Читать книгу Never Sleep With Strangers - Heather Pozzessere Graham, Heather Graham Pozzessere - Страница 8

His eyes were on her, studying her. He smiled pleasantly as he continued, “Seriously, Brett, she’ll hardly be alone, considering the fact that there are ten writers here—including ourselves, of course—along with an artist, my assistant and the castle staff, all in residence.”

He sounded amused. Slipping from beneath Brett’s arm, Sabrina stared at Jon Stuart. It had been a long time.

“Jon,” Brett murmured, an unmistakable edge in his voice. The two were supposedly friends; still, it seemed that Brett was less than pleased with Stuart’s timing.

“Brett, good to see you. Thank you for coming.”

“It’s always a pleasure. We were all damn glad you decided to do it again. Jon, you’ve met my wife, Sabrina Holloway, haven’t you?”

Sabrina gazed at the mesmerizing owner of Lochlyre Castle, but Jon Stuart had already arched a dark brow Brett’s way as he took Sabrina’s hand. She resisted the odd temptation to wrench it away.

“Sabrina, good to see you again. I hadn’t realized the two of you had remarried.”

“We haven’t,” Sabrina said.

“Ah.”

“Sorry. My ex-wife,” Brett murmured innocently, smiling intimately at Sabrina as if there were still a great deal going on between them. “It’s so easy to forget we ever divorced.”

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re both here. Thank you for coming,” Stuart said politely.

“I wouldn’t have missed it. You know that,” Brett said.

“It was nice to be invited,” Sabrina murmured.

“You’ve been invited before,” Jon said pointedly.

“I…I was on a deadline last time.” It was a lie, of course. An author’s stock excuse for not being somewhere he or she didn’t want to be.

“Well, it must have been worth it, then. Your last book was very good.”

“You read it?” she inquired—too quickly. Instantly she wanted to kick herself. She was blushing, unaccountably pleased that he had been interested enough to read her work. Then she felt her flush darken, wondering what he must have thought of the book’s graphic romantic encounters. And wondering how much her blush was giving away.

“I’ve loved all your recent work,” she said quickly, trying to cover herself.

He smiled a slow, skeptical smile that clearly indicated he had heard the words before but somehow doubted them in this case.

“It’s the truth,” she murmured, wishing she could gracefully end her awkward monologue. Brett was staring at her now with real interest, having picked up on the tension between her and Jon Stuart.

“Really?” Jon murmured, either unaware of her discomfort or amused by it. It was disturbing to realize that he maintained such an edge over her both in maturity and in simple confidence. He had been a success since his first novel, a thriller based in World War II Italy, had been published soon after he’d graduated from college.

She forced a cool smile to her lips. She was not going to be intimidated. “Okay, so I hated it when you killed the priest in your last book—he didn’t deserve it.”

Her words didn’t offend him; he laughed, apparently pleased with her honesty. “Good for you, telling me the truth.”

“The truth is always different through different eyes,” Brett interjected somewhat irritably.

Jon shook his head. “No, there’s only the truth, maybe just shaded a bit differently,” he said somewhat solemnly, gazing at Sabrina. Then he seemed to collect himself and said more lightly, “And the truth is, of course, that I’m delighted you were able to tear yourself away from your busy schedule to be here, Ms. Holloway.”

“She knew I was coming and that she’d be comfortable here,” Brett said proprietarily.

“Great,” Jon responded.

“I have a number of friends here,” Sabrina murmured, wondering why she cared if Jon Stuart did or didn’t think she was still sleeping with her ex-husband. But she kept talking. “You know how it goes. We authors tend to stick together. You have an impressive guest list. I’m flattered to be invited.”

“I very much wanted you to be here,” he said politely. “As you may recall, I wanted you last time, as well.”

Right. He had wanted her. She’d first met him just months before his last Mystery Week party. And in that time, she’d married Brett—and they’d divorced.

And he’d married Cassandra Kelly.

“I had only one book out on the market at the time. I could hardly be ranked among the pros you had here then.”

He arched a brow, cocking his head. “Dianne Dorsey was even more of a babe in the woods at the time, and she was here,” Jon commented.

“But it did turn out to be a tragic occasion, so it’s a good thing Sabrina didn’t come,” Brett said. “Glad to see you seem to be bucking up, old boy,” he added, punching Jon lightly on the shoulder with his fist. “We haven’t seen enough of you lately. By the way, wasn’t Cassie actually the one who told us all what a great book Sabrina had written?”

“Yes,” Jon said evenly, still studying Sabrina. “Cassandra thought you had created superb characters in a compelling setting, then concocted the perfect murder for just the right dramatic twist.”

“That was quite nice of her,” Sabrina murmured uncomfortably. Cassandra was dead—and she felt incredibly guilty, because she hadn’t cared much for the woman when she was alive.

All right, so she’d jealously despised her. The one time they’d met face-to-face had been a horror worse than anything in this gallery.

It was only natural that she had hated Cassandra Stuart.

A hot tremor snaked through her again, having nothing to do with the tableau in front of them. The way Jon was staring at her was unnerving. Despite the ridiculously possessive way Brett was behaving at the moment, Sabrina was suddenly glad of his presence.

For Jon Stuart was imposing. Even intimidating, in a way. Perhaps by simple virtue of his height and hard-muscled build. He was very tall, about six foot three, and strikingly handsome in a rugged way. His hair wasn’t just dark, it was jet black, thick and luxurious, long past his collar though neatly combed back from his forehead. His eyes were a marbled hazel, truly unique, merging blue, green and brown into a compelling, moody mix that could appear golden at times, dark as night at others. His features were strong, arresting: firm, square chin; broad cheekbones; generous, sensual mouth; high, defined brow. At thirty-seven, he was a renowned master of adventure and suspense writing; in real life, too, he had been named by a prominent international magazine to be one of the world’s ten most intriguing men. An American of Scottish heritage, he had never used fame or fortune to shirk duty; he’d served overseas in the National Guard during Desert Storm.

Though Stuart had recently lain very low, remaining in Scotland more often than not, he still appeared in news stories now and then, usually upon the once-a-year publication of his latest book or the reissue in paperback of the previous title. It didn’t matter that he’d been something of a recluse for the past several years—that merely enhanced his reputation.

The mystery surrounding the death of his wife rendered him both fascinatingly dangerous and hauntingly sympathetic. Some journalists claimed he had gone into deep mourning for Cassandra, while others hinted he had retreated into guilt, that he had somehow killed her—even if he had been a hundred feet away from the balcony from which she’d fallen at the time. Some suggested she might have committed suicide, that her marriage had been failing and she had cast herself from the balcony in a moment of dramatic self-pity, putting the blame on her famous husband, creating a scandal that would torment him until the end of his days. Others thought that perhaps the cancer consuming her beautiful breasts had driven her to despair. Whatever had happened had certainly given rise to endless speculation. And Jon Stuart had endured legal hearings into the matter and been tried by the press, his peers and fans, as well. His annual Mystery Week, a famed writers’ retreat orchestrated at his secluded castle in Scotland to raise publicity and funds for children’s charities, had been halted.

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, indicating 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.