Never Sleep With Strangers. Heather Pozzessere Graham
Читать онлайн книгу.
already slept with him, and it wasn’t good to sleep with strangers. Because she already knew him—and as a result there would be no ugly little surprises. Because he was good in bed; and she had to admit that he was good—naturally, because he was so practiced. Because surely everybody needed sex now and then, and since she was capable of being such a sweet, puritanical prude, coming from an apple-pie farm family and all, she was slow to form intimate relationships and therefore should simply indulge in a basic, necessary activity with him.
So far, she’d managed to resist.
She was certain that she wasn’t alluring above all others; she was simply the one who had left him, and therefore she remained a challenge.
“Seriously, while we’re here, wouldn’t you like to share a room with me?” he asked now.
“No,” she said simply.
“Admit it, I’m fun to sleep with.”
“We have different ideas of fun.”
“Look around you. This is a scary place,” he urged.
“No, thanks, Brett.”
“I can behave.”
“That’s doubtful. Besides, you remind me of a warning my mother used to give me. Don’t play with toys when you don’t know where they’ve been.”
He grinned. “Ouch! But if you’d stayed with me, you would know exactly where I’d been.”
“Brett, I never knew where you were when we were married, and I really didn’t have all that much time in which to misplace you. I realize that it never occurred to you that marriage meant monogamy—”
“Do you think it means that to everyone?” he demanded.
“Brett, I can’t tell other people how to be married. I only know what I wanted myself.”
He sniffed. “If only you knew how many people slept around—people you would never imagine.”
“Brett, I don’t want to imagine.”
“Your own friends!” he persisted.
“Brett—”
“All right, fine. Later you’ll be begging me for gossip, and I won’t tell you a thing. When you need to know, you’ll be in the dark. Unless, of course, you want to forget the marriage thing for a while and just have fun? My intentions are honorable, though. I will remarry you.”
She groaned. “As I said, we have different ideas on fun—and marriage.”
“Fine. Play hard to get. But if things start getting spooky around here, you’re going to want to crawl into bed with me, and it may be too crowded by then.”
“That I don’t doubt.”
“Hey, I’m asking you first. And surely you wouldn’t want to sleep with a stranger.”
“Brett, I’ve slept with you, and I really can’t think of anyone much stranger.”
“Very funny. You’ll be sorry, my pet. You’ll see.” He shook his head sorrowfully, returning his gaze to the display before them. “Amazing, isn’t it?” he murmured, staring at the characters, his arm still around her.
“Yes, very real,” she agreed.
He shook his head. “So real that in this lighting, she could fool even me. And I was married to you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What do you mean, what am I talking about? You’ve been staring at this tableau.” He sighed with impatience. “Sabrina! Take a good look. That’s you.”
“What?”
“Sweetheart, have you gone blind since you’ve been away from me? Take a look. That woman—she’s you. To a T. The blue eyes, the blond hair, the gorgeous features. Nice body.” He lowered his voice even further. “Great butt, too.”
“You can’t even see her butt, Brett.”
“All right, all right, I’ll concede that. But she’s you. The spitting image.”
“Don’t be silly….” Sabrina protested, but her voice trailed away as she frowned.
Oh, Lord. Brett was right. The wax figure did bear an alarming resemblance to her. So much so that she felt chills begin to sweep up and down her spine again.
“Good!” Brett whispered huskily. “I can feel you trembling. You’re getting uneasy, unnerved, good and scared. You’re not going to want to be alone all night in this spooky old castle. You’re going to want to come to me. Night will fall, you’ll hear wolves howling, you’ll run screaming from your bedroom and into mine, so you won’t have to be afraid.”
It was just a caricature in wax, nothing more, Sabrina told herself. Yet she still felt tremors racing through her limbs. It was her. The artist had executed the figure so well that the muscles and veins in the victim’s arms fairly leaped into animation as she struggled to free herself from the ropes that tied her mercilessly to the rack.
The fear in the eyes was real.
The silent scream on the lips was far too eloquent. It could almost be heard in the air.
Brett whispered warningly in her ear, “You won’t want to be alone.”
From the darkness behind them, a deep, rich, masculine voice intervened. “Well, now, she’ll hardly be alone, will she?”
Sabrina knew that husky voice.
She spun around to meet their host.
2
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.