

“Then—”

“Brett. Brett was out knocking on doors. He was looking for company.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“You were knocking on doors in the middle of the night,” she reminded him.

“But it's my castle.”

“Still, it's the middle of the night….” Sabrina sighed, relenting. “Brett was simply hungry and trying to find someone else who might be awake and about.”

“We should have had a midnight buffet, like a cruise ship,” Jon murmured.

“I think it's well past midnight.”

“Hmm. And you sound as if you don't trust me.”

“Why wouldn't I trust you?”

“Oh, a little thing like half the world thinks I killed my wife.”

She shook her head. “I belong to the half of the world that doesn't think you did.”

He smiled, smoothing back her hair. “Do you think that's smart?” he queried huskily. “You know how it goes in horror tales. The sweet, innocent, noble young heroine is sucked dry by the bloodthirsty vampire.”

“I don't think you've been accused of being a vampire.”

“Just Bluebeard.”

“You've only had one wife.”

“But, alas, they say, she is dead. Do you think I should leave?”

“Should you leave? Well, what good would that do? You left before—you simply return.”

“That's true, isn't it?” he mused, and she realized that he was just slightly bitter, and just slightly mocking her, and himself.

“You could bunk in with Brett, your good buddy.”

“He would protect me with his life,” she agreed blithely, watching his marbled eyes.

“Ah, would he? But if I'm not a dangerous man, perhaps your ex-husband is.”

“Maybe I would be best off bunking in with V.J.,” she murmured.

“Well, you probably would be. But V.J. isn't answering her door, either,” he said dryly.

She felt a strange shiver. He was taunting her, almost as if he had pulled her too close and now wanted her to step back and find fault with him.

To be afraid?

“It's your castle, isn't it? Couldn't you actually follow me almost anywhere I went?”

“If I chose.”

“Would you choose?” she asked softly.

“Yes.”

She lifted her chin, studying her eyes. “I take my chances then, with what's left of the night.”

“Not much, I'm afraid,” he murmured softly. “Want to try to get some sleep? No more wandering? We both stay put?”

“Sleep?” she murmured.

“Sure.”

Sabrina slipped out of her robe and into her bed. The sheets felt very cold, but then Jon doffed his robe and slid in beside her, curling an arm around her, pulling her close. His hands slid beneath the hem of her gown, over her calf, her knee, her thigh.

“I thought we would be sleeping,” she murmured.

“Just trying to get comfortable. I hate these things,” he told her, tugging at her nightgown. “I mean, they have their place, just not in bed.”

“Nightgowns don't belong in bed?”

He shook his head. “Most certainly not,” he said. Then his marbled eyes grew very dark in the shadows. “I can't seem to leave you alone,” he admitted.

She didn't want to be left alone. She didn't know if he got rid of her gown or if she did. But soon her arms were around him, and she wanted him. “Then don't,” she told him.

“I let you go once,” he told her, voice soft, lips muffled against hers. “I can't do it again.”

She didn't reply.

It was a dark and stormy night….

He was a stranger.

But she felt such a keen sense of intimacy, and whether or not she should be afraid, she had no intention of allowing him to let her go.

 

Later, she slept. She roused slightly when Jon rolled out of bed and stood staring toward the balcony. She felt a stirring in the region of her heart. Warmth. Possessiveness. Her lashes slightly parted to allow her an unobserved surveillance, she studied him. Tall, handsome, ruggedly muscled, very nicely put together. She loved being with him, loved the way he made her feel, as if she were unique in every way, exciting in her slightest movement. So cherished, and so thoroughly explored, tempest and tenderness in one exciting touch. She had been falling in love with him the night she'd met him. She'd eaten her heart out when she'd lost him. And she'd tried to tell herself that she was an idiot, wanting him through time and distance. But she had fallen in love with him, and time and distance be damned; what she felt now was pure wonderment. He was beautiful to her, from his tousled black hair to his taut buttocks, relaxed penis, muscled legs.

He turned, and she closed her eyes, not wanting to be caught observing him.

He kissed her forehead, left her side, dressed.

Tangled in myriad emotions, unwilling to let them all show, she allowed him to go. Then she opened her eyes to the weak shafts of sunlight filtering in.

She sat up, absently rubbing her arm. He must have really knicked himself shaving, there was dried blood on her arm. Seeing his robe thrown at the foot of the bed, she reached for it, stroking her hand fondly over the shoulder and collar of the maroon garment. It was slightly damp, slightly stiff.

She frowned. Peered at it more closely. And felt her stomach turn.

Blood.

Not just a spot or two.

The front of his robe seemed to be covered with it.

H
ad he hit a damned artery, for God's sake?

Despite herself, she shivered, and she forced herself to reconsider every dumb horror movie ever made.

The women always tended to be such fools. Believing in men. Falling for vampires. Monsters. Seeing what they wanted to see, trusting….

She cared about him, had been in love with him, was falling all over again, or had never fallen out of love with him. She believed in him. If you loved someone, it wasn't foolish to have faith in him. She did know him. He was an honest man who knew right from wrong.

But his wife had died mysteriously. Here.

And last night, he'd been covered in blood.

Stop, she told herself. Brett had been slightly bloodied as well. And to the best of her knowledge, they'd both left only their own blood, so what difference did it make? No one else was running around wounded or lying around dead. After Dianne's drama in the crypt, there'd been no screams in the night, no cries of foul play.

Sabrina didn't even know what she was worrying about.

She lay still, tired, closing her eyes again. Then a pounding on her door jolted her out of her daze, and she flew up into a sitting position.

“What?” she cried out.

“Hey!” It was Brett, calling to her. “It's me. Are you decent? I know you're alone—the king of the old castle is downstairs sipping coffee.” He paused. “I'm glad you were so concerned about me earlier,” he added plaintively. “Hey, Sabrina, come on out. Speak to me. Tell me you're alive and well. I'm alive and well, no complications from the bump on my head or even that little cut on my finger. It's nearly noon, Sabrina, and we're supposed to be in the great hall for a tell-all. Aren't you coming?”

She leaped out of bed. “Brett, I need to shower and dress. I'll be right out.” She sped to the bathroom.

She wouldn't miss this tell-all for anything in the world.

In ten minutes she had showered and was ready. Brett had waited for her; he was leaning against the hallway wall, sipping a cup of coffee, when she came out of her room.

“Well, it's about time,” he complained.

“I was very fast.”

“I was about to desert you, since my coffee cup is nearly empty. I need more caffeine. Hell of a night. Frankly, you look bushed. I'm jealous as hell.”

“Right, because you spend so many lonely nights yourself?” she queried skeptically.

He grimaced. “All right, not so many. But I'm seeking consolation for the fact that I lost you.”

She shook her head. “Did you get any sleep? And how is the bump on your head, really?”

“Just a little sore. And yes, I got some sleep. Did you? Oh, never mind. Silly question.”

“Brett…”

“Sorry.”

“How's the finger?”

“Oh, a little tender, that's all. Want to kiss it and make it better?”

She sighed.

He grinned. “Sorry, I guess I can't help myself. Truce? I really do want to be friends. Of course, if you change your mind and want more”—he leaned closer to her—“or if you're ever afraid that your rich, lordly lover is planning on tossing you off a balcony—”

“Brett!”

“—feel free to call on me.”

“Brett, I thought Jon was your friend.”

“He is. But all's fair in love and war and mystery.”

They had reached the bottom of the stairs and stood at the main entry. Through the long, narrow windows Sabrina could see that the snow was piled high and the day was gray, with a hint that the storm could start up again at any time. It was actually rather beautiful, in a bleak sort of way.

Kerosene lanterns continued to burn from their wall fixtures, but with a little struggling sunlight seeping in as well, the castle seemed much brighter.

“Coffee, dear, is that way,” Brett said, propelling her toward the great hall.

Jon was seated at the head of the table, coffee in hand, deep in conversation with Joe and Thayer. Jennie Albright, as calm and competent as ever, was busy setting the Sterno aflame under the chafing dishes. On one side of the table Dianne and Anna Lee were discussing the pros and cons of body piercing, while on the other Joshua, Camy and Reggie were lamenting the lack of artistic talent demonstrated in a new museum of the macabre in London.

“I still insist that there is no such thing as a female serial killer,” Thayer was saying as Brett poured himself more coffee and joined Jon's grouping.

“Well, what does one call a woman like Countess Bathory?” Joe asked. “She killed dozens of young women, hundreds, perhaps.”

“And there's that prostitute who began offing johns in Florida,” Jon reminded Thayer.

“Okay, she may come close to the profile of a true serial killer,” Thayer said. “The point is, the typical serial killer is a sexual killer. Predatory—and male. Seeking sexual fulfillment through violence.”

“It's true that most of the sociopaths the criminologists and behavioral scientists and FBI profilers have studied have been men,” Jon said, “But—”

“But I would certainly call that wicked old Countess Bathory a serial killer,” Anna Lee said, sliding into the argument. “She killed all those poor girls for their blood so that she could be more beautiful so that she could have more sex.”

“Actually,” Reggie interjected, “I read that Countess Bathory played with her victims before she killed them, as well. If that wasn't sexual…”

“In a different way,” Thayer insisted, but he seemed a little quieter, as he'd been thrown a new twist to an old argument. He had been a hands-on cop, not a scholar, but he still knew plenty.

Joe jumped to his defense. “Male killers of the kind Thayer's discussing can only get off on feelings of control, domination and power. Countess Bathory lived hundreds of years ago, so it's unlikely we'll get any real insights into her murderous activities. In part, she probably simply believed she was above everyone else and had a right to kill peasant girls for her own sport.”

“One way or the other, she was definitely a monster,” Dianne agreed with a shiver.

“Careful,” Brett warned, “V.J. will be down Joshua's throat for fashioning her into the beautiful Blood Countess if she hears us bashing the lady with too great a fervor.”

“Where is V.J.?” Sabrina asked.

“Not down yet,” Jon said.

“The point is, the historical Countess Bathory isn't the same as the serial killers we track today,” Joe continued.

“Not the same as a Bundy, a Dahmer, a Gacy and so on,” Thayer assured them. “Trust me, please, on this one. I know.”

“The cop speaks,” Anna Lee murmured.

“From what I understand,” Jon interjected, coming politely to Thayer's defense, “our ex-cop is basically right. Psychologists are always arguing heredity and environment in the creation of killers, but there does seem to be a relationship between testosterone and violently aggressive behavior. Damaged males who feel they've been degraded, violated, put down, et cetera, tend to become violent, while studies show that women turn the loathing against themselves and are more likely to commit suicide or become victims themselves when their self-esteem is low.”

“But women do kill,” Anna Lee said.

“True, some do,” Joe said lightly, looking right at her.

“So, Thayer, why do females kill then?” Dianne demanded.

Thayer looked at her soberly. “Passion.”

“Passion!” Dianne protested. “Always?”

“I'd say they kill out of fear more often than not,” Sabrina suggested. She'd poured herself coffee but hadn't joined the others at the table. Leaning against the buffet, she looked at them all as they turned to stare at her.

She shrugged, looked at Brett, and then at Jon. He was watching her curiously. “Say that someone's driving a woman mad, and the opportunity comes by for her to do something about it. A crowded subway…a little shove. Or busy street and a car speeding along…only seconds to think! Do I push gently, just give a little shove…?”

The room was silent as they all stared at her.

Except for Thayer, who hadn't heard any deeper implications.

“Sure,” Thayer agreed. “Some murders are so simple, it's pathetic. A husband freaks out because his wife has made leftovers three nights in a row. He yells, she snarls—boom. Blown away—assuming he has a weapon handy. Women—the husband is abusive night after night, day after day. Breaks her arms or blackens her eyes, digs, digs. She's no good, she does nothing right. He screams about the lamb at dinner, tells her the mint sauce sucks and isn't fit for swine. He drinks like a fish, comes in every night at two in the morning smelling of stale booze and rotten cigars and wants sex. She can't feel, can't think anymore. She's just scared all the time. Finally, one day, megabelly sticking out from under his ugly, stained T-shirt, he sits feet-up on the recliner, belching for another beer while he watches a football game at a million decibels—she freaks out. She doesn't bring him another beer—she comes in, shotgun blasting.”

“He's gross and disgusting,” Dianne said, smiling. “Is the woman charged with murder, acquitted for self-defense or given a medal for ridding humanity of a danger to the human race?”

Light laughter filled the room. It was a pleasant sound. Despite the serious subject matter, they finally sounded like a group of mystery writers having fun discussing their interests, as it should be at a retreat.

The retreat Jon had intended, with a finale that benefited children, Sabrina thought. She suddenly felt a deep sadness that something had so altered the proceedings.

And yet…sad or not, there still seemed to be an underlying touch of evil here.

Who was telling the truth? And who was masking something beneath the surface?

Thayer was too involved in the discussion to notice anything evil, said or unsaid, at the moment. He grinned, responding to Dianne. “Naturally, you know that there's always a motive to murder.”

“Even if murder is casual?” Anna Lee asked. “Like someone pushing a stranger standing on a subway platform onto the tracks?”

Thayer nodded. “There's insanity—that's a motive in itself. The guys who hear voices. The paranoid who believes people are after him. There's always a motive.” Thayer shrugged. “We've always had monsters. It just seems we have worse ones today—bastards who get a kick out of pain and can only feel pleasure and release through torture and killing. It's great that forensic science is coming so far. One tiny fiber, one microscopic drop of blood or skin cell, DNA matching—it's terrific.”

“Of course, you still have to have a suspect,” Joe reminded him.

“Sure—hey, it's terrifying to realize how many crimes go unsolved!”

“Well, thank God people do love a good crime solved, or we'd all be out of business,” Anna Lee said. She smiled suddenly, glancing around at the group. “Speaking of which, aren't we all supposed to be admitting our own most horrible sins today—and discovering what trickster is sending people to the wrong places?”

“Susan will make mincemeat of us all, no matter what,” Joe said unhappily.

Anna Lee shrugged. “We'll simply tell her that if she dares print a mean word, we'll do an Agatha Christie on her—we'll every one of us kill her with a rope, knife, gun, poison, garrote, et cetera, if she doesn't mind her manners.”

“Speaking of Susan, where is she?” Jon asked.

“Haven't seen her,” Joe told him.

“Nor have I.” Dianne shrugged.

“She's really, really mad at all of us,” Thayer said with a grimace.

“Has anyone seen her?” Jon asked, looking around the table.

“Not since last night,” Anna Lee said.

“Come to think of it,” Thayer said, “I haven't seen V.J. or Tom, either. Tom was standing guard for Susan while she bathed last night, remember?”

“Maybe they're all still sleeping?” Dianne suggested.

“Well, Tom and V.J., maybe. But Susan?” Brett said skeptically. “I mean, Tom and V.J.—”

“We're supposed to confess our own sins, not go around casting accusations at others, young man,” Reggie declared, chastising him sternly.

“Sorry, I just meant that—”

“Meant what?” a new voice demanded.

Tom Heart, freshly showered, dressed in perfectly pressed gray wool trousers and a matching sweater, walked into the room. He helped himself to coffee, then realized that everyone was looking at him.

He lifted his coffee cup. “What's up?”

“We were getting worried,” Jon said.

“Why?” Tom asked innocently.

“Because it's getting late, and we didn't see you,” Anna Lee said. “Or V.J.”

“Victoria—V.J. said she'd be right down. She was finishing dressing when I…tapped on her door. And here I am. So why the long faces?” Tom asked.