Never Sleep With Strangers

“Yes. I have an apartment in New York now, but I’ve been staying at my folks’ and my sister’s for a while. She just had a baby, her first, a little boy. Naturally, we’re all just delighted. I spent a few months out there to help when the baby was born.”

“You should be having your own babies soon.”

“Reggie, not every woman has babies these days.”

“But you want children, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do, when the time is right.”

“Are you going to remarry Br—”

“No. Enough about me, Reggie. How is your family?”

Reggie told her briefly about her sons, grandsons and new great-granddaughter as they crossed the entry to the great hall, where dinner would be served. They all milled around the bar first, making drinks.

Brett popped up again to supply Sabrina with a gin and tonic, heavy on the lime, then whispered happily that he’d moved the place cards around at the dinner table and put her next to him. They sat down to a magnificent meal of pheasant and fish. As they ate, they all talked and laughed; it might have been a high school reunion. Then Jon, at the head of the table, rose, thanked them again for coming and reminded them that they were there not only for fun but also for the benefit of children’s charities. Each writer had submitted a favorite cause, and the one who solved the mystery claimed the lion’s share of the donations.

“When do we start?” Thayer called out.

“Tomorrow morning,” Jon replied. “Those with the energy are welcome to catch up on each other’s lives tonight. Those who are too exhausted from jet lag can get some sleep. Things will be pretty much the same as they were previous years. Camy and Joshua have worked out the particulars. I won’t know who the murderer is any more than any of you will. In the morning, you’ll all receive your character roles and a description of the situation. The murderer will discover who he—or she—is, and then he or she will have to get busy before being discovered. The murderer will have been assigned the order in which the victims are to be dispatched. The victims will be ‘murdered’ with a washable red paint, and naturally we’ll take care of any cleaning expenses. Any questions?”

“Sure,” Joe Johnston said, speaking up. “Even if I’m not the murderer, can I shoot Susan anyway?”

Laughter rose, then faded, as Susan stared them all down. “You’re right at the top of my list, too, Joe,” she told him sweetly. She pointed a finger at him and made a popping sound, as if she were pulling a trigger. “And you’ll be covered in something a lot worse than red paint!”

“Come, come, children, behave,” Anna Lee Zane drawled.

“Well, shit, I’m sorry!” Joe said.

Anna Lee shook her head, as if it were as impossible to deal with writers as with unruly children.

Jon rose. “If you all will excuse me, I have a few things to attend to,” he said. “Please, make yourselves at home. We’ll meet here at nine tomorrow morning. For the early birds, coffee will be on the buffet by six.”

He exited the great hall, closing the double doors behind him. Sabrina stared after him, biting her lower lip, wishing suddenly that she hadn’t come.

Brett’s hand landed on hers where it rested on the table. “Want to see my room?” he inquired hopefully.

She withdrew her hand, smiling because he could be so much like a child, so eager, so unwilling to admit defeat.

“No. I’m going to bed.”

“That will work with me.”

“To sleep. I’m one of those guests with jet lag. I got to London late last night and came here this afternoon. I’m tired.”

“All right. I’m right next door to you, if you change your mind. If things go bump in the night.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” she told him.

She waved a good-night to the others as she escaped the great hall.

The castle foyer and magnificent staircase were empty. With the doors to the library and great hall closed, she suddenly felt very alone in the ancient edifice.

She hurried up the stairs and down the second-floor hallway with its Norman arches toward her own room.

It was huge, retaining a historical feel yet updated to offer incredible warmth and comfort. The bed sat on a richly carpeted dais, and heavy draperies hung at the balcony doors to ward off cold drafts. The closet and bath were large, and an antique desk sat to the side of a massive hearth. A fire had been built and stoked, and it burned brightly as she entered her room, hesitated, then carefully shot the bolt.

She kicked off her shoes and stripped away her stockings, then found herself wandering to the glass-paned balcony doors that closed out the night beyond. She opened them and stepped outside. From this vantage point she could see rolling fields, the shimmering waters of a small loch and the purple crests of mountains in the distance. The scenery, even by moonlight, was breathtaking. This trip was the opportunity of a lifetime.

She never should have come.

Sabrina drew a long, shaky breath. “So,” she asked herself aloud, “did you come to try to convince yourself that your brief, shining moment in his company is completely over and forgotten? Or were you hoping to sleep with him just once more, whatever the consequences?”

She felt her cheeks redden. How humiliating. Would he sleep with her again? She undoubtedly had a reputation for being rather…casual. Just think of the way she had left Brett, running away naked….

Funny. Brett was okay. She liked being friends. It was even flattering that he still pursued her. What he had done was terribly wrong, but what she had done was wrong, as well. She had married him without truly loving him.

Because, of course, she had been in love with Jon Stuart.

A cool breeze suddenly wrapped around her, and she remembered being in New York City for the very first time and winding up at a party for one of her publicist’s other clients, who had just had a Broadway opening. Sabrina had had no idea who the handsome party guest was when she met him, other than that his name was Jon. He’d had her laughing, telling her about the terrors of the big city and how it might well be a death-defying feat simply to survive her first experience with a New York cab driver.

Admittedly, she’d drunk too much. She’d been exhilarated with the success of selling her book and excited at being in his company. He had a car, and he offered to drive her back to her hotel.

She’d fallen asleep on his shoulder in the car, and when they’d reached her hotel, she was still drowsy, intoxicated and giddy. She remembered opening her eyes and seeing his face above hers, his eyes dark, marbled, fascinating. “We’re here,” he’d told her.

And she’d nodded, though she hadn’t moved, and then he’d said, “I can carry you up to your room. Which is what I should do. Because if I bring you home with me, I’ll take advantage of you. I won’t be able to help myself.”

Even with the breeze caressing her now on the balcony, she could still remember her reply.

“Please do.”

No amount of alcohol could forgive that, she told herself now. She hugged her arms around her chest. Yet it had been wonderful. The best time of her life. They’d driven to his apartment in the city, and he’d carried her upstairs. He had undressed her in his bedroom, and, still dressed himself, he had demanded to know if she was sure….

Then he had kissed her, and for the rest of her life she would remember his touch on her body, his lips, burning, intimate, demanding, everywhere. She would remember him, the feel of his flesh, the touch of his hands, the mole at the small of his back….

The night had been pure magic. The next day they’d cooked breakfast together, wandered through the Metropolitan Museum of Art and gone out for Chinese before returning to spend the evening making love again. Absurdly, after all that, it wasn’t until the next morning that she’d asked his last name and learned that he was “the” Jon Stuart, the well-known author.

Jon had been in the shower when his “fiancеe,” Cassandra, showed up. Sabrina herself had been wearing a terry robe, her hair wet and plastered around her face. She’d been stunned when the door opened. Cassandra had stared at Sabrina, looking her up and down, not appearing angry—just amused. Then she’d made a comment about Sabrina being an annoying little whore, thrown some money at her and told her to get out.

One of the biggest regrets of Sabrina’s life was that she had done so—after throwing the money back, of course. She’d come from the farmlands of the Midwest, and even with a college education, a little work experience behind her and a four-year relationship with the captain of her college debate team, she was incredibly naive. Every time she replayed the scene in her head, she was newly humiliated and newly furious with herself. Where had her backbone been? Why hadn’t she challenged the woman? She should have—but she hadn’t. Maybe she had just been too stunned, or too insecure. She’d grabbed her own clothing and left.

Jon hadn’t made any promises to her. He’d been honest, asking about her life, admitting his involvement with Cassandra, saying that they were on and off more often than a water spigot. When Sabrina looked back at the situation, she realized that she had simply been too afraid she might lose if Jon had had to make a choice between the two of them. Life, she’d since learned, meant taking chances. She’d just learned it a little too late.

Jon had tracked her down, all the way to Huntsville. But she’d told her mother to tell him that she’d gone to Europe. He’d written to her, telling her that he wasn’t engaged, and that he’d had no commitments whatsoever the night they met. He’d asked her to contact him, since he hadn’t been able to convince her mother to quit lying for her.

Sabrina had just reached the point of deciding she was being a worse fool not to respond when she heard that he and Cassie had suddenly done the deed, marrying after a late night in Las Vegas.

Not much later, she’d married Brett.