Never Sleep With Strangers. Heather Pozzessere Graham
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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