Never Sleep With Strangers. Heather Pozzessere Graham
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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 “fiancée,” 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.
End of story.
Until she’d run naked from her honeymoon suite. And Cassandra Stuart had plummeted from her balcony into the waiting arms of death.
The wind was growing sharp. Sabrina shivered and looked out into the darkness.
The moon was high, struggling to shine through the clouds. Outdoor lights slightly illuminated the courtyard below. The castle was built in a horseshoe shape, surrounding the courtyard. The maid who had brought her to her room earlier had told her that the far end of the left wing comprised the master suite, with balconies opening to the central courtyard and to the rear.
Glancing in that direction, Sabrina saw the shape of a man standing on the far balcony in the moonlight. His shirt ruffled in the wind; his hair flowed back. He stood tall and still, staring at the moon.
Then he turned, and she knew he was watching her, and she was watching him.
It was Jon. And standing there, watching him, she wondered if he was in pain, if he was missing his wife, if he was reflecting on her death.
He lifted a hand, as if saluting her.
Sabrina backed away, right into the door, and for a moment a scream lodged in her throat as she thought that someone was behind her.
She felt a moment’s strange fear. She was standing on a balcony. And whatever the situation, Cassandra had fallen to her death from a balcony not far away. She had plummeted into the arms of a statue of Poseidon below. His trident had torn into her, and she had died instantly, even before her husband had come running back to her. Poseidon still stood below that balcony, though the rosebushes surrounding his fountain were no longer in bloom.
It was so easy to feel that someone was standing behind her now, ready to push….
But when she spun around, no one was there. She went into her room and discovered that the bolt was still thrown.
The rooms were all supplied with brandy.
Sabrina hated brandy, but she poured herself a snifter, wrinkled her nose and swallowed a fairly large portion. “If you’re going to survive this week, you’re going to have to cool your imagination,” she told herself.
She’d claimed downstairs that she was tired. And she was. Shaky, exhausted from the time change and lack of sleep.
But she couldn’t seem to get drowsy.
She stayed awake for hours. She sipped brandy, making faces at the taste, and read some magazine she’d brought for the flight.
She had V.J.’s latest book, and after she finished the magazines she began to read, until she realized that she just couldn’t concentrate. She finally lay down, determined that she had to get some rest.
But even when she finally slept, she tossed and turned and began to dream disturbing dreams.
In the darkness of the night, he moved down the steps, silent, a wraith. He tried to tell himself that it would all go well, that he didn’t need to be afraid.
But he was afraid. Because he loved her.
They had prearranged their meeting, yet even so, he was suddenly, perhaps ridiculously, uneasy. In the ancient dungeon, he suddenly felt as if long-dead murderers had come to life, as if they were mocking him, telling him that he was no better, even if he hadn’t actually performed the deed. The lighting was pale, purplish, seeming to cast a ghoulish fog over the faces of torturers, swordsmen and more. Executioners in their dark masks seemed to move, taunting him, warning him.
He came to the tableau of Lady Ariana Stuart upon the rack, and for a moment he paused, forgetting both fear and reason. She was the finest of all the pieces. Something in her eyes was real, a touch of the innocence and sincerity that belonged to Sabrina Holloway. Startled anew by the resemblance to the living woman so nearby, he was tempted to reach out and touch her, to rescue the beauty from the beast who threatened her.
“My love!”
The whisper drew him back to the present, and he spun around. She had come. She rushed to him, and he wrapped her in his arms. “Why are you so afraid? Why did we have to meet in secret?” he queried gently.
She shook her head against his chest. “This is all so dangerous. I know that they know. I know that we’re in danger. I just wish…”
“Don’t be so afraid. Don’t create trouble before trouble appears.”